Page 75 of Hushed

He knew what they were thinking, and he let them think it, and he didn’t tell me because—

Because the alternative was worse. Because if they thought he was a prostitute, I was merely sad and lonely. But if they knew he was my student, I was a predator.

He took that hit for me. He let them look at him like that, talk about him like that, all afternoon, and he smiled and served tourtière and didn’t say a word.

Something in me breaks open.

“Levi Knight is the best thing that ever happened to me,” I say, and my voice carries across the silent room. “And frankly, our relationship with each other has always been private. But it started long before we arrived here and by God, it will continue long after we leave.”

I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I’m done. Done calculating, done being careful, done letting these people make me small. And it doesn’t even matter about them making me feel small. What enrages me is their attempt to make Levi, my Levi, small.

Levi’s hand tightens on mine. “I think we need to tell them then,” he says. He turns to the table with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances at the people at the table. “We were wanting to wait to talk to his family first before going public. I still technically have to ask for your parents’ permission, but, after many attempts to convince him, Bastien has finally consented to be my husband.”

He kisses my knuckles.

I stare at him.

We have never discussed this. We have been officially back together for less than thirty-six hours. He is improvising, I realize—seizing an opportunity, reframing the narrative, giving them a love story instead of a scandal.

It also occurs to me, dimly, that I’ve just handed him an opportunity, and he’s snatched it up with the same adroitness he scooped up the title of boyfriend this morning. And I can’t decline.

“I have,” I say slowly, looking at him. “Consented to be your husband.” I swallow and look at the plate for a second to catch my breath. When I look up, my guests’ faces blur slightly—the wine, the adrenaline, the sheer absurdity of this moment. “I didn’t want to make the announcement like this, but…”

Levi exhales and squeezes my hand.

The room is frozen. Julia’s mouth is hanging open. Hughes looks like he’s having a cardiac event. Molly has her hand over her face.

Delphine raises her glass. “A toast! To the happy couple.”

They pivot to stare at her. Only a few people lift their glasses.

“This is wonderful!” Tracey says, breaking the silence with determined cheerfulness. Her phone is already out. “I’m tagging you both! Bastien, what’s your handle? Wait, I found it. There aren’t too many Bastien Saint-Jacques out there. And Levi, you’re… Oh, I have you from my earlier picture. There you are—”

“No—” I start, but my phone is already buzzing. Lighting up. Exploding.

Tracey Ripple tagged you in a photo.

“Tabernak,” I mutter. I stare at the phone and count to ten. It’s Sunday lunch at home. The whole family will be gathered in my mother’s house.

The notifications come in seconds. I can even see it happening in real time. My mother saw the notification, picked up her phone, and shrieked. And then…

Annette Saint-Jacques liked your photo.

Michel Saint-Jacques liked your photo.

Raoul Saint-Jacques liked your photo.

Jean-Christophe Saint-Jacques liked your photo.

Lisette Saint-Jacques liked your photo.

Annette Saint-Jacques commented: SÉBASTIEN!

My mother.

My phone starts ringing. I fumble it and it skids off the table onto the floor. I dive after it, cracking my knee on the chair, and find myself suddenly under the table, surrounded by legs and dropped napkins.

“I’ve got it!” Nell says, and to my horror she’s ducking under the table after me, reaching for my phone with the enthusiasm of a woman who wants front-row seats to a disaster.