Epilogue
Jenna
When my breathing slows and my belly stops quivering, I release my grip on Marty’s head.
As I open my eyes and see how the light in the room has changed, I gently tap my fingers to get his attention.
He stops kissing my thigh and licks his lips as he locks in eye contact with me.
And just like that, I'm ready for more. I think I will need a chapter in my next book about how tall, bearded Irish thirty-year-olds have the ability to restart my libido in half a second.
“Look outside.” I nod towards the nearest window, which overlooks our small garden. A green space that is thankfully well covered by trees and shrubs so nobody can look in on these spontaneous love-making sessions of ours that are a near daily occurrence.
He looks then sits up completely. “Do we have time?”
I glance at my watch. “Yes, easily. You get the leads.” I stretch forward, pushing my skirt down and bending to press my lips to his, letting my tongue roam, licking all traces of me off his beard.
Then we move. Him getting his keys and the dogs' leads, and me quickly grabbing my cardie and running to the toilet as I call for the dogs who come running instantly.
When I'm done, he's standing at the open front door, holding out my bag and positioning my Birkenstocks in a way I can just slip into them.
I hook my hand in his arm as we wander down the path, my other hand holding AJ's lead. A moment later Marty gets yanked forward by Rocky.
“Jesus, Rocky, slow the fuck down you fecking terrorist eejit dog!” he yells then turns to his left. “Oh, Mrs Dougal. Didn't see you there, good evening!”
I blush and bite back my laugh. She's one of the very few people who have given us some form of hostility to our relationship - namely gossiping very loudly in her garden about ‘the handsome young lad and that much older woman who have shacked up next door’ when we bought the place six months ago.
So I am definitely not going to prompt Marty to apologise for his language in front of her.
We walk briskly up our street and then take a few turns before we are in Marlay Park, a generous stretch of grass and woodlands with the rolling hills of County Wicklow in the background, and on days like today, when the sky has been unusually clear, a beautiful view of the sun sinking behind them.
Not needing to say where we want to be, Marty and I head to the Dog Park and let Rocky and AJ off their leads.
On the way we pass plenty of evidence others have been enjoying the park for a few hours already – they’re drinking beers, lying out on picnic blankets, or enjoying portable BBQs they're not really allowed to - all soaking up this early summer sunshine that is so very welcome.
I've not hated living in Dublin for the last ten months.
I've enjoyed it very much, but the weather has bamboozled me.
It's not like it's different to London - the greyest city in the world - but the rain always feels wetter, the cold a bit chillier, and winter felt longer and bleaker than any I'd experienced before.
That was what was going on outside our four walls, but inside was a different story.
Inside was perpetual summer.
I came back to Dublin with Marty after four days and another five sunsets together in Crete and in between seeing his parents and sister again, meeting everyone at his work and watching him move around a kitchen like he was dancing - whether ABBA was playing or not - we talked about where we would live together.
We gave ourselves time to think on it when I returned to London for a few weeks, but the answer was already clear in my mind.
London had lots of positives for Marty from a work perspective, but Dublin was where his family is, and I was more ready for the upheaval of moving than he was.
I’d spent most of the year before our reunion mentally preparing myself to leave London for him, even hoping it would happen, while Marty had spent most of his five years falling back in love with his life there.
I wasn't willing to make him leave it so soon.
My work could be done anywhere, and he agreed there was more he wanted to achieve in Dublin before he went elsewhere.
“Thirty tomorrow,” I say as I slip my hand around his waist. We're standing still now, facing the sunset, both of us taking it in turns to quickly check if AJ is sniffing out treats from someone else’s pockets or Rocky has bolted to the other side of the park.
“I know,” he says and runs a hand through his beard. “I'm so fecking old!”
I lightly hit his stomach. “Piss off.”
“I'm glad to be thirty,” he says. “I know it doesn't work like this, but it makes me feel like I'm almost catching up with you.”
“You're right, it doesn't work like that. But it may stop some of the raised eyebrows I get as I can now say you're thirty-something rather than twenty-something.”
“Then what would we have to laugh about?” He bends to kiss the top of my head. “Actually, don't answer that. We never run out of things to laugh about.”
