EPILOGUE
“The floor looks recently done.”
I nod, taking in the craftsman-style crown molding and the alabaster white walls.
I can smell the freshly dried paint fumes as we roam from empty room to empty room.
Andrew struts in a wide circle like he’s gathering the attention of a large boardroom using the technique of establishing dominance. Like he has something up his sleeve.
“And did you see the backyard?” he adds. “Buster would love it.”
I swivel on my heels under the threshold of the master bathroom. “I did.”
“So?”
“So what?”
Andrew points his index finger in the air and twirls it around like a lasso. “The house.”
“What about the house?” I’m met with silence, forcing me to fill in the gaps. “For us?”
He smirks. “Yes.”
“Since when are we looking for a house?”
Andrew shrugs as his arms wrap around my waist. “Since we saw the open house sign with a very charming realtor on it.”
“Do you think those are veneers?”
“Possibly,” Andrew answers, humoring me. “Or his teeth could naturally look like his gums are clamped on a large white horseshoe.”
I avoid the segue, curiosity forcing our conversation back on track. He can’t be serious. “Are we really considering this?”
“I mean, you’ve been saying you want to put your condo on the market. Put some feelers out to see if you get a bite.”
“So I can get rid of the one my ex-husband was legally bound to give me. To have a fresh start,” I argue, “not to buy a house. I can’t afford something like this on my salary.”
He lets go of me, running his hand over the marble bathroom counter. The one equipped with a double sink. Something that would be much more fitting to our bedtime routine on the nights he spends at my condo. “Or…we could get it together.”
“You want to buy a house?”
“We’ve been talking about me moving in with you eventually, and maybe we can do this,” he says. “It would be killing two birds with one stone. You get a new house, and I get to move out of my parents’.”
I cross my arms and lean my hip against the same counter he seems to have a keen interest in. I eye him up and down, wondering if he’s hiding a large cardboard check in his back pocket. “Did Ed McMahon pay you a visit?”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “I forget that you’re a practical zygote.”
He scoops me in his arms, and I squeal when my butt lands on the cold surface. “Imagine us in that huge tub,” he whispers, painting a tempting picture. He trails his nose against my jawline, and I feel it low in my belly. “I think it has water jets.”
“I hear they’re amazing for achy muscles and stress relief.”
“That’s what we’d use them for?”
I drape my arms over his shoulders, and he naturally closes the narrowing space between us. “Are you serious about this?”
“Why not?”
“Um, because.”
“Because…”
“Because you don’t have a job,” I say as plainly as possible.
I hate to point it out, but it’s the truth.
While he managed to snag an internship with The Hope Foundation seven months ago, shortly after he moved back in with his parents, it still remains an unpaid position.
We hashed over whether or not he should take it, weighing out the pros and cons.
Like if it would be worth him living off Top Ramen and asking his mom what’s for dinner most nights to save a penny on groceries.
But he didn’t have very many options. And I’m so happy he did.
While he’s been chipping away at his savings after he cashed out what was left of his 401k, he’s finally at a job he loves.
He enjoys working with his boss. He’s respected and appreciated. Valued.
“I have a job.”
“I meant one that doesn’t pay in Post-it Notes and paper clips.”
“Ah, you mean actual money.”
I pat a consoling hand on his bicep, offering a light squeeze to soften the blow. “I don’t think the bank will take stolen office supplies as payment.”
“Well, then…” His voice trails as if he has something hidden behind his words. Maybe this open house visit wasn’t as fortuitous as I thought.
“What?” I tug at his secret, hoping he’d unravel it quicker if I pull at the thread and pop it open for me to finally see.
“It’s a good thing I’m going to start getting paid real money.”
My face lights up. “They offered you a position?”
He nods vigorously. “Just last week. You are now looking at The Hope Foundation’s newest finance manager.”
I kiss him, gripping his face with my fingers and hooking my ankles behind him. “I’m so proud of you.”
The small room, normally echoey with the tiled walls and porcelain, grows quiet, the only sounds coming from our labored breaths and stifled moans. “If this is how you react to my news, what are you going to do when I bring home my first paycheck?”
“I think you’re forgetting that I am a self-sufficient woman who does not love for money,” I tease.
“So you’ll put out even if I was a penniless intern?”
“Baby, I’d put out even if you had to sneak me into your parents’ house at two in the morning again.”
His warm hands travel up my bare back and tuck under my bra. “That was kind of fun.”
