“Oh! My parents would pay for it,” I fib. “They paid for Sophie’s venue. Tradition, you know?”
“That’s incredibly nice of them. I mean, this place is sweet. I’d be down to consider it, for sure.”
“I’m going to send them an email, if that’s cool?” I ask. “I’ll see what dates they have open.”
“Cool,” he says.
I type up a quick email to the hotel staff while Blake watches over my shoulder. I can’t let him see me not hit Send; I cast around for any excuse to get him away from me.
“Hey, would you mind turning on the AC?” I ask. “It’s getting kind of stuffy in here.”
He hops up from the bed, and I close out of the message. I can tell him the truth eventually—I’m just not ready to share it with him now.
“Sent,” I say. “I’ll let you know what they say.”
He sits back down, slides an arm around me, and pulls me close. He buries a groan into my shoulder. “I didn’t realize how much there would be to think about now! Budget, venues, caterers, groomsmen, and whatever else is probably on your secret Pinterest board?”
It works in my favor that he thinks I’ve been dreaming about my wedding forever, so I go along with it.
“I’ve got, like, half that stuff covered. Pinterest rules,” I say. But his point jogs something important. “Actually, speaking of that, there’s one thing we should probably get out of the way now.”
“Yeah?” He shifts to get a better view of my face.
“I want a prenup.”
Blake’s face falls. “You’re thinking ahead to divorce already?”
“No, no, no,” I say. “Not at all. But I’m just trying to think practically here to protect both of our businesses. This isn’t about our relationship—it’s about our careers.”
Blake bites his lip. I can tell by now that that’s the face he makes when he’s considering something deeply. The idea came to me one night a few weeks back, when the creeping sensation of guilt prevented me from falling asleep. This way, if we sign a prenup and Blake ultimately finds out the truth about why we got married so quickly, he’ll be able to walk away without the fear of me keeping half his assets. It’s the only fair thing for me to do.
“It’s not exactly a romantic idea, is it?” he points out.
“No, but a marriage is more than just romance,” I counter. I hesitate and continue. “It’s about building a life together. Protecting each other.”
“Let me think about it,” he says. “We have time to work it out.”
I take a deep breath. “Sure. Plenty of time. Let’s go back to looking at the fun stuff, then.”
Once the tension is broken, ideas begin to flow. It’s fun to dream up themes, toss around wedding songs, debate if it’s tacky or adorable to smash cake in each other’s faces. We talk about how the ceremony could combine his Episcopalian traditions with my vaguely Jewish ones. He says he’d like to leave a chair empty to honor his father. I savor how normal it all feels—just me and my new fiancé planning a beautiful wedding together, the way millions of couples have done before us.
It’s moments like these in which I feel closest to Blake. When chemistry crackles between us and I can lounge comfortably in his arms, it’s easy to forget how or why our relationship began. All of that fades away, and it’s clear that I could fall in love with him someday.
Blake is scrolling through wedding photos on Pinterest when it hits me: maybe I already do love him. The sensation of love might be buried under layers of anxiety and guilt and panic, but it’s still there. Blake makes me feel sturdy and safe. He’s sweet, caring, and thoughtful in a way I’ve never experienced before. I appreciate how steadfastly transparent he is with his feelings—there are no games.
It’s true that if I had met Blake under different circumstances, I would have wanted our engagement to play out differently. I would have liked to date for two or three years first, and I’d rather accept a proposal on land than bobbing away at sea. But despite those differences, I can’t ignore that my feelings for Blake have become very real. I snuggle closer to him and rest my chin on his arm. Absentmindedly, he squeezes my thigh.
“What do you think of these?” he asks, clicking to enlarge a photo of leafy green centerpieces.
“I love them. Let’s do it,” I say, burrowing a kiss into his bicep.
“You don’t want to look around?” he asks tentatively. “Don’t you need to, like, make sure they match your bridesmaids’ dresses or fit with the vibe of the venue?”
