You Between the Lines

Epilogue

1 YEAR LATER

“S HALL WE?”

We’re perched on Paul’s doorstep, a ranch-style home twenty-five minutes from campus. Will’s in his standard uniform—cuffed chinos, a linen shirt, a navy blazer—and I’m in a bright-pink sundress. I even wore lipstick. We look like we’re off to a sorority luncheon.

“You knock,” I whisper. He puts a finger on each side of my waist and pushes me gently into the door.

“You’re the one making the speech tonight. I’m just here to make sure Houston doesn’t get drunk in front of all of the professors and insist we play Fuck, Marry, Kill again.”

“God, that was a good party.”

“Go on,” he says into my ear, and in his bedroom voice, he can make me do anything. I rap my knuckles on the door.

Within seconds, Paul is there, flanked by his cat, Stuart.

“Oh, good. We were just preparing for the toast.” He lets us in as Stuart weaves in and out of our legs.

“I’m already so sad,” Kacey says, walking up and giving massive hugs, even though we saw her less than twenty-four hours ago at graduation. It’s a low-key affair when you’re in the MFA program. While the undergrads take it seriously, putting down serious money on a cap and gown, we showed up in business casual and dipped the second it was done.

“Don’t be sad,” I coo into Kacey’s ear.

“You’re leaving me!” she fake-cries, then puts her hands on Will’s shoulders and grips him tightly. “If you two don’t come down from Boston every once in a while and visit me, I swear to god.”

“We’ll come, don’t worry.”

We say hello to the rest of the cohort, everyone idling on chaises and a large couch, drinking beer and chatting. Paul’s house is gorgeous and rustic, filled with vivid paintings by his late mother, giving the ambience of an underground art scene in rural France instead of a Wednesday in Perrin.

Our whole second-year cohort is here, as well as all our professors, including Erica Go, who joins me in wearing hot pink.

“Everyone’s here now, so I think it’s time for a toast,” Paul says, and starts handing us glasses of champagne. “On behalf of the entire program, I want to congratulate all of you on a wonderful two years. We”—he gestures to the professors in the room—“are so proud of everyone’s growth. It has been a pleasure to learn from you.”

Paul continues his speech as we stand in a circle—me and the nine other writers I was intimidated by two years ago, now a family.

“To the graduates,” Paul says finally, raising his glass. We cheers, taking long, easy sips as we continue to mill around the room. Amid the chatter, we pass final copies of the Perrin Review , the last one I’ll get to edit. Everyone in the cohort is signing them, like some strange keepsake in lieu of the traditional yearbook.

Will presses his Review into my hands and puts his hand on the small of my back. “I want to be the last person to sign yours,” he murmurs, and I feel my cheeks flush. During the last semester of the program, he’s gotten into the habit of writing ridiculous, flirty things on my poems. I can hardly imagine what he’s going to write on this last piece.

“Don’t write anything you don’t want Gen to read.” He simply raises an eyebrow.

People pass me their Review s and I try to think of clever, pithy things to write. How to capture the essence of my relationship with each of them. But it’s a lot of pressure, especially for the people I’m closest to. On Kacey’s, I freeze up so much I end up just drawing a heart and writing Friends forever , like a thirteen-year-old.

Once everyone has signed mine, I give it to Will, who pulls out his inky blue pen and scribbles a few lines on one of the inner pages.

“Don’t look at it until I say so.” He gives it back to me.

“Oh Jesus,” I cackle, putting the journal next to my purse in the hallway.

We eventually make our way to the dinner table, which is more like three tables put together with fifteen mismatched chairs, and I start shaking slightly because I know it’s almost time.

“The traditional goodbye toast!” Paul says. “And we start in the usual way, with our fiction editor for the Perrin Review . It’s all you, Houston.”

