Epilogue #2
I open it to find Natalie standing there, wrapped in a dalmatian-spotted coat that would have been pure evil if she didn’t look so impossibly nervous beneath it.
Her dress is a simple black number with a high collar and white piping, and she’s paired it with long red gloves and a plastic cigarette holder that droops, almost apologetic, from her fingers.
She’s done something with her hair, too—streaked it with temporary white so it fans around her head in perfect Cruella symmetry.
“Is this the legendary bash?” she says, voice half a decibel above a whisper.
I nod, trying not to gawk. “You look amazing.”
She lets out a little laugh. “You should see the shoes. Five-inch platforms. I almost ate shit on the stairs.”
She steps in, casting a wary glance over the crowd. There’s a moment of calculation—a flash of anxiety, a mental audit of the room. I recognize the move. She’s scanning for anyone who might close the distance before she’s ready.
The answer comes faster than she expects.
Aaron, still dazzling in his Jessica Rabbit best, spots her from across the room and raises his glass in a silent toast. The effect is immediate—half the guests pivot to watch, a minor chord of tension tightening and then resolving as Natalie lifts her own drink, a plastic cup of seltzer, and gives a regal nod.
For a moment, it’s a standoff: her by the door, him at the makeshift bar, the two of them orbiting each other with carefully measured nonchalance. I see the way his smile is a little too careful, the way her left hand worries at the buttons on her coat.
Hunter, ever the chaos conductor, is first to break the spell. He materializes behind me and booms, “Is that CRUELLA DE VIL gracing this humble home?” He bows low, then sweeps an arm toward the center of the room. “Please, come in and show these heathens how a real villain enters a party.”
Natalie smiles, the first real one since she arrived, and peels off her coat.
Underneath, the dress is more understated than I expected—modest, almost nun-like, except for the slash of red at her lips and the way she carries herself with deliberate grace.
She steps in, perches on the edge of the couch, and sets the cigarette holder on the armrest with surgical precision.
Within two minutes, Sara has materialized at her side, introducing herself and at once launching into a conversation about costume adhesives.
But Aaron is still watching, and after a few minutes, he makes his move.
He weaves through the crowd, pausing to refill a drink or pose for a photo, then drops onto the footstool beside Natalie with a practiced ease.
The volume dips around them, enough that I can’t hear their words but can track the conversation in the movement of shoulders and eyes.
It starts tense: her posture straight and her jaw set, his smile tight and too wide.
They sit that way for maybe thirty seconds, trading one-liners that land with the soft thud of apology not quite spoken.
Then Aaron leans in, drops the act, and says something that makes Natalie’s shoulders drop half an inch.
They both stare at the wall for a moment, then she laughs—a quick, brittle thing, but it’s there.
He says something else, and this time she looks at him.
Really looks. She sips her drink, sets it down, and offers him a handshake.
He takes it, but then they both start laughing, the handshake dissolving into a full-on embrace, careful at first and then genuine.
When they break apart, her eyes are wet, and his mouth is set in a line that says he’s both relieved and slightly embarrassed.
I look away, let them have the moment.
Hunter is beside me, tracking the exchange with the hungry look of someone who’s just realized his prank has grown up and moved out. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says, nudging my ribs with his elbow. “My little scheme actually made the world a better place.”
“You’re a menace,” I say.
He grins, wolfish. “And you love it.”
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile.
The party is humming, the chemistry of the room rewritten: guests move more freely, laughter hits harder and lingers longer, even the playlist seems to pulse in time with the beat of the crowd.
Hunter has now organized a glow stick relay in the hallway, and Sara is giving rapid-fire eyeliner tutorials to anyone brave enough to try.
Aaron and Natalie have migrated to the balcony, faces close in deep conversation. There’s no drama, no scene—just two people figuring it out, letting the past run off like water on a windshield.
I drift through the party, picking up empty cups and half-eaten pizza crusts, but mostly I float.
Every few minutes someone stops me for a selfie, or a compliment, or a quick fist bump—former lab partners, randoms from Chem, even the TA who once docked me half a grade for “inconsistent titration protocol.” The shy version of me, the guy who once wore headphones at parties to avoid having to speak, is long gone, replaced by someone who actually enjoys the swirl of people, the electric possibility of each new face, just not too often.
At the edge of the kitchen, a group of chemistry majors waves me over.
They’re in costume, but it’s clear none of them coordinated: one is a Ghostbuster, another a generic mad scientist, the third in a hand-lettered t-shirt that says “Mole Day 2023.” They’re deep into a debate about whether sodium vapor lamps would make a good party light, but when I approach, the conversation snaps to attention.
“Montgomery!” says the Ghostbuster. “You and Aaron are a legend. I read your paper for Collins’s class—was that real, or did you just make up half the data?”
I flush, but he’s grinning. “It’s real,” I say. “Aaron ran, like, forty trials to make sure.”
They hoot, then the mad scientist raises his cup in a salute. “That’s why Collins nominated you guys for the student symposium.”
I freeze, brows knit.
“Didn’t you get the email?”
“For real?”
He grins. “Check your inbox. You’re presenting in December.”
For a moment, everything in the room sharpens—every voice, every light, every pulse of the bass. I steady myself on the edge of the lab bench, the news hitting like a bolt of cold air.
“Congrats, man,” says Mole Day, clapping my back. “Seriously. Well-deserved.”
I thank them, but my voice is far away, already running through the implications: weeks of prep we don’t have, the inevitability of standing up in front of an audience, the knowledge that I won’t be able to hide behind a costume or a clever joke.
I look across the room and catch Aaron’s eye through the sliding glass door.
He’s still talking with Natalie, but the expression on his face—the small, private smile, the way his posture softens when he sees me—grounds me.
I remember our first presentation, how I could barely get the words out, how he stood beside me and made it all feel manageable.
How, even now, the only time I really believe in myself is when he’s close.
Sara drifts over, wrapping me in a quick side hug. “You okay?”
I nod. “I think so.”
She smirks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Just found out we’re presenting at the Chem symposium.”
She lights up. “No way! That’s huge! You and Aaron are unstoppable.”
I look at the mess of the party, the crowd in the hallway, the ring of glow sticks forming a makeshift dance floor.
I look at Aaron, who’s coming back inside, and at Natalie, who’s now chatting with Sara like they’ve been friends forever.
I think of all the disasters that brought us here—the bets, the memes, the closet, the first kiss, the long year of trying to figure it out.
“Yeah,” I say, a laugh bubbling up. “I guess we are.”
The next song comes on—a slow synth ballad, the kind meant for paired-off dancing but mostly ignored by the group of party goblins on the makeshift dance floor.
Aaron crosses the room toward me, a knowing smirk on his lips and his auburn wig slightly askew.
He holds out a hand, gloved in purple, and bows with exaggerated formality.
“May I have this dance, Mr. Rabbit?” he says, voice pitched for maximum ridiculousness.
I look down at my own gloved hand, the fake fur already sticky with punch, and take his. “Lead the way, Jessica.”
We move to the center of the room, the crowd parting around us, and for the first time in my life I don’t feel like a punchline. I feel like a legend.
Or at least, a very happy hare.
The night spins on, the music and laughter and glow sticks blurring together in a memory I hope never gets diluted.
I hold onto Aaron, and I don’t let go.
*** The End ***