“It was.” I never thought at the ripe age of forty, I’d be sneaking into my boyfriend’s parents’ house to have sex with him on his childhood bed. But him fucking me with his hand clamped over my mouth was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever done.
Though, much like how his parents have been supportive of our relationship, I don’t think they’d be opposed to illicit sleepovers considering he’s in his thirties, well past the time for a talk about the birds and the bees. Especially now that their son may be leaving the nest once again.
“So?” Andrew asks, cutting into my amorous daydreaming. “Should we go for it?”
“You like this one?”
His eyes take an impassive shape. “Or another one. As long as it’s ours.”
“Really?” I run my hand down his chest. This is real.
This man wants to be with me. He wants to buy a house with me.
One with a backyard big enough for my dog to run around in.
One where we can build a life and possibly grow old.
And maybe, once we’ve outgrown our home through wrinkled skin and brittle bones, we’ll somehow still end up side by side in the afterlife.
Sharing a dance with him instead of sitting in a lonely seat at the singles table.
“Yeah.” His soft voice is gentle and careful.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It’s a really big commitment. Not like leaving your Keurig at my place.”
“I know.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I consider his proposition, but the usual conformist traditions start hacking away at my ability to jump headfirst into our atypical relationship. They turn my daydreams into a delusion, making me worry about my parents and his parents and everyone in between.
“Shouldn’t we…”
“What?”
My eyes search his. I don’t know how to do this, be with someone without all the conventional idiosyncrasies that make up a relationship. How did the rhyme go? First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage?
“I don’t know,” I answer, “be husband and wife or something?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I just think that’s what people are going to expect. My parents, your parents—”
“Grace,” he interrupts, “this is about us. We should be worried about what we want.”
“And you?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“I don’t care. As long as we’re together.”
“Me too.” I’ve done the whole marriage thing.
I walked down the aisle in a pretty white gown and posed for pictures.
I celebrated anniversaries and birthdays.
And I watched it all crumble alongside the hopeful person I used to be.
But Andrew brought me back, and now we can do whatever the fuck we want.
I might’ve wanted the picket fence and two-point-five children at some point, all of it wrapped neatly with weekend soccer games and ballet recitals, but Andrew’s shown me I don’t need all of that to feel fulfilled.
I can be happy with just me and him and Buster.
We can fill our lives to the brim with whatever future we decide to write.
“So we’re buying this house.”
“Actually, can we maybe do some more shopping?”
“Okay,” he says with an encouraging tone. “Why? Is there something about this one you don’t like?”
“I really need a walk-in closet,” I confess.
“It’s just as well,” he says, leaning down to kiss the corner of my mouth. “I think I can find Buster a bigger yard.”
“So, what do you think?” Andrew steps away from me at the same time I hop off the counter. The realtor, who introduced himself as Dave, greets us with his blinding smile.
“It’s very nice,” I tell him with a grin, still on a high from this new development between me and Andrew.
“The bathrooms have been redone,” Dave explains, “and the floors.”
“Closet’s a little small,” Andrew comments. I stifle a giggle behind his arm.
Dave nods in agreement. “It’s a good starter home.”
Andrew leads the way back to the living room, and I follow with Dave trailing behind us. “Thank you for your time,” Andrew tells Dave.
He hands Andrew his card. “If you’re interested or are in search of an agent, feel free to give me a call.”
Andrew tucks the card into his back pocket and flits his eyebrows in my direction. “Thank you.”
We walk outside, leisurely making our way back to Andrew’s car with a pep in both of our steps. I turn to Andrew just as he opens the door at the passenger side. “Did you want to drive around and look for more open houses?”
“Or we can go back to your place,” he suggests with an implicit tone. “We can browse houses on Zillow from the comfort of your couch. Do other things too.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That sounds like fun.”
He kisses me, pressing soft pecks to my cheek. He pauses, watching the late morning sun hit my eyes. I smile with something contemplative filling the creases around my mouth, making it twitch and quiver.
“What?”
I shake my head. “I really love you.”
“I really love you, too.”
“Let’s go before they snatch up all the good houses,” I say with a palm cupped to his jaw.
“Oh,” he exclaims as I scoot into my seat, “can we find one with a theater room? I’ve always wanted one of those.”
“As long as I get my closet, you can get whatever you want.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he teases, his hand on the door, ready to close it behind me. “I might throw in an indoor pool.”
I roll my eyes through a laugh. “Just shut the door so we can go home.”