I can’t help but laugh a little bit.
“Come on, I’ve seen my brother and all my cousins and some friends get married. I get how this works,” he says.
“They’re perfect. I want you involved in making these decisions, too. I love you.”
He beams. I can figure out how to get my hands on those centerpieces later.
By the time Blake and I consider getting out of bed the next morning, it’s nearly noon. Truthfully, I could lounge under the covers with him forever. Our luxuriously lazy mornings in bed are one of my favorite parts of our relationship. Together, we could spoon while debating brunch delivery options for hours. But the moment he grabs my hand and admires the way my ring sparkles, I snap out of my sleepy, sex-addled, sun-drenched reverie. I don’t have time to waste: if my plan is going to work, I have to set it into motion today.
“I’m glad Sophie told me to go with this one,” he says, tilting my hand so the diamonds catch the light. “It’s an impressive piece.”
I flex my hand and try to see the ring through fresh eyes, the way he does. “Yeah, it’s amazing,” I say, kissing his cheek.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pretend to scroll through my notifications. He grabs his from the other side.
“Wow, okay, so I got an update from the hotel,” I say finally.
He looks up from his screen. “Yeah?”
“They’re available almost two years from now, or . . . they had a cancellation, so they have one date randomly open next month. October nineteenth,” I offer.
“So, maybe we go somewhere else, then,” he says, returning his attention to his phone.
I try not to panic. I double-check today’s date on my phone. It’s September fifteenth. The wedding is approaching so soon, I can practically count the days. If I can’t get Blake on board with an October nineteenth wedding at the Wythe Hotel, there won’t be any wedding. At least not on this accelerated timeline. For the first time, I dare to think past October, and I can imagine a scenario in which I have Blake, no wedding, plummeting sales, and eventually, no more Brooklyn Jewels. Would Blake care? If my ambition and drive and success are what attracted him to me in the first place, would he even still want me as a floundering failure? Without the hook of a wedding to spike sales, why bother getting married so soon anyway?
I clear my throat. I have his attention again.
“The date is October nineteenth. I know it’s crazy soon, and it’d be such a whirlwind, but wouldn’t that be fun?” I ask, amping up the enthusiasm in my voice. “Why bother waiting if we know we just want to get married?”
He puts his phone facedown on the bed and gives me an amused look.
“You really want to do that?” he asks.
I nod and give him my best hopeful look.
“I don’t know, isn’t that too soon?” he asks. “Don’t we need more time to plan everything?”
“Hotel weddings are so easy,” I say. “They’re catered, everything is done for you. You just, like, bring your own dress and suit and guests.”
He suddenly stops smiling. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Is that what the rush is all about? Because if you are, that would be a major surprise, but still exciting, um, I mean, if you want it to be exciting news, and I would—”
“Blake, stop,” I say, playfully hitting his arm. “I’m not pregnant. I guess I just got a little too caught up with the excitement of getting married and thought a whirlwind wedding would be fun.”
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That much at least is the absolute truth.
“You really like this place?” he asks.
“I do.”
“You realize it’s crazy fast to get married a month from now, right?”
“Oh, fully.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, just when I’m ready to shake him for a response, he gives me a smile.
“Let’s do it,” he says, giving me a kiss.
“Really?! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I can’t help but sink into his arms as an overwhelming wave of relief washes over me. I hope he can’t feel the way my hands tremble. After all this time and effort, I can barely fathom that my plan is coming together seamlessly. It doesn’t feel real. But it is: Blake Barrett and I will be married at the Wythe Hotel on Saturday, October nineteenth.
There’s still one more thing to do to kick this wedding into motion. Once Blake leaves my apartment later that afternoon, I dial my mom. When she answers, I ask if Dad is around. He is—he always is. I ask her to go get him and put me on speakerphone. This isn’t how I imagined having this conversation. If anything, I had envisioned bringing home a fiancé they already considered a son. Our first dinner together over the summer was lovely, but sharing one pleasant meal doesn’t mean they’re ready to welcome him to the family.
