Epilogue Layla #2
There was so much of it that our conversation kept on being interrupted by the waiter and his detailed explanation about every single dish.
“ . . . ricotta dumplings with mushrooms and Pecorino Sardo glazed with organic date syrup and a touch of pistachios . . .”
“ . . . black truffle handmade pasta with za’atar, Italian olive oil, and a touch of pink salt . . .”
“ . . . charred, corn-fed Bresse chicken with coconut curry and a hint of wild rice . . .”
Every dish was the size of my eyeball but somehow had a thousand ingredients.
Don’t get me wrong, everything was outrageously delicious, but the seventeen-course meal meant we really couldn’t form any kind of meaningful conversation, which led to Grant giving up on what he wanted to tell me for the time being.
We turned to more mundane topics, such as Georgie’s diaper rash and Grant’s parents coming over to spend Easter with us.
I drank two glasses of red wine, which, after what seemed like an eternity of not drinking alcohol, went straight to my head. After the dessert—all four of them—I announced, probably too loudly for my own good, that I was going to pee.
Problem was, I got lost in the beautiful estate, half wandering in awe, half looking for the bathroom. When I finally found it, I did my business, washed my hands, and returned to our seat.
. . . only to find Grant was gone.
His messenger bag was slung on his chair, partially open, but he was nowhere in sight.
What was in that darn bag, anyway? He never took it with him, unless he went to work.
Don’t do this. Don’t look in his bag.
But it was half open, I reasoned with myself.
Besides, I went through that bag twice a week, at a minimum.
Grant was prone to keeping gas station receipts and tossing business cards he had no intention of ever using inside.
It was one of the nice things I did for him.
Clearing his clutter so he didn’t have to.
I glanced at every door in the vast room. Then returned my attention to the bag.
Hey, it ain’t private if he knows you’re going through it twice a week, the devil on my shoulder said.
I turned to look at the angel on my other shoulder, but he pretended to read a book. Upside down. Well, guess that settled it.
I dove in before I changed my mind and flipped the bag open. The first thing I felt inside was his wallet. The second was his work beeper. The third was . . . a copy of Gloss magazine?
Okay, no judgment there. Just a little surprised.
This one was a new issue. I hadn’t had time to read Dear Desiree, because it had come out yesterday, and yesterday happened to be a very busy day for me. Georgie had three back poops and cluster-ate himself into a food coma.
I grabbed the magazine and flipped to my favorite column.
The first question was from a woman who wanted to know if she should accept her husband’s love child who had popped out of nowhere at eighteen, even though he was the product of an affair her husband had had while he was on the road with his country band.
The second, though . . .
The second letter gave me pause.
Dear Desiree,
I need urgent advice on how to make my girlfriend my fiancée.
See, I’m crazy in love with her, and I’m pretty positive the feeling is mutual. The issue is, we have a lot going on in our lives, and we fast-forwarded our relationship in the last twelve months.
We started out as fuck buddies (pardon my French) for a few years, since she didn’t want a relationship due to a bad breakup, and I was too much of a workaholic to put the effort and actually pull her out of her love slump.
Then we’d accidentally gotten pregnant, and that “forced” us together. (Honestly? It forced her to put up with me for more than just a few hours a month. Don’t worry, Desiree, I used it to my advantage and made her fall for me.)
Now we have this squishy, gorgeous baby, and we live together. But that’s a part of the problem.
This gorgeous, amazing, talented, kindhearted woman has done so much for me in the last year.
She had my baby, the most precious thing in the world to me.
She gave me her unconditional love, emotional support, and moved to a different state so I could take my dream job.
She put her entire life and her own career on hold, and is now focused on our child.
It feels almost greedy to ask for her forever. I will say I did find her the perfect engagement ring. And I promise a life of orgasms, cozy holidays, fun vacations, and plenty of sweet memories if she’d do me the honor and become my wife.
What do you say, do I stand a chance?
Her name is Layla Schmidt, by the way. So Layla, if you’re reading this: Please marry me?
Dear Baby Daddy,
Do the damn thing and pop the question. She sure did pop something for you and, by the sound of it, gave up a lot of things to make sure you’ll have fulfillment in your life.
While the beginning of your relationship sounds turbulent and rocky, to say the least, looking at it from the outside, it’s pretty easy to see there’s a lot of love, respect, and devotion between you two.
Allow me to give you a piece of advice, since you obviously find my opinion adequate—you need to stop confusing between gratefulness and unworthiness. Those are not the same feelings. They’re not interchangeable either.
It is good and healthy to be grateful that you found such a great partner in life.
Only God knows that many people who are writing to me on a daily basis don’t have the same luck.
But it is also important to acknowledge that you are worthy of this love.
That if she happily gave up so many things for you, you did something right too.
