Epilogue – A Proposal
Eliza
Oooh, this is so scandalous. I’m sorting through my lingerie drawer, and it’s definitely all fripperies and lace. Even crazier, some of the items have been seen by an audience of thousands. If that’s not titillating, I don’t know what is.
Giggling, I grab a huge armful of lingerie and dump it onto the bed—silks, lace, two pairs of scandalously crotchless mesh, and one bunny bodysuit that always makes Jack instantly hard (my favorite).
I hum tunelessly as I fold and refold, trying to decide what to bring for a weekend away.
I settle on the pink set with the bows and a black bustier that’s so tight that my big breasts look like scoops of ice cream heaped on top.
The rest goes back in the drawer, minus one weirdly sentimental sports bra I wore the day Jack first said “I love you” out loud.
The bedroom is lived-in proof that I exist here now, not just as a visiting girlfriend, but as a permanent resident: Jack’s camo duffel stuffed under the bench, a nest of tangled USB cords in the corner, my law textbooks he claims to “read for fun” stacked by the nightstand.
My senior paralegal badge, which looks more like a dog tag than a mark of distinction, hangs from a hook on the closet door.
The camera equipment has somehow leaked into our bedroom, even though we use the spare bedroom as our studio.
Every time I look at it, a hot rush goes through me because I do that with him. The man I love.
I lean back on the bed, so content and peaceful. I think about our upcoming trip, about the future, about how everything worked out. I was never doomed. With Jack, I was always going to be caught, safe and sound, sated and happy.
I don’t hear my boyfriend come in, but I feel the shift in air—the tiny static of his presence, the way his footsteps are always confident but never arrogant. He stands in the doorway, arms folded over a t-shirt that stretches across those broad shoulders, and watches me with amused blue eyes.
“Inventory check?” he asks, eyeing the carnage of fabric.
“Packing for the weekend,” I say, holding up the pink thong for inspection. “Do you prefer bows, or, maximum transparency?”
He grins, the lines at his eyes crinkling. “You know I like variety, sweetheart. But bring the bunny suit though. You know how much I love that outfit.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks go warm. I gather up the pile, slide it into my overnight, and zip the bag shut with exaggerated care. Only then do I notice the way Jack is lingering, like he’s waiting for something, maybe for me to finish rearranging my entire existence.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he crosses the room, slow, and sits beside me on the edge of the bed.
He reaches into his pocket—typical Jack, he could be carrying anything from a jet engine bolt to a miniature bottle of Sriracha—and pulls out a small velvet box.
Blue-black, the color of midnight. He sets it between us, then looks me dead in the eyes.
My heart tries to climb up my throat and escape through my mouth. I freeze, heart racing. OMG, is this…? Really?
He picks up the box, turns it once in his fingers, then drops to one knee on the battered hardwood floor, handsome features intense.
“Eliza Shaw,” he says, and his voice is so gentle it almost hurts.
“I know we didn’t get here in the usual way.
I know we’ve done things backwards, inside out, and probably broken at least seventeen rules along the way.
” He pauses, his thumb stroking the velvet like he’s feeling deeply.
“But you make me happier than I’ve ever been, and that’s something special. ”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My hands start shaking so badly that I clasp them into fists.
Jack opens the box. Inside is a ring—sapphire, not diamond, a perfect, dark blue stone set in a band of gold so pale it looks almost white. The color matches my eyes exactly, a fact he once described as “hypnotic, and utterly mesmerizing.”
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, the words a little bit raspy. “Marry me. Please, sweetheart. I never thought I’d be begging but you do things to me I never thought possible. Please.”
My heart swoops and heaves, as a trembly smiles comes on my lips. I just nod, mute, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. My voice, when it comes, is ragged and small.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Jack. I love you, yes.”
He smiles, relief washing over those handsome features, and slips the ring onto my finger.
It’s a perfect fit, and heavy in a way that makes it feel like it belongs there, like maybe it’s always been waiting for me.
I throw my arms around him and nearly topple us both onto the floor.
But the huge man catches me, easy, and we end up tangled on the bed, laughing and kissing and crying, all at once.
This is perfect. This is us. This is forever.
After a while, we disentangle a bit, and Jack stares at me with adoration.
“Do we call your parents first?” he asks, after I’ve stopped hyperventilating.
