Epilogue
When the flowers arrive, I assume they’re from the founder of a perfume company.
Probably a thank-you for collaborating with them in my last post. The bouquet is far bigger than these kinds of gifts usually
are, spilling over my arms when I pick them up. Pink lilies, my favorite flower. I give a faint nod of approval. The marketing
intern must have done their research.
But then I spot the cream box underneath it, and the little handwritten note tied with a gold ribbon. No corporate branding,
no perfunctory “We look forward to working together again in the future!” Just a messy cursive:
I’ll see you in a bit. —A
My lips split into a grin. I hold the flowers closer to my chest, inhaling their scent, before placing them in the empty crystal vase on the dining table.
When Ares had come over to my new house the other night, I’d made a passing remark that we hadn’t finished fully decorating everything yet; the walls weren’t so bare anymore, but I wanted more greenery, something to liven up the space.
I hadn’t realized he was listening so closely.
Then there’s the box itself. I push the white wrapping paper aside, and my fingers find the softness of scarlet silk. A familiar
shade. For a few moments, I can only stare in disbelief, my heart swelling inside my chest. It’s the dress I tried on that
time I dragged Ares to the shopping mall with me. Everything about it is the exact same, except the straps—the broad straps
I’d complained about are gone, replaced by elegant spaghetti straps.
He’d remembered.
I don’t even have time to process everything, the flowers, the spontaneous gift, the thought that must have gone into it—the
brand never does alterations for their dresses, so how did he convince them to make this?—when my phone rings. The perfect sight of his
name flashing over my screen. My grin widens as I lift the phone to my ear.
“I think someone has a crush on me,” I inform him.
“Really?” His voice, low and amused, the hum of cars in the background. “Who?”
“I can’t be sure, but, like, they just got me my favorite flowers and my dream dress.”
“Wow. You know, that doesn’t sound like a crush.”
“No?”
“Sounds like they’re in love with you or something.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “You think?”
“Possibly. I’ll be there in five,” he adds. “Try the dress on.”
“Wait. Right now? But I thought we were getting sushi tonight.”
“Slight change of plans. I’m taking you somewhere fancier.”
“But we just went somewhere fancy two days ago. We don’t have to always—”
“Just try the dress on. For me? Please?”
“Okay, okay, fine. Only because you asked nicely,” I say.
When he rings the doorbell five minutes later, I’m ready. More than ready. The dress fabric is so light and fitted so well
to my body that it moves like water when I do, reaching for the door and smiling up at him, my stilettos clicking as I step
back with a little twirl to let him admire me.
“Definitely,” he says, his gaze so scorching that I can feel the full weight of it, like the press of the sun against your
eyelids.
“Definitely what?”
He picks up my purse for me, then grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “I think the person who sent the flowers
is definitely in love with you. Who wouldn’t be?” The expression aglow on his face: helpless, irresistible affection. I can
hear it in his voice too, when he murmurs, “I mean, just look at you.”
He doesn’t stop looking until we’ve headed downstairs, where a limo is waiting outside the iron gates. The chauffeur, dressed
better than most businessmen, starts to open the car door, but Ares beats him to it, helping me into the back seat the way
he had that night I was acting drunk.
“A limo?” I ask in wonder.
“Don’t act like you’ve never seen one before.”
“Ares,” I say, with suspicion now, studying him. He’s paired his jeans with a white button-down shirt and black tie, brand new, from the looks of it. Formal attire, for him. “What do you have planned for tonight?”
A conspiratorial smile plays on his lips, and I’d almost forgotten how good he is at keeping secrets. Can’t force an extra
word out of him if he doesn’t want to tell you. “You’ll see.”
The drive is pure comfort, even with the traffic. The leather seats warm, Ares’s hands warmer around my thigh, brushing bare
skin through the high slit, and dusk falling beyond the windows. Vivid pinks and purples, the color saturated like an eyeshadow
palette.
We arrive outside a building I recognize only from Airington’s past prom photos, would have otherwise mistaken for a winery
or a museum, with the high hedge wrapping around the driveway and the Pegasus statue poised at the entrance. Rivera Restaurant.
I turn to Ares, wide-eyed. “You made a reservation for us here? But the wait-list is literally, like, half a year.”
“It’s only half a year if you’re not Chanel Cao,” he says, guiding me inside. “What do you think? It’s your kind of place,
isn’t it?”
It’s exactly my kind of place. Aesthetic extravagance, high chandeliers and rich mahogany, silvery light glancing off marble, every corner
designed for photos. Stunning views of the river, almost as deep a blue as the mountains in the distance. Heavy velvet drapes
pushed back by eager waitresses, revealing a grand ballroom—
“Chanel!”
Alice rushes up to me, and I think to myself, laughing in surprise as I hug her back, Wow, what a coincidence, that she’s here too, but after a delayed beat remembering where we are, and wondering if Henry had also made a reservation and brought her here, when I see him behind her. Wearing a suit
that would be considered casual for him, the same shade as Alice’s dress. Then other familiar faces, Rainie and Mina and Bobby
from school, and Haili, beaming, pink-cheeked, recovered from the heartbreak, arms wrapped around a guy I’ve never met before.
New boyfriend, maybe. But it can’t be a coincidence that they’re all here, and then I realize—
“You . . . arranged all of this?” I ask Ares.
