Epilogue
ASPEN
Two Years Later
A sunbeam streams in through my drapes, slowly coaxing me awake. I stretch my arms above my head, relishing the gentle start to the day without a jarring alarm. When I open my eyes, however, my heart instantly jumps to my throat. The wall across from me is a light gray color, nothing like the soft cream of my bedroom walls. There are cardboard boxes stacked up against it, towering at least three feet tall in places. I realize I’m only covered by a down comforter, not layers of my familiar silk sheets. I quickly swivel my head toward the sunbeam that woke me up, and am greeted by French doors leading out to some sort of terrace, nothing like my solid window at home.
Because I’m not home, I’m in London. The memories of yesterday gradually seep into my mind, soothing the brief panic of waking in an unfamiliar place. Grey and I officially moved into our own London townhome yesterday.
I slowly get out of bed, walking onto the terrace, overlooking Hyde Park. The city seems to have woken up long before me, as the roar of cars, snippets of conversations, and echoes of laughter greet me from below the iron-worked balustrade of the terrace.
“I could get used to this view,” Grey says from behind me, joining me on the terrace.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? We can see the whole city from here.”
“I meant you, but yeah, the city’s pretty great too.”
I turn to look at him, somehow appreciating his rugged good looks more with every day. “Eh, I still prefer the city to you.”
Grey laughs, a deep rumbling sound that never fails to make me smile along with him. “What did I do to deserve such a sweet girlfriend?” he jokes.
I smile back, loving that even after a couple years together, we still flirt like we’re two fake-dating costars, trying to hide our mutual crushes.
He hands me a steaming cup of tea and wraps his now-free arm around my waist as we look out at London together. His body heat and the mug of tea provide a welcome layer of warmth between me and the chilly day.
I take a sip. “It’s good, but there’s a distinct lack of radioactivity.”
“Because I’m not a heathen who makes tea in the microwave.”
“Why not? It’s so much more efficient than having to heat up a kettle.”
Grey sighs. “Jordan, you know I’m patient with your cognitive pitfalls, but most Londoners won’t be. You can’t say that shit out loud here.”
I lean my head against his shoulder and he gives my hip a playful squeeze. We stand like that in contented silence, appreciating our new view for a few minutes until I can’t delay reality anymore.
“We should probably start unpacking.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves for another few minutes, though. Finally, I groan and slowly disentangle myself from Grey’s arms, walking back into the bedroom. The floor is cluttered with boxes, random sheets of bubble wrap and plastic, a littering of random packing peanuts, and frames leaning against walls, waiting to be hung.
The living room is even worse, the couch completely covered in boxes. Despite the chaos, the space already feels like home, filled to the brim with a combination of Grey’s and my things, waiting to be transformed into a space that’s uniquely ours.
The actual townhome took several weeks of hardcore house-hunting to find, as Grey and I were both very opinionated as to what kind of space we wanted. Grey wanted somewhere in the middle of the hustle-and-bustle, while I preferred something in a quieter neighborhood, like my Upper East Side roots. Grey wanted something gritty and historic, while I wanted something modern and timeless. We saw dozens of potential places, ranging from bustling Soho to quiet Chelsea, classic Georgian homes to brand new, modernist flats. Nothing clicked for us, until we saw this newly renovated, 19th century townhouse in Kensington, in the heart of the city and right on the border of Hyde Park.
I know it sounds cheesy, but the second we crossed the threshold, I knew this was the one for us. When our conversation at dinner that night fell upon this place, I didn’t want to admit my feelings about it, in case Grey felt pressured to agree to it. But, completely on his own, Grey told me he felt this was the place for us.
So, we put down an offer the next day, which was accepted by the seller quickly after. That was only a month ago, and now we’re moving in. The whole thing has been a wonderful blur, and I couldn’t be happier to have a space to share with Grey in his hometown. Of course, we both still have our LA places, as we go back and forth quite a bit for work. Although, Grey’s practically moved into my house at this point, after Phaedra moved out earlier this year to live with her girlfriend in Venice Beach.
“I bet we could hire someone to unpack all of this,” Grey suggests.
“How would they know how we want it all arranged?”
“We could tell them.”
“But we won’t even know until we unpack everything and play around with it.”
“If we need to unpack it anyway before we rearrange it, why don’t we hire someone?”
“And what will we do all week, if we’re not unpacking?”
“I can show you around the city.”
“I’ve been to London before, Grey. Many times. And we were just here for almost a month, looking at places spread all over the city.”
“There’s no way you could see the whole city in a few weeks. You could spend years exploring and still won’t see anything. Plus, you’ve never been on an official Grey Tour.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that just a ton of pubs?”
“And a horse track.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Come on, Jordan, you don’t want to unpack either.”
“What do I want to do instead?”
“Christen every room of this place with me.”
“While people are unpacking?”
He smirks darkly. “Why not? We’d stay out of the rooms they’re in, and we’ll pay them well enough to not give a shit what we’re doing.”
“And where would you find these mysterious people who’ll unpack our things?”
“Our realtor must know some credible movers. I’ll ask him.”
“And what if they break some of our stuff? Or steal something?”
At this point, Grey knows he has me. I wouldn’t ask this many logistical questions unless I was seriously considering his idea. “Then I’ll pay to replace whatever is damaged or stolen. And ,” he adds, “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“With what?”
He leans over to the box labeled “miscellaneous kitchen” and pulls out the mini waffle-maker that’s sticking out of the top.
“We don’t have any ingredients.”
“Yeah, we do. A full load of groceries should be here in”—he checks his watch—“eight minutes.”
I can’t help but crack a smile. I should’ve known Grey would have some tricks up his sleeve.
“Fine. But I want chocolate chip waffles. And orange juice. Hopefully that’s on your list, because if not, this whole thing is off the table.”
“Don’t insult me, Jordan. I know your breakfast order.”
Twenty minutes later, Grey places his last mini-waffle atop the large pile already in a pot between us, since we couldn’t locate our plates. But, during our search we found two wine glasses, so I pour the orange juice in those.
“So I presume these meet your standards?” he asks, watching me finish my second waffle and reach for another. We also couldn’t find the silverware, so we’re using our hands. Very classy.
“As far as floor waffles go, these are five stars, babe.”
“Only the best for you,” he answers.