Chap­ter 15 opens with a gath­er­ing at Eddie’s place—the offi­cial site of the Neigh­bor­hood Beau­ti­fi­ca­tion Committee’s lat­est meet­ing. Or rather, my house, as I’ve been try­ing to remind myself, though the words don’t always feel true. As I car­ry the emp­ty wine­glass­es to the sink, I can’t ignore the dull ache of being in a beau­ti­ful home that doesn’t entire­ly feel like mine yet.

Most of the com­mit­tee meet­ing had been fluff—half-hearted dis­cus­sions about sea­son­al wreaths and Pin­ter­est boards masked a more obvi­ous motive. Every­one just want­ed a peek inside the house, to men­tal­ly rearrange the space that used to belong to Bea. The way their eyes dart­ed from the man­tle to the cor­ners, qui­et­ly assess­ing what had changed or stayed, was impos­si­ble to miss.

Camp­bell and Emi­ly lin­gered after the oth­ers had left, insist­ing they want­ed to help clean up. But I knew better—they weren’t here for house­work. They were here to poke around, to prod at the shell Bea left behind and maybe get me to crack.

Camp­bell com­pli­ment­ed the house, not­ing it felt “brighter,” which Emi­ly agreed with through a lazy sip of wine. I knew noth­ing major had changed since they were last here, so their com­ments had to be about more than cur­tains or light­ing. It felt like code for some­thing else—maybe a pas­sive-aggres­sive way of say­ing it’s still hers.

I lobbed a com­pli­ment back about Bea’s taste, light­ly laugh­ing, hop­ing to seem self-aware but not inse­cure. It was a tactic—to see if they’d bite, reveal some­thing unguard­ed. And when Camp­bell men­tioned how jeal­ous Blanche had been over Bea’s Birm­ing­ham Mag­a­zine spread, I felt like I was final­ly hear­ing some­thing hon­est.

Their small talk about past feuds between Bea and Blanche made the ghost of this house even loud­er. I didn’t mind. I want­ed these glimpses into Bea’s life, hop­ing that if I could piece her togeth­er ful­ly, she’d stop feel­ing so present in every creak and hall­way.

But reminders of Bea weren’t lim­it­ed to con­ver­sa­tions. Last week, a flo­ral deliv­ery showed up unannounced—part of a recur­ring order Bea had set up. Eddie had nev­er can­celed it, and now lilies and mag­no­lias sat in the entry­way like her lin­ger­ing per­fume.

Emi­ly and Camp­bell even­tu­al­ly made their exit, all smiles and light kiss­es on the cheek. Their com­pli­ments were polite but their lan­guage betrayed them. They thanked Eddie for host­ing, as if I was just a guest in his life, not the woman build­ing a future with him.

As soon as they were gone, I sank onto the couch with my iPad. I need­ed a plan—a way to tight­en my grip before every­thing slipped out of reach. And if Eddie wasn’t going to pro­pose, I need­ed to show him what his hes­i­ta­tion might cost.

When he walked in an hour lat­er, I already had the UCLA grad­u­ate pro­gram page pulled up. He greet­ed me with warmth, leaned down for a kiss, and then paused as he saw the screen. His entire body stiff­ened.

“UCLA?” he asked, his voice tight.

I kept my expres­sion even and explained I’d been think­ing about grad school, how I had to con­sid­er my own future. His reac­tion was immediate—protective, tense, maybe even a lit­tle pan­icked. He remind­ed me that I belonged here, with him, and not across the coun­try chas­ing old dreams.

But I didn’t back down. I told him I’ve spent my life depend­ing only on myself, and I can’t stop doing that now just because he’s here. My tone was mea­sured, my hand on his wrist meant to soothe, not provoke—but I knew I was push­ing.

He stormed off toward the bed­room, and I thought I’d blown every­thing. I’d gam­bled too hard, gone too far. And the truth was, I couldn’t even apply to UCLA—I nev­er fin­ished col­lege.

But then he returned. And in his hand was a small vel­vet box.

The moment he dropped to one knee, the world stilled. I didn’t hear any­thing but his voice say­ing, “Mar­ry me.” The emer­ald glim­mered in the box, ringed by a halo of dia­monds, too large, too bold—and yet, unde­ni­ably per­fect.

It was dizzy­ing, the speed with which every­thing changed. My doubt, his silence, the surge of emo­tion between us—it all van­ished under that sin­gle ques­tion. And beneath the gem’s cold bril­liance was the warmth of some­thing new, some­thing mine.