Epilogue
Alec
It’s been six months since Laura moved to Seattle.
Six months since Mila, Mara, and I decided to move into a house close to the Reznors.
There’s a backyard for Mila to ride around on a bike and a school where they have no problem catering to a nine-year-old who is already learning algebra.
She has friends all over the world, but likes that she can have sleepovers and playdates like any other kid.
We travel often, but only when school isn’t in session.
Mara finally agreed to show her work in a gallery. A gallery she opened with part of the money Lina left for her. She’s been doing a lot of philanthropic work, and together we founded a charity for foster children. That’s what I’ve been doing, managing the places and finding a life that suits me.
Mila knocks on my office’s door the way she always does—three taps like she’s serving a warrant. I open it, prepared for the usual interrogation, but she marches past me with purpose, arms crossed, chin lifted the way Mara does when she’s about to dismantle someone politely.
“We need to talk,” she announces, climbing onto my couch like it’s her throne.
Oh, boy.
“Do we?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes. Because you and Mommy told me you’re together, and that means change. I need a plan. A schedule. Expectations.” She gestures to the air. “So sit.”
I sit.
She studies me through her tiny glasses—the plastic ones she insists are ‘for interviews and serious talks.’ Then she leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiring whisper.
“So . . . when are you going to propose?” She crosses her arms. “Mom said you won’t have a baby until after the wedding.”
I laugh. “Wedding?” I repeat.
She nods, utterly unimpressed by my shock. “Yeah. Those parties Aunt Aly organizes with bright flowers, big kisses, and yummy cake. A dress that hopefully has sparkles.” Her fingers wiggle like fireworks. “You two are in love. That’s what comes next.”
I let out a slow breath because this conversation is both the most important and the most terrifying of my entire adult life.
I smile and show her the ring. “She’s not ready yet, but once I know your mom is ready for it, I’ll be popping the question—but you have to keep this a secret.”
She gasps. “Really? You’re ready.”
I wink at her. “Yes, but we’ll have to wait a little longer.”
“How long?” she asks, a little exasperated.
“Mila,” I say again, softer this time, “I want to ask your mom to marry me. Eventually. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. And before I even think about doing that, I need to know how you feel.”
She tilts her head. “Feel about what?”
“About all of this,” I say. “About me. About the three of us being a permanent family.”
She blinks, like the answer is embarrassingly obvious.
“Alec . . . I already chose you.”
My heart . . . yeah, it does something painful.
“You did?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“Yeah.” She shrugs, swinging her legs. “You stayed. When Mommy was sad. When I was scared. When our life exploded with the aunt-mom stuff.” She waves loosely in the air. “You didn’t leave. Other grown-ups leave. You didn’t. So obviously—duh—you’re family.”
I look down, swallow, look back up.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “That means more than you know.”
She grins. “So is that a yes? You’re gonna ask her now.”
“No.” I lower my voice. “But can I trust you that we’ll keep this between us until I’m ready?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course. I’m not a blabbermouth.”
Then she hops off the couch, grabs her frog, and heads toward the door.
“Wait—where are you going?”
“To tell the frogs,” she says casually.
“I love you, kiddo.”
She waves. “I love you more.”