Epilogue
LIZ
I used to hate Christmas.
Not in a dramatic, burn-it-down way. But in a quiet, anxious, this holiday felt like a performance I didn’t rehearse for way. The lights were too bright. The expectations too loud. The pressure to be cheerful felt like homework I forgot about until the night before.
Actually, that’s kind of how life felt most days. But not anymore.
Do I still have social anxiety? Yes.
Do I still hate crowds and loud noises? Also yes.
Do I beat myself up for being awkward and allow negative thoughts to ruin my life? Fuck no.
It wasn’t easy to get to this moment. It took a lot of therapy, but I had an excellent support network of friends. And Ethan.
Always Ethan.
There with warm hugs and calm support when I need it.
And always willing to give me hot, sweaty stress relief in the bedroom when that’s what I need. Which is often.
But at this moment, I’m standing barefoot in our new living room. Pine needles poke the soles of my bare feet, and I’m tangled in a strand of tree lights, while smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
Our house smells like cinnamon and fresh wood and the faint metallic tang of tinsel. The heater hums softly. Outside, snow dusts the garden, making everything look clean and festive.
Inside, boxes are stacked everywhere. They’re filled with ornaments, garlands, and stockings we bought on sale in February because Ethan said, “Future us will thank us.”
He was right. Again.
“Liz,” Ethan says from across the room, amusement thick in his voice. “You’re supposed to decorate the tree, not wrestle it.”
“I am decorating,” I argue, even as the lights tighten around my wrist like they’re making a point. “This is just… my immersive method. It’s very popular with hip interior designers.”
He laughs. The sound is warm and familiar in a way that still makes something bloom in my chest.
Ethan crosses the room in socked feet and gently untangles me, fingers careful and practiced. He kisses my temple when he’s done, like a punctuation.
A year ago, that kind of casual affection would have sent me spiraling.
Now it feels like home.
And I am in our home. It’s our first house. Not huge, not fancy.
It’s a little crooked in places and has hardwood floors that creak. But also a kitchen window that lets in the morning light just right. We argued for a week about paint colors and ended up choosing the one Ethan suggested on day one.
He pretends not to be smug about it.
I hang an ornament, one of the few sentimental ones we own and didn’t get in a February sale. It’s a tiny coffee cup with a snowflake on it. Ethan bought it last year Christmas, a quiet nod to the coffee shop where everything changed. Where our hands danced together.
Sometimes they still do.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m reminiscing,” I reply. “Very on-brand for me.” I still overthink everything. But Ethan finds that endearing. Crazy fool that he is.
He grins. How I love that grin on his face
It’s the same face that once belonged to my intimidating, off-limits boss. Now it belongs to the man who tickles me until I cry with laughter and makes me tea exactly the way I like it when I’ve had a rough day at work.
Work.
That’s changed too.
I still work at the same company, still walk into the same building where I once tripped over my own feet in the break room.
But now my badge says Senior Operations Manager, and people actually listen when I speak.
I earned it for every late night I worked and every project I slayed with a master spreadsheet.
Ethan never once made it feel like I had to choose between him and working late. Instead, he encouraged me, supported me. Like he does with everything.
He’s no longer working for the same company. The morning after our first night together, he marched us both into HR and announced that we were in a relationship and that he would leave the company. Which was news to me. I was prepared to quit my job so we could stay together.
Instead, he took a job that a friend from grad. school offered. It has better pay and a fancier title. I step back, hands on my hips, surveying the tree. “Okay, I think we’re ready for even more ornaments. Especially on the higher branches.”
Ethan raises a brow. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. He hands me ornaments. I decide where they go.
If I can’t reach high enough, he hangs it for me. Making a point of brushing his body against my back as he leans over me, showing off his tallness. I roll my eyes like it bothers me, but I’m not fooling anyone.
I love how tall he is. And I can’t get enough of his body tight against mine.
Occasionally he sneaks an ornament onto a branch I’ve already declared finished just to see me fake-glare at him.
“This one,” he says, holding up a sphere made of white frosted glass.
“That’s new,” I note.
He hums noncommittally. “Saw it and thought of you.”
I take the ornament, turning it over in my hands. It’s heavier than I expected. “Why did it make you think of me? Because it’s cold and brittle?” I wink at him to show I’m kidding.
“Because it’s elegant and classy.”
I snort and then pause. “Huh,” I say. “This opens.”
He inhales sharply but says nothing.
I glance up at him, suddenly aware of the quiet. The house feels like it’s holding its breath.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re smiling weird.”
He exhales slowly. “Okay. Before you open that, I need to say something.”
My pulse kicks up. Old instincts flicker, but they’re gentler now. I’m curious, not yet panicked. “I’m listening.”
“This time last year,” he says, “I was hoping you’d come home with me. Tonight, I’m hoping you’ll keep choosing me. On the good days. On the days when Christmas is loud and work is stressful and the tree lights won’t untangle.”
My throat tightens. “I already do,” I whisper.
“I know.” He smiles fondly. “But I want to ask you properly.” He sinks down onto one knee.
The room tilts and the lights blur. My breath stutters.
He nods at the ornament in my hands. “Go ahead.”
My fingers tremble as I twist it open.
Inside is a ring.
A simple platinum band with a diamond solitaire that catches the light and throws it back like it’s proud to be seen. My vision swims. “Oh,” I breathe.
“Liz,” Ethan says, voice thick but sure. “You are my favorite part of every day. You make me braver and kinder. You make Christmas feel like something worth looking forward to.”
A laugh breaks out of me, half-sob, half-disbelief.
“I want to build a life with you,” he continues. “I want to argue about paint colors, and grocery lists, and where to hang ornaments. I want to keep choosing you.” He swallows. “Will you marry me?”
For a second, I think about the woman I was a year ago. So anxious and so certain joy was a trick that would be taken away if I reached for it.
Then I look at him. The man who listens. Who steadies me without dimming me.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes. Obviously yes.”
He laughs, his shoulders relaxing, and stands to slide the ring onto my finger. It fits like it always belonged there.
I throw my arms around his neck, laughing and crying at the same time. He spins me and hugs me tightly.
I hug him back. “I love you,” I say into his shoulder.
“And I love you,” he answers.
We stand there for a moment, holding each other in front of a half-decorated tree, the future wide open and warm and ours.
I used to hate Christmas.
Now?
Thank you for reading my books!