Chap­ter 14 begins with a sim­mer­ing attempt at self-con­trol. I tell myself not to over­think Emi­ly and Camp­bell, not to crave more than I already have. This life—Eddie, the house, comfort—should feel like a win, like hit­ting the emo­tion­al jack­pot after years of scrap­ing by.

But the truth is, dis­con­tent lingers just beneath the sur­face, stirred by glances and off­hand com­ments dressed as com­pli­ments. The same feel­ing flares when­ev­er John cross­es my mind, and even though he got his cash and his moment of lever­age in that Home Depot lot, I can’t ful­ly trust it’s over. Peo­ple like him—people like us—don’t just walk away when there’s still pow­er to squeeze.

The idea that being Mrs. Rochester could shield me from peo­ple like John is what keeps me focused. Not just liv­ing with Eddie, not just dat­ing him. I need the title, the permanence—the secu­ri­ty of a ring.

So I start watch­ing him. Not obses­sive­ly, just carefully—looking for signs, any­thing to sug­gest he’s think­ing about propos­ing. I’ve nev­er had any­one love me enough to plan for­ev­er, so there’s no roadmap here, just instinct and hope.

A few days after the com­mit­tee meet­ing, Eddie sur­pris­es me by com­ing home ear­ly and sug­gest­ing we take Adele to the Caha­ba Riv­er Walk. The invi­ta­tion lifts my mood; that trail, those trees, and the soft sound of water bring back the ear­ly days of us—before things got com­pli­cat­ed. We pile into the car, and my heart beats faster than it should.

When we arrive, Adele sprints ahead, chas­ing squir­rels, and I prac­ti­cal­ly bounce with excite­ment, imag­in­ing a vel­vet box in his pock­et. Eddie takes my hand, smiles, and I lean in to kiss his cheek. “You seem hap­py,” he says, and I nod.

But just min­utes lat­er, he’s on his phone, answer­ing emails, while I sit there, cheeks flushed from heat and embar­rass­ment. A pair of women jog past, one cast­ing a curi­ous look at Eddie and then at me. That look—the silent, con­de­scend­ing what’s her sto­ry—makes my skin crawl.

Try­ing to break the silence, I go for sub­tle. “I need a man­i­cure,” I say, wav­ing my fin­gers and hop­ing he’ll take the bait. “All the women at Emily’s had per­fect nails—and a pile of rings.”

Eddie doesn’t look up, but he does snort. “Bea always thought that was tacky,” he mut­ters, still typ­ing. “Espe­cial­ly when they just sit at home all day.”

That answer stings more than I expect. “I’m not ask­ing for dia­monds,” I reply light­ly. “Just maybe some cuti­cle oil and a lit­tle effort.”

He reach­es for my hand absent­mind­ed­ly, bring­ing it to his lips in a ges­ture that feels more habit­u­al than heart­felt. When he men­tions the vil­lage nail salon, I ask if that’s where Bea went. Final­ly, he lifts his eyes from the screen.

“As far as I know, yeah. That’s the place,” he says.

I push a lit­tle more. “Girls from the neigh­bor­hood, right?”

“Women,” I cor­rect, my tone sharp­en­ing. “They’re not ‘girls’ any­more. They’re in their thir­ties, at least.”

Eddie gives me a look that’s hard to read, half indul­gent and half dismissive—like a par­ent humor­ing a child. And I hate it. I want to be his part­ner, not some­one he humors.

“You don’t have to patron­ize me,” I snap before I can stop myself, before I can remind myself to be the Jane he expects. But maybe that ver­sion of me—the fil­tered one—isn’t sus­tain­able.

To his cred­it, he stops, real­ly stops, and looks at me. “I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”

“A lit­tle bit.”

And there it is—his real smile, the one that reach­es his eyes. “I’m sor­ry. I’m just stressed. But I want­ed today to be about us, even if I didn’t do a great job of show­ing it.”

That apol­o­gy cracks some­thing open. The mood soft­ens, and I sense a chance to let him in—but also to plant a seed. “I guess I just won­der where this is going,” I say, and I mean it.

He sits up straighter, all atten­tion now on me. I talk about how hard it is to always feel like an out­sider, like a guest in some­one else’s home, no mat­ter how wel­come I’m told I am. “When you’ve been someone’s char­i­ty case your whole life, you start to resent the feel­ing,” I explain.

Eddie lis­tens, his hands now clasped, his brow fur­rowed. I can see he’s wrestling with it—not annoyed, not angry, just try­ing to under­stand. He asks what I mean, and I tell him the truth.

“You saw where I came from. You know how dif­fer­ent this life is for me.”

“You belong here,” he says, quick and cer­tain. “I don’t want you to be like Emi­ly or Camp­bell. I love you because you’re not like them.”

I watch his throat work as he swal­lows back the next part. Because you’re not Bea. He won’t say it, but it hangs between us, unspo­ken and unde­ni­able.

He squeezes my hand again. “I love you, Jane. This house, this neighborhood—that’s all noise. You are what mat­ters.”

I’m breath­less as I nod, lean­ing in as he press­es his fore­head to mine. This should be the moment, the one where he pulls out a ring and seals every­thing with a promise.

But instead, he pulls back with a sigh. “I’ll try not to be gone so much. Cait­lyn can take more at South­ern Manors. But I still have to run both busi­ness­es. You get that, right?”

I nod again, but inside, dis­ap­point­ment blooms. He said all the right things—but not that thing. Still, I tell myself: maybe soon.