Epilogue
Two years later
“I always thought I’d be one of those cute pregnant ladies who looked like I had a beach ball shoved up my dress. I should have known better when I married a McCullough.”
Zoe rubs her enormous belly, shooting Dale a death glare, to which he responds with a stupidly happy grin. Dale Jr. is about to make an appearance any day now, and I’m grateful my spring break at the U of T first-year medical program has allowed me to be back in West Lake to mark the occasion.
These past two years have been busy. I worked another full year at Sunnyvale, saving my pennies anywhere I could, deferring my acceptance into the U of T medical school until this past September—when I was able to pay my tuition with the additional income from leasing the dance hall to Reeve and Marcus, along with an unanticipated scholarship courtesy of the West Lake Royal Canadian Legion executive committee, headed up by committee chair and favorite barman Donny Buchanan.
Reeve has been living in West Lake since he left his job at Mansfield almost two years ago. He and Marcus have been working slowly but surely to transform the dance hall from its abandoned state into one that pays homage to its beautiful and eclectic past.
Since he had to sell his Bloor Street condo to invest in the gallery, he has been renting my former apartment above the pizza parlor.
He now spends his weeknights at the Legion and, after enough teasing from Donny and Zoe, has even taken to wearing flannel button-ups.
He looks very good in them—almost as good as he looks in a suit (which he still puts on every weekend he comes to visit me in the city).
I love medical school. I don’t know any other first-year who has come out the other side using the L-word, but it’s true. My courses are grueling. Some of my peers are so competitive I feel like I’m running a marathon but always three steps behind, with no finish line in sight.
But when I pull myself out of the fog of labs and practicums and all-night study sessions, I can see where I will be in three years, and I know it was the right choice.
“You are going to need to strap these babies to my sausage feet,” Zoe says, handing me a pair of silver ballet flats. “I am doing this for you.” She stares momentarily at the hot-pink Crocs she’s worn exclusively for the last month. “Your man won’t forgive me if I show up in those.”
“Reeve doesn’t care.”
Zoe shoots me a glance that says she disagrees.
And as much as I think that’s the case, Zoe does have a point.
Reeve has poured his heart and soul into preparing the gallery for tonight’s opening.
He’s been obsessing over lighting and spacing, and if I hear the word ambience one more time, I might have myocardial ischemia.
But I have never seen him happier, either.
I think if you asked him, he’d say the same thing.
We don’t get to spend nearly enough time together.
The three-hour drive is tedious and long.
The parking lot of the Tipsy Fox has seen things this last year, and we’ve made an art out of seven a.m. sexting.
But every single day only reinforces what I know in my heart.
He is my best friend. He is the person I am meant to be with.
The parking lot of the dance hall—or Meraki, as it’s now called—is so full of cars I have to park in my old spot at Sunnyvale.
I glimpse Nurse Bouchard giving me a disapproving frown for my trespassing.
Still, she doesn’t say a word as Zoe, Dale, and I cross the pavement and join a group of Sunnyvale residents waiting in line to get in.
One resident is missing from the pack, and the thought of him still makes my heart ping with grief.
Mr. McNaught passed away in March, just shy of his ninety-fifth birthday.
March 5…zero-three-zero-five. He fell asleep one night and never woke up, and though neither he nor Kitty has infiltrated my dreams since the spring before last, I still think about them both often.
I wait patiently to be let in, not feeling right about using my girlfriend card to cut in front of a bunch of senior citizens, despite Zoe’s loud complaints about her sausage feet.
When I finally do step inside, my breath catches. I have been inside the gallery many times these last few months, the most recent being last night, but there’s something about the lighting—or, dare I say it, the ambience—that has transformed the place into something magical.
My eyes slowly dance around the room, gliding over the local art, which I know will be a huge attraction. Until they land on Reeve, who is watching me from across the room.
He opens his arms just before I reach them, and when I crash against his chest, he pulls me into an embrace, as if it hasn’t been only hours since we last made love.
“It’s incredible,” I tell him, my words slightly muffled by the fabric of his navy suit.
“It’s everything I hoped it would be.” He kisses the top of my head before turning my face upward to press a long, slow kiss to my lips.
“Did your parents decide when they are coming?” I ask.
“My mom should be here tonight with some of her friends, and my dad is hoping to make it out next week,” Reeve replies.
His dad was not thrilled with Reeve when he told him about quitting his job.
It didn’t help that a few weeks later he broke the news that instead of returning to the corporate world he would be running a small-town art gallery.
There were a few weeks where Reeve’s dad called daily to convince him that he was throwing his future away, then a few more where it was complete silence.
But he has slowly come around to the idea, especially with Reeve’s mom being so supportive.
As for my mom, since our talk, things have slowly started to get better.
She’s put herself on a payment plan to pay back the money she owes me.
I still roll my eyes when I catch her referring to us as her “doctor daughter and her partner who owns a renowned art gallery.” But I also understand her a little better.
A small quartet begins to play up on the stage. It’s a tune I can’t quite place. As the crowd all turn to the stage, I get the weirdest sense of déjà vu, and for a moment, I swear I see Kitty and Knots in each other’s arms, gliding across the dance floor.
“Hey there, lovebirds.” Zoe appears beside me, interrupting my thoughts, with a bottle dangling from one of her hands, half-obstructed by her giant belly.
“Are you drinking?”
Zoe holds it up. “We’re playing spin the bottle, you in?”
“Zoe.”
Her face cracks into a wide smile. “Relax. I’m joking. Besides, the moment this kid is out of me, I’m having a beer, not this crap.”
She flips the bottle so I can read the label.
“It arrived a few minutes ago. All the note said is: There in spirit. Have a drink for me. I figure it would be rude for you all not to. What do you say?”
Dale steps out from behind her, a sleeve of red Solo cups tucked under his arm.
We pour the Veuve and raise our glasses in a cheers, and I can’t help but let my eyes drift skyward, where something tells me there’s another party happening.
Touché, Kitty St. Clair. Touché.