Sloane glanced at the door—still closed, with no audible movement in the hallway beyond it. Good. She opened the box. Inside was a ring, of course, but not just any ring—it was old-fashioned, dotted with pyrite instead of diamonds. He had remembered what kind of jewelry she liked even though she never wore any.
She snapped the box closed and shoved it back in the drawer, her throat tight. She knew what it meant, of course: he was going to propose to her. Soon, probably, because he wouldn’t trust the underwear drawer as a good hiding place for long. Given his fondness for dramatic gestures, he would likely do it at the gala that evening.
Sloane felt sick with dread. She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Matt was on the phone with his assistant, Eddie. His calendar was stuffed to bursting with causes. This week alone, he was moderating a panel discussion on mass incarceration, attending a fundraising event for a school on the west side, and meeting with a senator about state-funded counseling services for Dark One survivors with PTSD. He would likely be on the phone for a while.
She shut the door again and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at the two-flat across the street, the one with the gaudy blue fairy lights hanging from the eaves all year round.
Sloane took out her phone and dialed a number she hadn’t used in years. Her mother’s number.
“Hello?” June Hopewell said, her voice sharp as ever.
“Mom?”
“Sloane?”
Sloane frowned. “Yeah, it’s me, unless you’ve got some other kids running around I’m not aware of.”
“Saw you on the TV this morning,” June said. “You sure you don’t want to rethink that whole ‘no autographs’ policy? Looked like you were being chased by wolves.”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure.” Sloane didn’t think her mother actually cared whether she signed autographs or not, but ever since the defeat of the Dark One, she had weighed in on everything Sloane did, maybe in an attempt to make up for her nonexistent parental influence when Sloane was growing up. She had, after all, missed out on Sloane’s entire adolescence due to not giving a single shit when the government came to take her away.
“Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Sloane said. “I just found a ring in Matt’s underwear drawer. An engagement ring.”
Her mom was quiet on the other end of the line. Then: “Okay. And?”
“And?” Sloane clapped a hand to her forehead. “And I’m freaking out!”
“Slo, you’ve been together for ten years.”
Sloane’s face got hot. “We’ve never even talked about it! Don’t you think that if he wanted to marry me, he would, you know, bring up the subject of marriage casually at some point? For all he knows, I hate the entire institution on principle.”
“While that would not be at all surprising, given the number of things you do hate,” June said, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice, “maybe he wanted to keep it a surprise.”
Sloane watched a cat prowl along the curb outside.
“Sloane.” Her mother sighed. “He’s the best you’re gonna find. Trust me.”
Sloane didn’t respond.
“I gotta go,” her mom said.
To do what? Sloane didn’t say. She hung up without saying goodbye. That wouldn’t surprise June. They usually spoke only once a year, on Christmas, for about five minutes. They hadn’t exchanged “I love you”s since Sloane was a child. Since before her dad left, then turned up dead in a morgue in Arkansas—killed by a Drain—and June had to go identify the body.
He’s the best you’re gonna find. She was right, obviously, because Matt radiated goodness so hard, you wanted to punch him sometimes. Not loving him was like not loving freedom. Or puppies.
But there was something about the way June had said it that grated on Sloane. He’s the best you’re gonna find. And that, too, was true—what was she supposed to do, join a dating app? Pretend to have a regular job? At what point would she mention that she was one of the five saviors of humankind? Was that a third-date conversation or more of a fifth-date one?
But it would have been nice, she thought, for June to say something kind and reassuring for once.
Sloane sat with her phone in her hands. The sun was setting, and the eye-searingly blue fairy lights had turned on across the street. She felt uneven, like the room had shifted around her. But she