Page 3 of Dirty Little Secret

“Do you think he’ll ever propose?”

I hate this question because I have no way of answering that doesn’t make me sound foolish. "We never talk about marriage,” I confess. My throat feels tight as I imagine Magnus entertaining thoughts of marrying someone else—someone closer to his age and whom his family approves of openly. "We're just enjoying what we have. Taking things slow." The words taste bitter in my mouth because they're half-truths—the kind that veil your vulnerabilities from probing eyes.

Kelly’s expression shifts slightly—she’s too polite to push, but too good a friend not to notice the underlying tension in my voice.

"It's complicated," I add after a pause too long to go unnoticed. Looking up from my coffee, I meet Kelly's gaze squarely. “Besides, it’s only been six months,” I murmur, dipping a cookie into my cup more forcefully than necessary.

Kelly reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. "It doesn’t have to be complicated,” she says softly. “You deserve happiness too, Tessa. Don't forget that."

Her words sink like stones into the pit of my stomach. Happiness—that elusive creature that flutters just out of reach whenever Magnus attends charity galas or family affairs without me. How long will I be his dirty secret?

“It’s just,” I begin, then hesitate. Sharing this might breach some unspoken rule between Magnus and me. “Magnus and I are complicated. And sometimes I get the funny feeling that the end is near. It’s nothing he’s said; it’s just a hunch.”

“Complicated how? And near the end? I’ve only met him a few times, but the guy seems crazy about you.” Kelly’s voice is full of concern now.

I sigh. “You know Magnus's family is New York old money, and people like that have expectations. My family has money, but I’m much younger than him. Maybe he fears a scandal.” The words feel heavy and sour on my tongue. “It’s not a big thing. He’s never made any promises."

"But he loves you, doesn’t he? That should count for something."

“He says he does,” I assure her—and myself. “And he shows it every day. At least I think he does—I’ve never been in love before him.” The last word escapes in a confused whisper.

Kelly’s expression softens, and she seems to be choosing her next words carefully. "Maybe it's time you two had a real talk about where things are going."

“Jesus, Kelly. Enough about me. This is your moment, and I refuse to entertain any more discussion of Magnus and me.” I order a piece of cake to share in celebration. “You’re getting married, and I am totally here for it, lady.” I lift my fork, and she happily clinks it in a toast. “Just please don’t become a bridezilla.”

“You know me,” Kelly chuckles. “I will undoubtedly be a raging bridezilla.”

magnus

. . .

The scentof jasmine tea and freshly baked scones permeates the cozy living room as I step inside. I am reminded once again of childhood Sundays spent under the watchful gaze of my mother's ceramic figurines. She’s rearranged the furniture again—or perhaps the sofa has just given up and shuffled a few inches to the left to better catch snippets of neighborhood gossip.

"Darling!" Mother exclaims, erupting from her chair like a jack-in-the-box with too much spring. "You remember Miss Cilla Barton, don't you?" Her eyes twinkle with unspoken plots. These are the type of visits I dread.

Cilla, a woman I’ve never met, is perched on the edge of her seat. She is a vision of floral anticipation, her smile as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. "Of course he doesn't, Elaine." She chuckles, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her skirt. We've never met before."

Mother gives me that look—the one that manages to keep me in line more effectively than any scolding could. "Magnus, sit. You two must catch up! Or get to know one another. It doesn’t matter."

I obey, sinking into an armchair that feels suspiciously like sitting on a cloud or perhaps a giant marshmallow. "Actually," I start, clearing my throat while my mind races for a diversion. Anything to derail Mother’s matrimonial train before it leaves the station with me as its unwilling cargo. “I’ve been meaning to tell you?—”

But Mother waves me off with a practiced flick worthy of a Broadway curtain call. “Later! First, you and Cilla must discuss!” She beams at us as if she's already hearing wedding bells.

Cilla leans forward, earnestness replacing amusement. "So, Magnus," she begins in a conspiratorially low voice that perfectly matches her outfit's floral frenzy, "your mother tells me you're quite the expert on rare tropical fish?"

I blink. That's not where I thought this was going. But then again, with Mother as the conductor… “Ah, yes,” I recover, recalling my brief stint at the pet store during college summers—a job that Mother has inflated into marine biology. “The clownfish and their antics were particularly captivating.”

Cilla nods sagely, as if discussing the fate of nations rather than aquatic pets. "Fascinating creatures," she agrees solemnly.

As we chat about everything from Nemo to Neptune, I can feel my mother’s disappointment simmering like tea left too long on the stove. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she interrupts.

"But Magnus has news!" my mother announces dramatically, referencing our phone call earlier today.

Cilla turns to me expectantly while I scramble for something real and sufficiently distracting.

“I’m actually in love—deeply, truly, madly in love,” I blurt out without finesse but with enough sincerity to cause Cilla to sit back slightly.

Mother gasps audibly. "Why haven't you mentioned this before? Who is she? Do I know her?"

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