Houston, in cobalt-blue slacks, a crisp white tee, and dirty sneakers, stands with his glass. “I would like to dedicate tonight’s bender to the entire cohort,” he begins, to raised eyebrows from Daniel and Jeremiah Brandon, the fiction fellowship professor, “but especially to the four fiction writers who shaped my shitty words into something slightly less shitty.”

Athena makes no effort to hide a snort.

“To Wiebke,” Houston continues, holding his glass in the air, “ Danke for your incredible story comments. You are not my mother, but somehow, you also are my mother, and I couldn’t have made it through this program without you.” Wiebke puts her hand on her heart.

“To Christine, the most interesting surrealist writer I’ve ever met. You pushed me to write weirder and weirder, and my work is better for it. To Morris, who brightened our days with stories that I still don’t believe are true and the encouragement only a guy deep into his thirties could bring to us.” Houston stifles a laugh and Morris chuckles into his drink. “And to Athena, my partner in crime. You’re the only one who can actually keep up with me, which is not saying much, to be honest, but I love you all the same.”

Athena, next to Houston, wraps her arm around his hips as he stands. Houston continues for a minute or two more, talking about his early days in workshop and what the program meant to him. I forget I’m on next; I’m so wrapped up in the wistful ache of knowing the ten of us might never be in the same room again.

We clap and cheers and then I feel Will draw circles on my knee with his thumb, an antidote to any lingering anxiety.

“Beautiful, Houston,” Paul says. “And now perhaps our poetry editor wants to say a few words?”

All eyes are on me as I nod and get up, a smile breaking through my face, my eyes almost watering in anticipation. I take a deep breath.

“Two years ago, I was a very different person. I walked into Daniel’s foyer and put on a brave face, but secretly I was afraid of every one of you.”

I feel Kacey crying next to me already.

“I thought I didn’t belong here. That you all would judge me—for not being good enough, for not having tattoos like Morris, for not reading the right kinds of books. And for a while, I so desperately wanted to impress all of you that I was constantly afraid of being found out. Of you learning I wasn’t cool enough or good enough to be here.”

I pause.

“But then, something shifted. Each and every one of you challenged me. To be a better writer. To be a better person. And I realize now that maybe I was the one who came in with preconceived notions and judgments. Not you.

“I’m here today absolutely in love with the entire MFA fam, which is really a strange cult. And trust me, I was in a sorority, so I know a lot about cults.”

The group giggles, and I feel emboldened by Will’s gaze, his hazel eyes bright.

“Like Houston, I’d like to thank every single member of the cohort, but especially my poetry clique. The four of you have impacted me in ways both subtle and profound, and I don’t really know what I’ll do, not seeing your faces and reading your comments every Thursday, like we’ve done now for two years.

“So cheers to Jerry, who I think secretly shares the same music taste as I do, judging by the last three parties.” Across the table, Jerry offers a shy grin, toothy and happy. “Your writing is beautiful and dark and deep, your comments even more so.

“To Kacey, my cake companion. I knew on day one that this could be a friendship that could last a lifetime, and I’m so glad to say now that I know it will.”

As I speak, I see Kacey swipe the tears off her face and smile.

“To Will,” I say, my voice faltering as all the eyes in the room move back and forth between us, “who I’m delighted to say has much improved his workshop technique since our high school days.” Everyone laughs and I feel his hand on the back of my thigh. “It’s been a long, strange journey. I hope you already know the impact you have on me every day, and the continued impact you’ll have on me in Boston, too.”

The table cheers and my shaking subsides slightly, now that I’m over the biggest emotional hump.

“And finally, to Hazel.” I direct my glass toward her at the corner, where she sits, braless in a loose black dress, in the full poet look I used to laugh at. “Your writing amazes me every day, but even more so, your friendship. I’m going to miss our impromptu grocery trips and your hilarious comments on my poems, and I know for sure Stanford is not even ready.

“So to all of you, to my MFA fam: Cheers.” I raise my glass.

