Page 90 of The Bet
Thomas watches me, then looks away, as if rehearsing a line. When he turns back, his jaw is set, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
“So,” he says, “you ever heard of the Writer’s Room on Fifth?”
I think, then shake my head. “Is that the place next to the butcher shop? With the weird old-school sign?”
He nods. “That’s the one. Used to be a medical office, now it’s rented out as workspace. I got you a membership. Desk, bookshelves, north-facing window, coffee on tap. No one allowed in but you.” His eyes flick away, embarrassed. “I figured you’d want somewhere… I don’t know. Yours.”
I stare at him, glass forgotten in my hand.
He shifts, nervous. “You can use it or not, but I thought—well, you’re a writer, Andie. And you need the quiet, sometimes. AndI know my place is big, but you deserve a space of your own. Separate and apart to concentrate.”
My throat goes tight, but I force words out. “I can’t believe it. You did this for me?”
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny blush on his cheekbones. “I want you to have it. You’ve earned it, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you for graduating, and with honors too. You’re going to be a star.”
I set my glass down, stepping into his space, so close he has to look at me. I take his hand, winding my fingers through his, and the heat of him is real and electric.
“You’re an idiot,” I say, but I can’t keep from smiling.
He growls, all teeth. “Takes one to know one.”
The silence blooms between us, heavy and soft.
Then, from nowhere, he produces a tiny brass key from his pocket. It’s nothing—small, plain as a penny, on a keyring so cheap it’s barely gold. He drops it in my palm, the weight of it shocking.
“It’s the key to your work space at the Writer’s Room,” he says, voice gruff. “For you.”
I stare at the key, then up at him, then back at the key. It’s real. He’s real. All of it is real.
Thomas’s hand comes up, cradling my jaw, thumb at the hinge of my chin. He doesn’t rush. He just looks at me, drinking me in.
“Andie,” he says, voice low and level, “I don’t have a ring. And I’m not going to do a big speech, because I’d fuck it up. But I want you. I want all the mornings and all the fights and all thenights with you. Even when you drive me crazy, and honestly, especially then. Will you marry me?”
The question lands between us, simple and huge. My throat closes, and for a second I’m fourteen again, sitting on the bank of the Mississippi, wishing for a way out. But here it is, right in my hand: a future, a room, a life.
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I’m so happy I could break. “Yes,” I say, too loud and too fast. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He pulls me in, and the kiss is slow, sweet, nothing like the first time or the thousand after. He tastes like whiskey and hope and everything I want.
When we break apart, the world feels brighter. The city is still out there, shining, but in here, I’ve found my place.
I hold up the brass key between us. “You said you didn’t have a ring, so is this key actually my engagement ring?” I tease.
Thomas shrugs, mouth twitching. “If you want it to be.”
I laugh, dropping my forehead to his chest. “You’re impossible.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I let myself go. We stand like that, pressed together, while the city pulses below.
After a while, I say, “I want to see the studio.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Tomorrow. I’ll take you there.”
“Promise?”
He nods, lips against my hair. “Promise.”
I close my eyes, holding him. The key is warm in my hand.
