“Yes,” I say, and he surges up from the floor, gathers me up in his arms, and kisses me hard. It sparks something inside me, that kiss, and soon I’m tugging him down onto the couch, pulling at his clothes, arching up against him.

Afterward, we lay there in a slightly sweaty heap, our clothes half-off, half-on, and I play with his hair, damp at the nape of his neck.

“I should’ve asked you somewhere nicer,” he mumbles against my collarbone. “Taken you out to dinner.”

“But then we couldn’t have done this,” I remind him, nudging him with my thigh. “Or we could have, but I feel like the restaurant would’ve asked us to please leave and never come back.”

He laughs lightly, then lifts his head to stare down at me.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks. “About marrying me, even though I’m a disaster?”

I lift myself up to brush a kiss over his lips. “I’m marrying you because you’re a disaster,” I reply, which makes him laugh again, and as he settles back against me, I catch a glimpse of my ring over his shoulder.

Mrs. Rochester.

16

I’m engaged.

Motherfucking engaged.

I can’t stop looking at the ring, the way it sparkles in the sunlight, the heavy, cool weight of it on my finger.

But weirdly, it’s more than just the ring, gorgeous as it is.

It’s knowing that Eddie bought it before I even knew I wanted him to propose.

He wanted this. He chose me.

No one has ever chosen me before. I’ve spent my life being passed around and looked over, and now this.

I’ve passed it dozens of times before, the village bridal shop that’s a world away from the big dress emporiums in strip malls and shopping centers. I’ve looked in its plate glass window at the delicate bits of lace and silk on display, and even though I’ve never been a girly-girl, I’d always felt a little … wistful, maybe.

And even now, as I open the door, the little bell overhead jingling, something flutters in my chest.

There’s no overhead lighting, only strategically placed lamps, huge windows, and a skylight. And the dresses aren’t just hanging up on crowded racks, row after row of heavy skirts and beaded bodices, all so jumbled up you can barely tell what’s what.

Instead, some dresses are displayed on old-fashioned wire dress dummies, and others are draped over bits of antique furniture, like the bride just slipped out of her dress and tossed it casually over the nearest armoire.

It’s the kind of place where they’re not scared of anyone getting something on the dresses or messing them up somehow—no one who shops here would be that gauche. So there’s no need for the miles of plastic that protect dresses from all the grubby hands at those cheaper bridal places.

The woman who approaches me has soft blond hair arranged in an elegant chignon, and she’s wearing an outfit that reminds me of the things I’ve seen Bea wear in pictures. It’s elegant but feminine at the same time, a sleek black sheath dress and pearls paired with houndstooth pumps that have a tiny hot pink bow on the back.

Her name is Huntley, because of course it is.

I see the way she clocks my ring, and while I’m sure Huntley here would never be so crass as to actually start adding up numbers in her head, her smile definitely warms a little.

I know plenty of girls dream about their wedding day, but I never had, not really. Maybe it had just seemed like something so far out of the realm of possibility for me, or maybe I just had bigger things to worry about.

Turns out, I fucking love this shit.

We move around the store, talking about shades of white and ivory, the difference between eggshell and cream, whether I’d like my hair up or down, what kind of veil options that might entail.

When Huntley brings out a book full of fabric samples for me to look at, I almost swoon.

By the time I leave the shop, my head is swimming, but I’m pleasantly high, and not just on the two glasses of champagne I sipped while Huntley and I talked.

I’m marrying Eddie Rochester.

I’m going to be his wife, and live in that gorgeous house, and afternoons like this, afternoons not spent walking dogs or waiting tables or driving for Uber or making someone else coffee, aren’t just a temporary reprieve—they’re my future.

“Jane?”

Emily is standing there, paper cup of coffee in hand, her face hidden behind those huge sunglasses.

She glances up toward the striped awning of Irene’s, and her mouth drops open. “Girl. Tell me you were in there for a reason.”

My smile is not even a little bit faked. “Turns out he did put a ring on it.”

She squeals at that, rushing forward to throw her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that smells like Santal 33.

I smell like it, too, since I stole a bottle from her bathroom just two months ago.

“Let me see, let me see,” she says when we pull apart, flapping her hands toward mine.

Another rush of what feels suspiciously like joy, but is probably just the adrenaline rush of winning.

I haven’t perfected this move yet, the ring display, and I fight the urge to mimic girls I’ve seen on TV, all arched wrist like I’m waiting for her not just to ogle the ring, but to kiss it.

As a result, I feel like I just sort of hold my hand out for inspection, awkward and suddenly very aware of how ridiculous that sparkly emerald looks on my stumpy fingers with their raggedy manicure.

But Emily just sighs. “It’s gorgeous. And so you!”

I raise my hand again, studying the ring myself. “I still can’t get used to it,” I say. “I mean, all of it has been kind of a whirlwind, but the ring makes it feel real, you know?”

I give her a smile.

“I remember feeling like that,” she offers. “The ring definitely cements it.”

Raising her eyebrows, she asks, “Did you pick that one out?”

I shake my head, looking back at the emerald surrounded by its halo of diamonds. “No, Eddie did. It’s bigger than anything I would’ve chosen, but I love emeralds, so I can’t complain.”

She nods. “He has the best taste in jewelry. I always thought—”

Her words break off, and she presses her lips together, and I know there’s a comment about Bea there, caught in her throat. I don’t want Bea’s memory to ruin this moment, so I rush in.