As we eat, we discuss next year’s plans. Hazel’s accepted a prestigious Stegner fellowship and is moving to California. Christine is moving down to Florida with her husband for his engineering job; she’ll find work once she’s down there. Kacey will stick around Perrin to teach English composition classes to freshmen. The salary’s horrific, but she loves it, what can she say.

“And Boston?” Erica leans across the table with a smile. “What will you be doing there?”

“I got a job as an adjunct professor at Emerson in their creative writing program.”

“That is lovely!” Erica gushes. “Once you’re there, let me put you in touch with my former classmate. She also teaches at Emerson now, and she’s an incredible poet. I think you two would really get along.”

It was impossible to decide what to do this fall. I knew I didn’t want to go back to advertising—at least not for now. It’s been too delicious to write for myself, to not have to deal with briefs or decks or client presentations where I morph my words to fit someone else’s desires. And working for the Review made me realize that I liked working with other people’s words, too, so I thought teaching could be worthwhile. All I know is: I want to keep writing, to keep doing it for myself, and to be with Will.

That last one came particularly easy.

“And what will you be doing, William?” Erica asks.

Will coughs. “You can actually just call me Will now. I think it suits me better.”

It’s my turn to smirk.

Daniel nods graciously, listening in. “Will Langford of Cleveland, Ohio, it is.”

Will turns back to Erica. “I’m going to be an assistant at a literary agency, actually, hopefully to become an agent someday.” He shoots a glance at me, and I can’t help but grin. “But our goal this summer is just to find an apartment.”

We continue talking until I get up to go to the bathroom. When I get out, Will is there, standing outside, and I jump in surprise.

“You have got to stop doing that,” I mutter.

“Come outside with me for a second,” he says, his eyes intense.

We stand out on Paul’s deck, the air still heavy with humidity but rapidly cooling in the dusk of evening.

“Good speech.” He leans against the edge of the deck railing. “Kacey and Hazel were wrecks. I’m pretty sure you made half the cohort cry.”

“Not you, though, right?”

“You know it takes quite a bit for me to do that.”

I take a step closer to him and trail my hand across his shoulder. My heart beats faster and faster and I should really just say it, the words, the ones swishing through my chest every day for the last six months. So I do.

“Will you marry me?”

His eyes grow so wide and he starts shaking his head, his lips curling, but I keep going. I’m determined to make the man cry now.

“I know this is crazy and it’s only been a year, but also I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, and to be fair, I sort of have and I’ve loved you a lot longer than a year, and you are my person. You make me better and you’re just—”

Will reaches into his pocket of his navy blazer and takes out a small velvet box before I can finish.

“Holy shit.”

He pops it open and there’s, naturally, a ring. A sweet small diamond, emerald-cut on a gold band, just like what I once showed him once on a Pinterest board as a laugh.

“Are you proposing?” I ask before he says a word.

“Yes.”

“Did we seriously both plan a proposal on the same night?”

“Check your Perrin Review when you get a chance.” He laughs.

My head is spinning and I can’t see very well because my eyes are tearing up so viciously.

“Okay, so can I assume from this that it’s a yes?”

Will laughs again, the most beautiful sound in the world. “It’s always been a yes.”

He cups my face with his hand, his other at my waist, holding me so tight against him I forget to breathe. I kiss him, hard, my hand running across his cheek, where I find a single errant tear.

“You accomplished what you came here to do.” He laughs, wiping his palm across his face, and he’s right in so many ways.

We kiss again, this time lingering and deep, and all I can think about is ditching this party and going home together.

“But do we, like, tell everyone? Right now?”

Will shakes his head, peppers my cheek with another kiss. “We can video-call the group chat tomorrow. Tonight, I want this all to ourselves.”

So we go back inside, a secret shared between us, and I’m weepy and he can’t keep from smiling, can’t keep his hands off me.

The rest of the evening plays out too fast, too slow. But with Will’s arm around me, surrounded by my fellow artists, I am at peace. And at home.