“I wanted to let you know that Blake proposed,” I explain.
“Oh my god!” Mom blurts out.
“Eliza,” Dad says heavily.
“I know it’s soon—so soon, trust me, I do—but I really do love him. I think this is going to work.”
“You think?” Dad asks.
I hate that I tripped over my words. “I love him. The wedding is in October.”
I brace myself for the reactions, and sure enough, they respond the way everyone does: “This October?” they screech.
“Why so soon?” Mom asks.
I take a deep breath and tell them the sweetest possible version of our proposal story, leaving out the fact that I threw up. I describe how beautiful the venue is, and how it’s miraculously free. They don’t sound thrilled, but at least they’ve stopped interrupting me with horrified comments.
“Wow,” Mom muses. “Free. You really do have a knack for business, don’t you?”
“I know it’s been a hectic few months, and I know this all seems incredibly fast, but I really am so happy with Blake,” I offer.
“If you’re on board, we’re on board,” Dad says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Honey, I always thought you’d elope to Fiji, or never bother getting married at all,” Mom says. “If this is what you want, we’re just happy you’re happy.”
I think back to Sophie’s wedding—how traditional it was, with the band playing old-fashioned classics and the caterer serving seared salmon. At the time, I assumed it was because Mom and Dad preferred not to stray from the norm. But now that they’re so supportive of my own plans, I wonder if I had it all wrong. Maybe they just want us to be us, quirks and all. With my family’s support, convincing Blake to jump into a wedding just thirty-four days away doesn’t seem quite so preposterous anymore. I had once worried that hiding this wedding scheme from Blake created distance between us, so that he couldn’t ever fully see the real me. But maybe he understands exactly who I am: spontaneous, impulsive, not content to settle for tradition. And it gives me comfort that I’m doing the right thing.
• Chapter 20 •
On Saturday afternoon, Sophie is bent over her kitchen counter, grimacing. Liv stands behind her with a look of pure concentration as she wields a syringe filled with a cocktail of hormones designed to prep Sophie for the next round of egg retrieval. My job is to lean over the kitchen island, grip Sophie’s hands, and keep her distracted. I ask her to describe the glamping resort upstate that she’s visiting next weekend for her friend’s thirty-fifth birthday celebration.
“They have these A-frame wooden structures, kind of like a permanent tent or, like, an angular yurt? It’s decorated all Scandi style, and there’s apparently this gorgeous farm-to-table restaurant on the premises,” Sophie explains.
“Sounds super chic,” I say.
Sophie’s eyes squeeze shut in pain as Liv inserts the syringe into her backside. She breathes deeply. The hormones should trigger her body to produce multiple eggs this month instead of just one. If she does, then she’ll be scheduled for an egg retrieval procedure, at which point, the eggs will be combined with samples from their sperm donor. They chose a guy who could pass for Liv’s cousin, if not her brother, half for his looks and half because his application noted that he’s a jazz musician. They liked the idea of passing along creative genes.
“You’re good, you’re done,” Liv says, rubbing her back.
“I know,” Sophie says, hitching up her pants with a heavy sigh.
I had come by for brunch at the new Israeli place that opened in their neighborhood. This is just the sideshow beforehand. Over shakshuka and coffee, Liv grills me on wedding details. She’s no-nonsense in that way; having gotten past the initial shock of my plan to lure Blake into holy matrimony, she’s only concerned with logistics now. She wants to know exactly how many Instagram photos I need to post in order to get each vendor to comp their services and if I can get a photographer that way, too. I’ve always liked how straightforward and unsentimental she is. In some ways, she’s easier to talk to than Sophie, who gets emotional over everything. And not just because of the hormones.
My phone lights up with incoming texts from Blake. My heart leaps when I realize what he’s sending me: photos from our engagement.
