The Sweetest Secret

We ate in comfortable rhythm, plates clinking softly, the loft filled with the warm glow of pendant lights and the lingering scent of garlic and chilies. Between bites of Mongolian beef, Iris walked me through the plan, her voice low and conspiratorial, like we were plotting a heist instead of a surprise reunion.

“I told Emily you were slammed with studio meetings all day tomorrow,” she said, twirling linguini around her fork. “Heavy-work Sundays aren’t exactly rare for either of us, so she bought it without a blink. She’s completely free and completely clueless you’re flying in.”

I grinned, spearing a piece of beef. “You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

She shrugged, smug. “It’s a gift.”

We moved on to the tiramisu, the one she’d brought because she knew it was my favorite, even though coffee desserts weren’t her thing. The first bite melted on my tongue; sweet mascarpone, just enough bitter espresso, and a whisper of coffee liqueur. Perfect. I caught her watching me, amused.

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you, Iris,” I said, meaning every word. Outside of Emily, Iris was the best thing that had ever happened to me; professionally, sure, but personally too. She and Emily even shared a bond that sometimes felt tighter than mine with either of them, and I loved them both for it.

She smirked, digging through the layers for the creamiest part. “You’d probably go mad.”

I laughed, watching her fish out a ladyfinger soaked in espresso. “You didn’t have to get tiramisu just for me, Irie. I’d have been happy with anything.”

Her fork paused. She looked up, eyes softening at the nickname I hadn’t used in months. “It’s been a while since you called me that,” she said quietly. “You only pull out ‘Irie’ when you’re really excited… or really comfortable.”

I shrugged, a little sheepish. “It’s an exciting time. Creatively, I’m on fire. I’m flush…” I pointed my fork at her, “we’re flush. Career’s about to level up huge. It almost can’t get any better.”

I popped the last bite of tiramisu, set the plate down, and took a breath. Time to lay my cards on the table.

Iris leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, that knowing smirk playing on her lips. “You gonna show me the ring, or what?”

My jaw dropped. She burst out laughing, bright and triumphant.

“Well?” she pressed, eyes dancing. “Let me see it.”

Of course she knew. Iris always knew. For years she’d anticipated my every move, setting me up for every win, reading me like an open book. So naturally she’d clocked the biggest step I was about to take in the only pillar of my life that mattered more than work.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.

Because tomorrow, in Miami, under the sun and in front of the woman I loved more than anything, I was going to ask Emily to marry me.