Page 124 of All Our Nevers

I whip around to face him. “What? Is he proposing? Did my brother tell you before telling me??”

Owen playacts at zipping his lips and tossing out the key. “We’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“We?” Sophie yells, spinning on her husband. “You know something too?”

“Today’s about Lia,” Andy says, completely dodging the question. “Can you give us the tour or are you busy kissing rich asses?”

“Oh, I can stay with you guys for a bit. I have at least thirty more minutes of badgering you about Nolan to do. Plus, it’ll make me a hot commodity if I seem like I’m unavailable.”

“Brilliant, talented, and gorgeous,” Owen says. “I’m so lucky.”

“Damn right you are,” I say with a wink that he knows would be a slap on the ass if we weren’t in public.

The rest of the event is perfect, and when the long day is over and Owen and I trudge home, beaming despite the exhaustion, I’m not surprised to find congratulatory bouquets from him on every surface. Each one is different, unique, hand assembled with care. The creamy white of lilies with the muted green of eucalyptus, roses in crimson and white, the delicate curve of dahlia petals and the striking contrast of anemones. I admire each one as Owen takes off his jacket and tie, draping them over the back of the sofa.

This place is undeniably ours. Spacious and open the way Owen likes, but overflowing with color and texture from me. Embroidered throw pillows and shelves of plants with sprawling green tendrils. An overly demonstrative flat screen TV before a blue velvet couch. A fridge stocked with those fancy flavored hummuses—the beet one and the pine nut one and the weird dessert ones, too. It’s smaller than Owen’s sterile Seaport apartment was, but downright luxurious compared to the studio that I don’t miss one bit.

Archie nuzzles my shin with his nose, and I lower to my knees.

“Bellissimo caro mio! Com'è stato il tuo giorno?”

He responds with an articulate, “Rrrrrooo.”

“Hey, buddy.” Owen is on his knees next to me. “Did you congratulate your mom on her big day yet?” Then, in a voice that’s low and round and silly, he says on Archie’s behalf, “Congrats, mom.”

“Grazie, amore.” I kiss Archie’s head, then stand and turn to Owen. “And thank you for the flowers, my love.”

He wraps his arms around my middle, pulling me tight to his chest. “You were amazing today. How do you feel?”

“I feel good. I feel… like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

I still find my work exhausting a lot of the time. Being a freelancer isn’t for the weak. And even now I still catch my proverbial fist clenched around plans that are more rigid than they need to be. But slowly, finally, I’m learning to loosen my hold, taking the opportunities that serve me as they come up. Therapy has helped with that a lot. And I’m even in a financial position to say no to some of the opportunities that arise, too, which definitely helps. Especially now that I’m part of a two-income household.

We may not be married—I still don’t think that’s something I’ll ever want—but I know we’re in this together. And I was so happy that my work started bringing financial stability at the same time Owen decided he needed to step away from Wilmar Gould. Being there for him, and showing him that he didn’t need to be the sole provider, was a really important step for us.

And—to be clear—he does just fine. He’s still in big law making more money than God, just for a plaintiff-side firm now. And believe it or not, he’s already been offered a partner role.

No matter how much things change, some things stay the same, too.

“I have something else to show you,” Owen says against my hair.

I pull back, excitement sparkling in my eyes. “A present?”

Owen laughs. “Sort of, but not a physical one.”

I give him an exaggerated pout that has him laughing louder, pressing a kiss to my lips as he says, “I’ll buy you another physical present too if you want, but I’m excited about this.”

“Okay,” I say, putting some space between us so he can get whatever it is. “I’m ready. Show me.”

“Yes, Commander Mercado.”

Then his hands reach for the buttons on the front of his shirt.

“Owen, if you say your dick is my present, I’m gonna bite it off.”

His hands keep working even as he laughs. “I mean, that’s certainly on the table. Not the biting part, I mean, but…” The light blue of his button-up hits the floor. “I wanted to show you this.”

He pulls his white cotton undershirt over his head, revealing his strong torso, the asymmetrical pattern of black ink across it.