Layla, if you are reading this, I want you to know you found a good one.
I don’t say this lightly, since I am hesitant to believe one side of the story, which is usually exactly what I’m getting when one person in a relationship writes to me.
But seeing as your partner, Grant, followed up with numerous (read: too many) phone calls to the editorial team of Gloss, before making the trip to our New York offices in person and begging for us to publish this letter so he could propose to you in a way he thinks would move you, I feel that I’m at liberty to say he is a catch.
If you do end up getting married, please send us a picture from the ceremony. It would be a great palate cleanser, among all the cheating accusations and couples with dark secrets.
Love always,
Desiree xoxo
My heart stuttered to a stop. My hands became clammy.
Grant wanted to marry me.
Desiree knew who I was.
She thought Grant was a catch.
I didn’t need her to tell me that, of course. I knew. I was present in the last six years of my life. But still . . .
From behind my back, I heard Grant’s and Ambrose Casablancas’s voices bouncing across the ceiling in an echo.
They were chatting. It took me half a second to decide that I was not supposed to have seen this article and shove it into his messenger bag.
I scurried back to my seat and was pretending to mess with my phone when Grant walked inside from the cold.
He rubbed his palms together, blowing hot air into them.
“Sorry, I went outside to check on our carriage ride. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be a short one, and I brought a thermos with hot coffee and some blankets. Is that okay?”
I smiled, trying to hide the tears in my eyes. “Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you so much.”
He gave me a loopy, questioning smile, as if to ask, What’s with you?
We bundled up and went into the kitchen to thank Row, who must’ve reentered the building through another door. He was yelling at his staff. I knew he was a grumpy asshat from watching him on TV, but it felt entirely different when you witnessed his antipathy in real time.
From there, we went out to the freezing cold. There really was a carriage waiting for us, and it had a coachman too.
I was glad there wouldn’t be a thousand dishes and interruptions, and that we were finally alone.
Once tucked inside, Grant turned to me.
“Did you get a chance to read Gloss this week?” His face was etched with worry.
I now realized why he’d seemed on edge all day yesterday and today when he got back from work.
He didn’t know whether to interpret my silence as rejection.
Or at the very least, as something that wasn’t a straight-up yes.
“Not yet.” I blinked in what I hoped to God was innocence. “Georgie had a busy day pooping his life away yesterday, and my parents arrived today, so I had to show them the ropes. I didn’t get time. Why, was there something scandalous?” I wiggled my eyebrows.
Wow, I was good. One day, after we were married, I was going to tell him the truth. He’d get a kick out of it too.
“Yes, I think there was something worth reading there. I brought a copy.” He tugged the magazine out of his bag. I made a show out of flipping through the pages and reading the column.
I read his proposal again, and it made me even more emotional than the first time.
He was just so . . . good.
I never thought I’d find someone like that. Someone who loved with his entire body, heart, and soul. Somebody trustworthy and completely transparent, someone who wouldn’t use his female partner as an emotional crutch.
My chin quivered again. Finally, I let my tears fall.
Because I could. Because I knew he would never judge me. Not this man.
This man would accept me in any size. My smallest or largest.
He would celebrate my wins, and grieve my losses with me.
He would accept my boundaries and stay faithful to me, not only out of respect for me, but out of respect for himself.
I looked up from the magazine. I could tell by the hungry, crushed way he looked at me that he was holding his breath.
“Yes,” I inhaled. “Yes, Grant Gerwig. I will marry you. I will marry the fuck out of you.” Hot tears slid down my cold cheeks. “There isn’t a world or a scenario where marrying you isn’t my absolute top priority.”
He reached into his messenger bag again and pulled out something I must’ve missed during my scavenger hunt. A blue velvety jewelry box. I popped it open. It had a huge green emerald, with small diamonds engraved around it.
Green like my hair when he’d met me.
“Hello, fiancée,” he whispered as he slid the ring onto my finger.
“Right back at you.”
We kissed then. Stealing each other’s breaths, and words, and taste. Drowning in what had started as an accident but had fast become the greatest gift of all. Passing between us the sweetness of the residual sugar from the dessert, the bitter bite of the sage in our food, the saltiness of my tears.
And I knew that inside that kiss hid a whole different world we were about to unlock together.
When we finally came up for air, I laughed breathlessly into his chest, burrowing into his warmth. The carriage came to a stop. The horse attached to it made a huffing sound.
“What’s so funny?” Grant nuzzled the side of my neck.
“I just can’t believe I got my happy ending because this time last year, I was petty in pink. It’s so me.”
“You were never petty.” Grant brushed my hair away from my face. “You were concerned and worried for your colleague. You chose to embarrass yourself and do something drastic to protect someone else. I think it was the night I realized I truly loved you.”
And, like always, I believed him.