"Ask him about Italy," I read again, out loud this time, because apparently I enjoy torture. "So… wanna tell me why your soul just left your body?"
Eli doesn't answer right away.
He doesn't even blink.
Just stands there, frozen, like I slapped him with a fish.
"Eli?"
He swallows. "It's not what you think."
That's what they all say right before the plot twist.
I cross my arms. "Cool. What do I think then? That you secretly married Olivia under the Tuscan sun and now she's back to reclaim her groom-slash-gold-plated espresso machine?"
He flinches.
Flinches.
Oh no.
"You didn't."
"I didn't marry her," he says quickly, hands raised. "I did propose."
My brain short-circuits.
I blink.
Twice.
"Excuse me?"
"It was a mistake. We were on a trip with friends. Everything felt perfect—sunsets, pasta, wine—"
"You proposed because of pasta?"
He groans. "No, I proposed because I thought I was supposed to. It felt like the next logical step."
"Well, thank God I don't believe in logic."
He takes a step toward me, but I step back.
"You didn't think this was important to tell me?"
"I was going to. Eventually. I didn't know she'd show up and start throwing pasta ghosts at us."
"Ghosts?" I raise an eyebrow.
"You know. Emotional… ravioli."
I snort.
Then immediately hate that I'm still attracted to this idiot.
"Look," he says, softer now. "I didn't love her, not like that. I was scared of being alone, scared of failing, scared of not knowing what came next. So I chose her. She was safe."
And just like that, my walls—those very carefully constructed sarcasm-fortified walls—crack.
Because I get that.
Too well.
I chose safe once too. The boring job. The quiet boyfriend. The no-risks, no-rewards life.
I almost married him.
And I would've lived in a beige house with beige dreams and beige curtains until I died from lack of sparkle.
"Okay," I say finally. "But you need to understand something, Eli. I'm not Olivia. I don't do quiet acceptance and pretending things are okay when they're clearly a flaming garbage fire. You screw this up, and I will kill you with my shoe."
He gives a small smile. "I like that about you."
"Yeah, well. Lucky for you I like honesty more."
He nods. "No more secrets. I promise."
Cue intense eye contact.
Cue vulnerable, awkward silence.
Cue very hot makeout session pressed against the fridge.
Until—
"OH MY GOD!"
The fridge talks.
No. Wait. That's my best friend Harper.
Who has just walked in the door carrying a coffee tray and wearing an expression that could peel paint.
"Is this what we're doing now?" she shouts. "Kitchen snogging at eight a.m.?!"
"Seven-forty-five," I correct.
She gives me a death glare.
Eli, to his credit, tries to smooth his shirt and look vaguely respectable.
Fails.
Spectacularly.
"Uh, hi Harper," he says, as if this is a normal Tuesday.
She narrows her eyes at him. "You. Living room. Now."
He opens his mouth to protest.
She points.
He shuffles away like a guilty golden retriever.
I sigh.
"Go easy on him," I mumble.
"Go easy?" she hisses. "I had to pick up your dry cleaning and your emotional slack for the last two years, and now I walk in to find you lip-locked with Mr. Proposal McPastatown?"
"…McPastatown?"
She throws up her hands.
"Okay, okay," I say quickly. "He explained everything. Kind of. Mostly. There was a mention of emotional ravioli."
She blinks. "You're serious."
"I wish I wasn't."
She looks at me hard. "You trust him?"
I think about it.
Really think.
And against all logic, reason, and Harper's judgmental coffee tray, I nod. "Yeah. I do."
Harper sighs. "Fine. But if he breaks your heart, I'm not just putting glitter in his shampoo. I'm gonna superglue his socks together."
Eli calls from the living room, "I heard that!"
"Good!" Harper yells back.
I grin. "You're the best."
"I know. Now go make better choices. Or at least funnier ones."
---
Scene ends mid-action:
Because I march back to the living room, ready to face whatever's next, but the second I sit down beside Eli—
My phone buzzes again.
New message.
Same unknown number.
> "You really think that's the only secret he's keeping?"
And just like that—
We're back in the fire.