Sarah sat back, clearly unconvinced. “Hm. Well, if you start blinking Morse code for help, I’ll know what’s up.”
“Don’t worry. No secret kidnapping plots here. Just your garden-variety personal growth.”
She raised a brow. “Personal growth that involves matrimony? Bold choice.”
“People do it every day,” I said, folding my napkin into smaller and smaller triangles until my fingers trembled from the effort. “I’m thirty-two. It’s not exactly shocking that I’d want some stability.”
“You don’t even stick to the same shampoo brand. Last month, you were swearing allegiance to tea tree oil, and yesterday I saw a bottle of lavender-vanilla in your shower. Now you’re telling me you’re committing to an actual man?”
I offered a smirk. “Maybe he’s lavender-vanilla.”
Sarah snorted. “If that’s the case, I’d like to meet the guy who convinced you to abandon your trademark cynicism. He must be something.”
As if on cue, his name lit up my phone—because the universe never missed an opportunity to taunt me while I was faking a love story.
“That him?” Sarah asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
I shoved my phone into my bag before she could catch a glimpse of my face. “Yeah. He’s just...checking in.”
“You’re already texting? Who even are you?” she teased, shaking her head.
I hesitated. “Well...I met him three months ago.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with dawning realization. “Wait.No. Is this—” she leaned forward, whispering like it was classified information, “binoculars guy?”
I nodded.
Her jaw dropped. “You’re telling me you’ve been secretly seeing this man for three months and I’m just finding out now? Lilly, what the actual hell?”
“It wasn’t like that. Not really. We weren’t...official.”
Disbelief etched across her face. “Not official, but official enough that you’re about to marry him?”
“Something like that. I mean, look at our parents. The first time they met was on their wedding day, and everything turned out fine.”
“Your parents aren’t fine. They’re the worst.”
I waved off the minor technicality. “They immigrated to the Western world, managed to stay middle class inthiseconomy, and one out of their five children turned out perfect.” I pointed to myself helpfully. “That’s a statistical triumph. They’ve gotfinewritten all over them.”
Sarah stared at me like she was watching a train derail in slow motion.
“And honestly,” I continued, clearly deciding panic should be expressed through aggressive social commentary, “if you think about it, divorce only became a huge thing once people started dating for, like, two to five years before getting married. That’s suspicious. The numbers don’t lie.”
Sarah opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“This whole new-age romance thing is clearly the problem,” I went on. “People are out herefalling in loveandgetting to know each other. It’s chaos. Historically speaking, the correct approach is to meet someone, exchange two polite sentences in front of your parents, and then commit to them for life.”
Her lips parted, but whatever lecture was brewing in her throat never came out. Instead, she sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I don’t get it. You tell me everything. Every dumb detail, every tiny disaster—and you keptthisfrom me?”
She was right. Ididtell her everything—every ridiculous hiccup, every minor catastrophe. But this wasn’t just another mess. This was the biggest dumb disaster I’d ever walked into, and if I told her, her first instinct would be to find a way to drag me out.
And I needed to stay in it.
I stood before the guilt could force the truth out, slinging my bag over my shoulder. The smile I managed felt flimsy at best. “I know. I’m sorry. I just...needed a minute to wrap my own head around it first. Please don’t be mad at me.”
She scrutinized me for a long moment. “I’m happy for you, Lilly. Really. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I skipped the reply and went straight for a quick hug. By the time I left the café, the secret I hadn’t told her was clinging to me, adamant as static, just waiting for the perfect moment to shock me.
