Final Epilogue
FINAL EPILOGUE
ASK ME NEXT YEAR
Harlow
A week later, on the couch in my apartment, under the Zara Clementine, Bridger hands me a tissue as I type the final words of the epilogue.
Once I wipe away the evidence of my latest waterfall, I attempt to speak past the lump in my throat. “I tried to match her voice,” I say. “I think it’ll do the job. Want to read it?”
He nods solemnly. “I do.”
He sits next to me. I hand him the laptop. He reads the words I wrote. It’s short, but it wraps up the characters’ love story that started with an invitation to a masquerade and ended with a proposal, and the last words— And I say yes.
Watching the smile slowly form across his face is everything.
When he’s done, he turns to me and kisses my cheek. “She’d be proud of you, Harlow.”
I nod, knowing he’s right, feeling the truth of his words in my soul. “Yes. She would.”
On a Friday night in November, a little over a year later, I slip into a silver dress and black heels at our apartment. We live together now—Bridger moved into my place a few months ago.
He holds my coat for me, and as I button it, I admire his clothes—charcoal pants, emerald shirt, and a suit jacket. No tie though. “You and your shirts. I still love them.”
“Good. I’ll keep wearing them for you.”
“Deal.”
“Wait,” he says before we go, and I comply as he reaches for a small box on the end table, then takes out a small gold picture frame.
He hands it to me and I gasp. “You found the typewriter,” I say, studying the photo of a Smith-Corona on a stoop in the Village.
“It has lots of stories in it,” he says. Then he sets the frame down on the end table. “It’ll look good here, don’t you think?”
“Yes. It looks great in our home.”
He takes my hand and we leave, heading for the theater. Maybe it’s fate, or maybe it’s just coincidence, but Davis Milo revived Ask Me Next Year and we’re going to the opening night.
I. Can’t. Wait.
Along the way, we walk past my favorite bookstore in the city—An Open Book. We stop to admire the window display of the country’s new, big best-seller.
Bridger wraps an arm around me and tugs me closer. “Look at what you did, Harlow Dumont .”
I hardly did anything. I simply found an agent, handled the publication, and wrote the epilogue.
The story did the rest.
My mother’s final romance sold out its first printing, hit number one on all the lists, and made her readers happy.
Also, Opening Number bought the TV and film rights.
Well, I guess I did one more thing—I gave it a title.
I snap a photo of the window display, the image catching the reflection of Bridger and me and a love story I named.
The RSVP.