“Let me see, let me see!” Sophie crows.
She grabs the phone and unlocks it from memory—she knows the passcode is the date we officially launched Brooklyn Jewels—and thumbs through the photos. I peer over her shoulder. I didn’t even realize the photographer had caught the first few, when Blake and I were talking on the bow of the ship. The crashing waves must have covered the sound of the photographer’s footsteps. Blake and I both look tense, our shoulders creeping toward our ears. An outsider might not be able to tell, but I certainly can—I look nervous. Then there’s a series of shots that capture Blake gallantly sinking onto one knee. His face is upturned and hopeful. My eyes widen and my posture hardens. One hand flies to my mouth while the other holds my stomach. I look miserable. But then there’s a shot where I’m caught mid-word—that must be when I said yes. In the following shots, Blake kisses me passionately. And then, of course, there’s a shot of me projectile vomiting over the guardrail while Blake leaps toward me in horror.
“Now, there’s a photo for Instagram,” Liv jokes.
“I can’t believe he caught that on camera,” Sophie says, shaking her head in amusement.
“Ugh. I can’t believe he sent those,” I groan.
Sophie laughs and briefly zooms in on the disastrous photo before swiping toward the next one. The final few shots show off my ring. I can’t help but notice a slight glisten of fluid smudged alongside the back of my hand. I must have wiped at my mouth. Of course, there are traces of vomit in these photos—that’s just my luck. Or maybe it’s karma.
“I’m going to post some of these on Facebook to share the good news,” Blake texts.
Shit.
“Wait!” I write back.
We’re about to move into dangerously murky waters. Once Blake announces our engagement, it’s all but guaranteed that his friends and family are going to look me up online. I can pretend all I want that the old engagement announcement was Jess’s, but there are too many other red flags: the slew of wedding blogs that covered my engagement; the Elle story referencing my fiancé; the hundred thousand Brooklyn Jewels followers who already think I’m engaged, and who won’t react smoothly to a new engagement announcement. Simply put, the more public Blake and I get, the more difficult it will be to hide the truth from him.
“I thought you’d be all over posting them, huh? Miss Instagram Photographer,” he teases.<
br />
“What does he want?” Sophie asks.
“Wait for me to get there?” I text.
“Sure. When?” he replies.
My stomach sinks.
“I could come over now?”
“Cool, see you soon.”
I run my hands through my hair and groan. “I’m off to Blake’s to post our engagement announcement, I guess. I’ll see you later, if I survive.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sophie admonishes.
“The girl got engaged to a near stranger while vomiting off the side of a yacht,” Liv says, cracking up. “What else would you expect?”
“Not funny!” I exclaim, gathering my purse and heading out the door. “Not funny at all.”
It takes almost an hour on the Q train to get from Park Slope to the Upper East Side, and I spend every minute running through plays in my head. Is there any wording I could suggest to Blake for him use in his announcement that would deflect suspicion? Is there any cover story plausible enough to explain away the truth? There’s no caption I could use that looks appropriately excited for Blake’s friends and family, while remaining business-as-usual to my own followers; no matter what I say, it’ll look off to somebody. I Google myself, just to see what pops up in the top results. At first, I exhale: there’s a link to Brooklyn Jewels’s site, then my Instagram, then my LinkedIn. But sure enough, farther down the first page, there’s a link to that Elle story. Could I reach out to the editor and have it pulled down? No, she wouldn’t do that.
By the time I exit the train, I know what I have to do. There’s only one option left for me—the right thing. The hardest thing. My stomach rolls like it did on the boat, but this time, I’m standing on solid ground. I walk the few blocks to his apartment from memory now; I’ve grown accustomed to the route and don’t need to rely on my phone’s directions anymore. When I reach Blake’s apartment, the doorman waves me up automatically.
“He called down to tell me he’s expecting you, Eliza,” he says.
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