Page 63 of Hidden Desires

She takes her phone to the living room, curls up in my old recliner, and dials. I can hear the muffled ring, then her friend’s voice coming through, way too loud even from here. Eliza’s words are soft at first, then louder as she tries to explain. “No, I left. No, I’m at Jack’s.” Pause. “No, he’s not a serial killer. He’s making me breakfast. Yes. No, my parents wigged out when they found out. It was bad.”

She laughs, then her voice drops. “They said I’m dead to them, Tara. I don’t know if that means forever, or just for now. I think my dad hates me.”

Their voices go on a while more, but I don’t listen. It’s girl talk, and I have breakfast to attend to.

After a while, Eliza hangs up, comes back to the kitchen. She’s less wrecked now, more in command of herself.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “Tara’s a buddy of mine from way back when, and she’s the only person I’ve told about us. And the camming. She’s known about that from the start.”

“Don’t apologize,” I reply. “It’s good to have friends. It’s good to have someone to talk to.”

Eliza shoots me a lopsided smile. “You say that now, but you haven’t met Tara in person. She’ll drink all your whiskey and try to arm-wrestle you. She’s a menace.”

“I was Air Force,” I say, deadpan. “I’ve survived worse.”

Eliza giggles a bit, and the room feels lighter.

I clear the plates, rinse them in the sink. My girl perches on the counter, swinging her legs, and for a second it’s like we’re a couple who’s been doing this for years.

“You should take the day off,” I say. “Call in sick. Get your bearings.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. I need the distraction. Besides, my boss is an asshole, and if I miss another day he’ll replace me with a robot. AI is crazy good these days, and we’re all getting ready to lose our jobs at the firm.”

I lift a brow. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

Eliza merely smiles. “Maybe. But I need to get ready.”

With that, the blonde goes to the bathroom to shower, and I watch her go, memorizing the sway of her hips. When she’s done, she emerges in a cloud of vanilla steam, wearing a button down shirt and nice skirt. Her hair’s in a neat bun, and she shoots me a wan smile.

“How do I look? Normal, hopefully?”

I study her: clear-eyed, determined, a little bruised but not broken.

“Like someone who knows what she wants,” I say.

She gives me a look, then grabs her bag. At the door, she stops.

“I’ll be home by six,” she says, and the word “home” makes my heart swoop because this is what I want. I want Eliza to see my home as her own. I want my bed to be her bed, and I actually love the domestic life with her. But I merely smile.

“Text me if you need anything,” I say.

She nods. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart.”

She leaves, and I stand at the window, watching her car pull away. The house is instantly quieter, emptier, but her presence lingers—the hair tie on my nightstand, the scent of her shampoo in the hall, the lipstick print on her coffee mug.

I clean up the kitchen, then go about my day, waiting for the next sound, the next knock, the next sign that she’s coming back.

It’s not the life I ever pictured. But for the first time in a long time, it feels like one I want to keep.

I’m halfway through chopping onions when the outside security light stabs through the kitchen window. Then, headlights pull into my driveway like laser beams, and there’s only one person in this town who brakes that hard. Sure enough, the engine rattles off, a car door detonates, and a heavy, burly silhouette launches up my walk with the posture of a man who’s about to either file a lawsuit or break my nose.

I wash the knife, wipe my hands on the towel, and check the hall. Eliza’s on the couch, curled around her phone, thumb scrolling. She just got back from work, and I don’t want to disturb her peace, but unfortunately, it’s inevitable.

The doorbell rings, three times in rapid fire. Even the chime sounds angry.

Eliza looks up, already pale. “Who is it? Is it⁠—?”