“He did,” Alice answers for him. “He’s been planning this out for weeks. God, you have no idea how hard it’s been keeping it a secret from you.”
Ares is watching my reaction, proud and a little shy. “I know how badly you wanted to go to prom, and this isn’t the same, of course, but . . . I thought I’d at least try to give
you something close to it.”
“This isn’t the same,” I say, my throat thick, the feeling in my chest so immense I can barely speak. “This is . . . Ares,
this is so much better.” Because maybe I don’t need to be loved by everyone, after all; I just want to be in the same room
as everyone I love.
Looking around now, I can’t fathom the amount of planning that must have gone into making this happen.
Guests invited from different circles: childhood friends, Xiaohongshu mutuals, models and socialites, the two girls I met at Dave’s thing last summer, the entrepreneur I really hit it off with at a Christmas party.
Somehow, Ares had known exactly who I would want to see tonight—and he would have had to reach out to them.
I imagine him, usually so closed off, unwilling and unlikely to even call the doctor if he was in pain, messaging my friends one by one: hey, this is Chanel’s boyfriend, I’m planning a surprise for her.
can you make it? would this time work? oh, amazing. dress
fancy, you know her. Then ordering the flowers, the dress, the limo, not just making a reservation for two but renting the whole venue. The hot
canapés brought out on trays are all my favorites too, and the music playing softly in the background could be taken straight
from my playlist.
To think I’d once been afraid of him.
I’m pulled into the crowd, round after round of hugs and air kisses, floating atop the compliments, “You look gorgeous, like
a princess, that dress was made for you, an icon, a star,” and Ares stays back, letting me have my moment, walking up to my
side only when someone asks after him.
“Hey, man.” One of the guys from my history class offers Ares a tentative fist bump, like he’s half scared Ares will punch
him for real. “Um, totally cool if you’re no longer interested or whatever, but just wanted to pass along the message from
my cousin to hit him up if you ever need those bots again—he’ll get you a discount.”
Ares darts a glance at me, then nods. “Yeah, sure. Appreciate it, bro.”
“Bots?” I say, confused. “Why did you need bots?”
“Just. Personal reasons,” Ares tells me, but in my head I can hear Henry’s voice telling me slowly, confused, “Someone’s drowned out the top result already. . . . Must be bots. Organic engagement doesn’t work this way. . . .”
I meet Ares’s eyes. Ask the question without asking it. That was you?
His smile is an admission.
The crowd surges around us again, and only after the food and the thank you so much for comings are evenly distributed do we settle into the dark leather couches by the bar. Cherry cocktails red as my lipstick, served with little umbrellas. The
air sweet with perfume, flashing jewelry, pearly whites. Youth and our awareness of it, intoxicating even before we’ve finished
the first round of drinks, the splendor of a night like this, shrieking laughter and endless conversation and freshly filled
glasses raised to me. Rainie is telling an anecdote about someone beatboxing on the train during the school’s annual Experiencing
China trip, and Ares is sitting on the other couch across from me, one elbow rested against his knee, swirling his whiskey
around and around. Sipping it without haste. He’s smiling, half listening, when his gaze finds mine, as if he’d known I was
looking. And I go on talking to the girl next to me about my travel plans for the summer, and he’s reacting at all the right
beats to Rainie’s story, but he tilts his head at me, checking if I’m okay, if I’m enjoying myself, whether I need anything.
A private language shared between us, unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Team of our own, and how nice that is, to belong
in the same camp finally. Another head tilt, his eyebrows lifting. Invitation to get up, which I do, excusing myself as the
others push their purses back and shuffle over on the couch.
He joins me at the bar, asks over the music, “Are you having fun?”
There’s something so endearing about the question, an innocence to it. “I am,” I reply. “Time of my life.”
The quirk of his lips, pleased with my response, with himself for earning my approval. “Really?”
“Really, truly,” I say. My fingers find the back of his neck and he leans into my touch, tender, tipsy. Definitely. Definitely in love, god help me. Our foreheads so close I can feel him breathing, and his hands in my hair, open about his
desire, and why not? Hardly a secret that we’re together.
The receptive warmth of his mouth when I kiss him, slow and soft, the sound he releases deep in his throat. I kiss him there
too, then return to his lips. Taste of whiskey. Rough fabric of his jeans, my pinkie curling into the loop of his belt, pulling
him to me. Perfect, pure sensation. Actually can’t remember a time better than this, ever. I should tell him that, maybe later
tonight, or tomorrow, there’s no rush anymore, plenty of chances in the future. So many things I want to tell him, can’t believe
I get to.
“Okay, so like, I love everything about this place,” I say, breaking away for a moment, “but you know what I’ve been craving
all day?”
“What?” he asks at once.
“Your egg-and-tomato noodles.”
He laughs, the sound all the more lovely because of how rare it is, reserved just for me. “We’re at a Michelin-starred restaurant
where they serve twelve-course meals, and you want to eat my egg-and-tomato noodles?” he says incredulously.
“Please?”
“You’re not joking?”
“I would never joke about those noodles,” I say. “They’re that good.”
He brushes a thumb over my jaw, his laughter still alive in his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll make them for you as soon as
we get home tonight.”
Home. Such a beautiful word. Home, and him; one and the same, in a way. A new life or, rather, a new way of living it, built from
the ashes.