And we don't. We laugh every day, many times a day.
“If you could be older or I could be younger, would you want that?” I ask Marty, the question suddenly popping into my mind although I suspect it's been hiding there in the shadows for some time.
He stares ahead at the sunset and I know he's thinking about it. Taking his time. Searching for the true answer rather than what I want to hear or what he thinks is the right thing to say. He does this a lot now, thinking before he speaks.
“Honestly, yes,” he says. “I wish we could have been different ages when we met so that we could have had those five years together.”
I nod, my eyebrows pull together with a pang of sadness.
“But I also wouldn't change anything about where we are now. And if who we are now is dependent on every single day we have each lived, every single step we've taken to get to this point - together or apart - I wouldn't change a single thing.”
My frown flattens out.
“How about you?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose and look at the lush green of the trees on the horizon contrasting with the tangerine orange sky. “I wouldn't mind you being a bit younger. You were fucking hot at twenty-four,” I say.
His hand reaches down and slaps my arse with now oft practised precision, making me squeal.
“I'll kiss it better later,” he says. “After twenty more lashings.”
I shiver. “You better. Now, can I tell you what your present is?” I ask, unable to wait any longer.
“A day early? What have I done to deserve that?” he asks.
“Well, besides what just happened at home,” I say, and look up at him with a side smile. “I think I've made you wait enough for things in the recent past...”
He laughs as I hoped he would. He hasn't always laughed about it, and sometimes he's been downright angry with me - usually after a good day together when he demands to know why we had to forsake years of potentially good days - but there have been just as many times when he looks at me levelly and I can see what he's thinking.
That maybe we are as good as we are now because of that time apart.
“I'd do it again in a heartbeat, and you know it,” he says as he stares.
“Well, surprise, that's your birthday present, another five years apart!” I tease, pulling my arms off him and rummaging in my bag.
“Feck off, Jenna! No way. No fucken way you're prepared to do that, not when I now have a sexy-ass beard and know how to cook all your favourite foods!”
It's true. He knows exactly how to keep me close but what he’s talking about is just the tip of the Marty-sized iceberg I love.
“No,” I say, pulling out an envelope. “It's this.”
“What is it? Another postcard my mother will intercept?”
“Ha! No.” I hand it over. “Open it.”
We both watch his hands open it and retrieve two printed pieces of paper, one with details for a reservation at a resort in Morocco and another for two return flights to Marrakech. On a small postcard of Dublin I've written:
Dear Marty, Happy 30th Birthday! How about seven sunsets in Morocco with me? I promise you. Everything will be okay. Jenna x
His mouth falls open.
I smile at him. “Seven sunsets at my brother's resort. A room with a jacuzzi and sunset views. I booked time off with the restaurant already. We leave on Saturday,” I explain.
“Maeve is coming to house sit and look after the dogs and your parents are giving us a lift to the airport because that's apparently a thing that close families do.”
He's smiling so wide as he skims over the pieces of paper. “A holiday... The first in a year.”
Marty wanted us to buy the house together.
I kept my house in London and rented it out and the monthly income from that would have covered a decent chunk of our Dublin mortgage, but it was not what he wanted, and I know better than to argue with a determined Marty.
He's been working extra hours and avoiding any additional costs for the last year to match me sum for sum on the repayments and any other outgoings.
My first book did well, I have two new regular columns and now have an easier time pitching the pieces I want to write, all of which has helped me have a steady income as I now work on my second book, tentatively titled The Importance of Being Patient, a more personal story about Marty and our relationship.
“Thank you,” he says as he pulls me into his body.
I turn my head while there, facing the sunset and look at how the sun’s radiance fills the whole sky as far as my eyes can see.
A moment later I feel a thud against my ankles and look down to see AJ trying to squeeze his fat body between our legs while Rocky runs circles around us.
Smiling I turn my head back to the sunset.
“No, thank you, Marty,” I say.
Thank you for living your life. Thank you for waiting for me. Thank you for coming back for me. Thank you for loving me.
“And thank you, Arnie,” I whisper so quietly because I don't want Marty to hear. I know he often feels him close, but I haven't yet told him that sometimes, I do too.