I shake my head. “Let’s wait ten minutes. I want to bask in the honeymoon before my dad threatens to drive here and strangle you with his bare hands.”
Jack laughs, then sits up and pulls me into his lap. “You underestimate your old man. Gerald’s a softie under the crust. Besides, we’re not exactly a surprise couple anymore.”
True. After a year of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” we’ve settled into a semi-peaceful detente with my parents.
They’ve accepted my relationship with Jack, because I would cut off all contact with them otherwise.
But the camming is another story. Gerald and Nancy never ask about it, and I never say anything either.
It works better this way, and I suppose there are secrets in every family.
But I’m glad we’re at peace now. The war is over. Even more, I stare at the ring, twisting it in the light, and feel something loosen in my chest, a knot that’s been there since childhood. I’m still shaking, but now it’s the good kind, the kind that makes you feel like you’re electric.
“We should call them,” I say, and Jack nods, hand warm at the back of my neck.
He dials on speaker. The phone rings three times, then my mom’s voice, brittle and forced: “Eliza?”
“Hey, Mom,” I say, heart pounding. “Can you put Dad on?”
A brief silence, then a shuffle, and my father’s voice, cautious as always: “Hi, honey. Everything alright?”
I inhale, try not to sound like I’m over the moon with happiness. “Yeah, Dad. I’m good. I’m really good. I have something to tell you.”
Jack squeezes my hand, steadying.
“What is it?” Mom again, her voice smaller this time. “Are you okay, Eliza?”
“Yes, better than okay. Jack and I are engaged,” I say. “We’re very happy.”
There’s a silence so absolute I wonder if the call dropped.
Dad is first to recover. “You’re what?”
“Engaged. To Jack.” I say it louder, more certain. “We’re getting married.”
Another silence, but this one is different. It’s not the sound of fury, or heartbreak. It’s the sound of a man recalibrating, reaching for the right response.
“Well,” he says at last, “that’s big news, Eliza. I’m happy for you.”
“Oh good,” I say, voice quiet. “I’m glad.”
“Congratulations,” Mom adds, and her voice cracks, but not in anger. “Is there a ring?”
I glance at Jack. He grins, then says, “A sapphire as clear as the Minnesota sky, Nancy.”
A hiccup of laughter on the other end. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
We talk for a while, dancing around the specifics, never touching the subject of what I do for a living or how exactly we pay the mortgage on this house.
We discuss logistics—dates, venues, who to invite and who to exile—and by the end of the call, Dad has almost convinced himself that this is a victory, that his only daughter is, in fact, marrying up.
When we hang up, Jack wraps his arms around me and doesn’t let go for a long time.
“Was that so bad?” he murmurs.
I shake my head. “No, not at all.”
He kisses my temple. “That’s my brave girl.”
We sit there, in the sunlit room, surrounded by chaos and hope, and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like a fraud.
I feel chosen. I feel loved. I feel cherished.
And that’s more than most women ever get.
We celebrate with excellent champagne—it’s a bottle Jack bought for New Year’s but never opened because we were too busy getting hot and heavy many hours before the clock struck twelve. He pops it with a flourish and pours two flutes, the bubbles fizzing out and overflowing onto his hand.
“That’s good luck, right?” he asks with a grin.
I giggle. “I hope so.”
“Well, so be it. To us,” he toasts, glass raised.
“To us,” I echo, and clink, and then we drain our glasses in one shot because that’s the kind of couple we are.
The house smells like citrus and laundry sheets.
The sun has moved from the bed to the couch, spotlighting the aftermath of the morning—jackets tossed, shoes abandoned, my phone somewhere underneath a pile of folded towels.
Jack sprawls on the sofa, feet up, looking as handsome as I’ve ever seen him with his dark hair and big body.
There’s a warmth in my chest, an animal comfort, like a cat purring inside my ribs.
“Should we tell anyone else?” I ask, half-serious, half-dreading the answer.
He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “You want to make it Facebook official?”
I groan. “God, no. With my job streaming, I think I’m over any other type of social media.”
He laughs, deep and full, and stretches until his shirt rides up and I can see the hard line of his belly, the faint trail of hair that leads down to things that make my insides go hot and needy.
I set my glass on the table and crawl into his lap, straddling his hard thighs, and let him wrap his arms around my waist. The ring is warm against my skin, and utterly perfect.
“Now you’re stuck with me forever,” I say, and pretend to bite his bronzed neck.