Epilogue
Six Months Later
The problem with moving was that no matter how well you planned it, chaos was inevitable.
I stood in the middle of the new living room—our living room—surrounded by labeled boxes, and watched two movers maneuver Mom's couch through the doorway. The same couch I'd hauled from San Francisco to Saratoga, the one Hannah had crashed on when she'd had nowhere else to go.
I opened my mouth to give direction, then caught myself. Hannah's voice echoed in my head: Not everything needs managing, Connor.
"You're doing that thing where you hover without actually hovering," Hannah said from behind me, and I turned to find her leaning against the door frame. "It's very restrained of you."
"I'm trying."
"I know." She walked over and kissed my cheek. "The couch is going to be fine. Let the professionals handle it."
The movers set it down with a decisive thump, and I immediately checked for scratches, relieved to find none. The couch had survived another move. We handed over a generous tip as they left.
"See?" Hannah plunked down, rubbing the armrest affectionately. "Still in one piece. Just like us."
I sat beside her, the familiar cushions sinking under my weight.
"I crashed here when I had nowhere to go," she said quietly.
"You've always had a place with me."
She leaned her head on my shoulder. We looked at the boxes labeled KITCHEN, BEDROOM, OFFICE. Our whole life, packed in stages—first my stuff from Saratoga mixed with hers, then furniture from her parents' house, most of it shoved into a storage unit for months while we searched.
After Hannah's interview, Victoria offered her the job on the spot.
That night I took her to her favorite dim sum place in Chinatown, and over soup dumplings and fried rice, we built our wish list for an apartment.
It felt impossible then—everything we wanted in a city where compromise was the only currency that mattered.
But we kept looking. Months of dragging our poor realtor through Jersey, Queens, every Brooklyn neighborhood. The corporate studio I'd moved into was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. We were going to kill each other if we didn't find something soon.
Then Victoria mentioned this Cobble Hill place, and gave us both the afternoon off to see it.
We'd stood in the empty kitchen, looking at each other.
"Not too far from work," Hannah had said softly.
"Not too cramped," I'd added.
"Not too loud or too quiet."
We'd looked at each other and said it at the same time: "Just right."
Six months ago, we'd been standing outside in the snow, freezing and fighting and trying to figure out if we could make this work.
Now we were here.
I grabbed my notebook from the bag by the door and flipped past If Hannah Doesn't Get the Job and How to Survive Long Distance until I found the page I wanted. Our apartment requirements, written in both our handwriting:
? 2 bedrooms (one for us, one for guests)
? Kitchen large enough for small dinner parties
? Living room that fits Mom's couch
? Laundry in building (not negotiable - Connor)
? Dishwasher (not negotiable - Hannah)
? Close to subway
? NOT in Manhattan (too expensive)
? Somewhere that feels like home
"Second bedroom for guests," Hannah said, reading over my shoulder. "So Teresa doesn't have to sleep on the couch when she visits."
"Is she still planning to come up next month?"
"Already booked her train ticket. Something about Brooklyn brunch spots she needs to investigate." I flipped forward a few pages and handed over the notebook. "You made a list of Brooklyn restaurants?"
"I know how much your sister loves bacon and avocado."
She kept flipping. "Date Night Ideas? Connor, you have like forty entries here."
"We take turns picking. It's fair."
"It's adorable." She landed on a page near the back and went quiet. "Things That Make Hannah Smile."
I felt my neck heat. "I just... started writing them down when I noticed."
She read in silence: Coffee with two sugars. Broadway musicals. Her sister's laugh. When I cook her breakfast. The way Ruby says 'Uncle Connor.' The bridge view at sunset. When she laughs at my Big Lebowski quotes.
"Connor." Her voice was soft.
"I'm still making lists," I said. "Just better ones."
She kissed me, and I tasted coffee and something sweeter—the future, maybe. All the date nights and dinners and quiet mornings we'd have in this place.
"We still need a dining table and chairs," she said when we broke apart.
"IKEA tomorrow?" I suggested.
She turned to me slowly. "Can you handle IKEA without a color-coded spreadsheet?"
"What if I promise the spreadsheet stays in my phone and I don't mention it?"
"Connor."
"Fine. No spreadsheet." I pulled out my phone anyway. "But we're stockpiling meatballs."
"Deal." She grabbed the phone from my hand and set it on the counter. "But not today. Today we unpack. Tomorrow we figure out furniture."
"Okay." I looked around at the boxes, the work ahead of us, the life we were building. "Where do we start?"
"Kitchen," Hannah said decisively. "If we can't make coffee tomorrow morning, we'll both be useless."
"That's just good planning."
"See? I'm learning from you."
We spent the next few hours unpacking—me organizing the kitchen with more precision than strictly necessary, Hannah teasing me about my spice rack arrangement.
By sunset, we'd made decent progress but were both exhausted. The kitchen was mostly unpacked, the bedroom had a mattress on the floor and mismatched sheets, and we'd found the box with the coffee maker—the most critical discovery of the day.
"Come here," I said, taking Hannah's hand and leading her to the window.
The Brooklyn Bridge stretched across the East River, the setting sun catching the cables and turning them gold and rose. The city lights were starting to come on, reflecting off the water.
"That bridge really ties the room together," I said.
Hannah laughed, leaning into me. "Did you just—"
"I've been waiting to use that line since we signed the lease."
"You're ridiculous." But she was smiling, slipping her arm around my waist. "Do you like it? Really?"
"I love it. And I love you." I pulled her closer, looking at the bridge, thinking about the Golden Gate, about my mom.
"She would have loved this view. My mom.
She always said home wasn't a place, it was the people you chose to be with.
" I turned to face Hannah. "I think she'd be happy I found mine. "
Hannah's eyes were suspiciously shiny. "Connor McNamara, are you getting sentimental on me?"
"Maybe."
"Good. Because I'm stupidly happy right now." She kissed me, pulling me toward the bedroom. "Now let's christen this place properly."
Later, lying on the mattress on the floor, Hannah's arm heavy across my shoulders, her breath warm against my neck, I thought about all the lists I'd made over the past year. All the planning and contingencies and desperate attempts to control the uncontrollable.
I'd been so focused on making sure nothing went wrong that I'd almost missed the part where everything went right.
Hannah sighed in her sleep, her weight anchoring me in place.
Through the window, the bridge glowed against the dark sky.
Not too cramped. Not too much.
Just right.