Page 220 of The Lies We Play

“We have three toothbrushes, a chef who knows I hate fennel, and Halston pretending not to notice when I stole the good side of the bed.” She pauses. “That is not temporary. That is infrastructure.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

She smiles back, but her eyes are too bright.

“I think this, us, was decided a long time ago,” she says. “Not in a magical way. Don’t make that face. I'm not saying fate with a harp in the background—or some diapered god throwing arrows at us.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

She shakes her head. “Your eyebrows did.”

“My eyebrows are neutral.”

“They’re never neutral.” She pulls the blanket higher, then holds the phone closer. “I mean when we found each other, something in the room finally had a name. That place in me I kept trying to fill with school and books and being impressive enough that no one noticed I was lonely? You and Hal walked right into it like you had the keys.”

I swallow.

She keeps going, softer now.

“We’ve been saying ‘forever’ in pieces. ‘Roof at eleven. Text me when you land. Did you eat? Come home. Wear my sweatshirt. Let me take care of this.’ We’ve been saying it all along. We just hadn’t put the word on it.”

“Forever and always,” I say.

“Exactly.” Her smile turns a little sad. “Why does this surprise you?”

I shrug, though she can barely see it. “He’s going to propose.”

“We’ll say yes,” she states. “Then we’ll figure out what that looks like.”

“Did we just decide to say we’re getting married?”

She is quiet for one beat.

Then she says, very calm, very Liv, “No. We just decided to formally recognize it.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed.

The room feels too still around me. The bathroom water stops. Somewhere beyond the windows, the city keeps making its late-night sounds, but they feel far off now, like the whole apartment has paused to listen.

“Are you okay with it?” I have to ask.

She nods. “Are you?”

I open my mouth.

She doesn’t let me answer.

“How is he?”

I shake my head. “He’s dealing.”

Liv’s face changes again, and I can see her mind start working. Not coldly. Never coldly. But fast. Practical because love makes her practical. Tender because fear makes her tender.

“We need a therapist,” she says.

“What?”

“A therapist. Maybe more than one. I don’t know. Someone good. Not someone who tells us to journal for six months and breathe through family trauma while the Saint Claires are sharpening silverware in the next room.”