Epilogue #2
As diplomatic as my words were, as hard as I was trying to mask my disgust, Nixon knew me too well.
He rocked back on his heels, lips curved up into a smirk.
"You need to stop looking at the surface shit.
Wallpaper gets stripped off, wood paneling gets ripped out, new tile, new paint, a couple more windows, finish the basement and the attic.
It's a massive house. It has good bones. It just needs a little fixing up."
"I think your opinion of ‘a little fixing up’ and mine vary a lot," I told him, nodding toward the floral backsplash in the kitchen. Floral. Who had floral tile in a kitchen?
"Come on, you haven't seen the best part," he told me.
And no, no I had not.
But his excitement had me curious as he led me toward the mossy and molded back porch.
Admittedly, the back yard was nice. It needed some seeding, some gardens, a few trees. But it would be a great yard for kids someday.
"I mean, yeah, the yard is nice. It's just not... what?" I asked, seeing his smile stretch wider.
"You're not looking, babe," he said.
"I am looking at the yar... oh," I said, my breath whooshing out of me.
I'd been too focused on the one-acre-sized square.
And not what was behind it.
Our backyard butted up to Charlie and Helen's.
"Well then," I said, sharing his smile. "You're right. This is the one."
Nixon - 1 year
I wanted to wait.
Until the crazy died down with her brand suddenly becoming the best selling whiskey on the market, knocking down the previously best-known brand out of its decade-long reign.
And then I wanted to wait until the trial was over.
She'd been a nervous wreck the entire time, constantly on the phone with Lo, getting coached, getting talked off ledges.
In the end, she didn't end up having much to worry about. By the time she got on the stand, not a single person in that room thought the man was innocent with all the other witnesses, all the other statements.
And then, of course, there had been Olivia and Marvin—the owners of the house where the party had taken place—with their irrefutable security footage that showed Michael red-handedly slipping something into the wineglass he handed off to Reagan.
His lawyer—wearing an Armani suit and Rolex that cost more than my car—had argued until he was red in the face, but not a single person in the room was swayed.
It was only the first in several civil cases against Michael.
And then the big one.
The one that involved a forty-something-year-old him and a girl who had been underage.
The statute of limitations was on their side. And after a string of lesser convictions, the judge and jury had nailed his ass to the wall.
He would get out.
Sexual criminals usually did.
Because our system was fucked.
But when he did, he'd be a lot older, and a fuckuva lot poorer.
It would never make up for what he had done to all those women and girls. And it would never bring Sammy back, but it was something.
It was some justice for the victims and their families.
But it wasn't the right time before all that was settled. Until it was the only important thing to have on our minds.
I'd been planning it for months, having secret meetings with the Mallick women and Krissy to try to figure out what the right kind of ring would be for her.
Simple.
That was the general consensus. And I had to agree. Reagan always went minimal with her jewelry. And almost nothing that stood out.
In the end, I went with a square-cut diamond on a plain gold band.
We all agreed—it was perfect.
Then I had made the plan, talked to some people, got them to agree to it.
She knew nothing about what we would be doing. Which led to a nearly thirty-minute-long tantrum about not knowing how to dress for it if she didn't know where we were going.
In the end, I grabbed her a red sundress because it was my favorite, threw her a pair of her flats, and dragged her with me to the car.
"You know," she said, eyes bright, smile sly, "I think you are taking this peach fetish of yours to an extreme," she declared, standing in the row between peach trees.
I'd rented out the orchard for the day.
It was stupidly expensive.
But we were allowed to take as many peaches as we wanted.
And we wouldn't be interrupted.
"Your peach habit is getting expensive," I told her with a smirk. "I figured we could save some money if we pick them ourselves. At least until our trees get big enough to produce decent fruit.
That had been my gift to her for not murdering me in my sleep for insisting we buy a money pit of a house.
I had known Reagan was not a roll-up-her-sleeves and get to work on house renovations sort of person.
But she had been there with me on weekends pulling weeds, spraying down wallpaper, refinishing floors. She didn’t love it. But she was there.
I planted two peach trees in the backyard while she was at work one day as a thank you for seeing it through and not insisting we put it right back on the market even after it needed to be completely re-wired, had to have the windows replaced, and the siding redone.
"I hope you brought your pack-horse muscles," she declared, already taking one of the baskets the place provided, walking over toward a tree.
I watched her for a minute, humming that goddamn song about peaches and cream that she'd been singing the first time I realized I loved her.
Then I reached into my pocket.
And I got down on my knee behind her.
Waiting.
"Nixon, I need another bask—“ she started, trailing off when she turned, when she looked down.
Her stunned gaze moved from my face to the ring and back.
"Yes!"
"I didn't ask you yet," I reminded her.
"I think the asking is implied. What with the knee and the ring and all. Do you have a speech prepared?” she asked. "Are you going to compare me to a summer's day? Oh, please tell me there is a poem."
"Listen, smartass," I cut her off, watching as her eyes crinkled she smiled so big.
"There's my guy," she teased.
"I'm trying to do something here," I reminded her.
"Right. Yes. Proceed," she told me, smile saucy.
Any words I had planned to say flew right the hell out of my head, leaving just the raw truth.
"I don't know why the fuck you decided to be with me," I admitted, pulling the ring out of the box as she fanned her fingers out toward me. "But I figure I better lock that shit down before you change your mind," I told her, slipping the ring onto her finger. "Marry me?"
She pulled me up, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, pulling my lips down to hers.
"Yes," she said against my lips.
Then, well, let's say I was glad I rented the whole place out.
I had a lot of memories with Reagan and peaches.
This one was by far my favorite.
Reagan - 1.5 years
"Wait, what are you doing here?" Lea asked as Fiona walked in the door, a giant cup of coffee in her hand, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"What do you mean, what am I doing here? It's Sunday. I am here to pretend to cook, and talk a lot of shit. That's what we do here," she told us, dropping her purse onto a chair, moving over to the island with the rest of us.
"Rush told us that there was a big corporate event this week," Scotti said, brows drawing down. "Like a rented-out lodge and being alone in the woods and stuff. One of those retreats meant to make everyone friends and shit."
"Mmhmm," Fiona said, looking away, clearly lying.
"Then why aren't you there?" Lea asked, eyes keen.
"Gee, you know, it was the damnedest thing. I seemed to forget to send the invites out. Or even get them made up..."
"But Rush had an invite," Scotti insisted, trying to figure out Fee's angle.
"Oh, right. Well… I somehow had two invites made up. And two flights books. And two cars rented..."
"What did you do?" Autumn asked, smiling. "You're not usually a meddler."
"Well, look," Fiona said, shrugging. "I am just going over a few phone conversations with my people and clients.
You know, making sure everything stays wildly inappropriate.
But also that no one working for me is doing anything they shouldn't. I had one girl last year offering to meet up with callers in her private time and, well, making money a different kind of way. And, hey, more power to her. Sex work is real work. But, y’know, I'm not your pimp. "
"You're digressing," Lea reminded her."
"Right. Well, yeah, I screen sometimes. Just to keep an eye on things. And I uncovered something very interesting..."
"Spit it out, or I am going to have you on grating duty again," Helen demanded, making a shudder move through Fiona who'd managed to skin three knuckles the last time she'd been given the task.
"Well, as you can imagine, Rush's line isn't the busiest. I mean, when he gets a caller, he is on with her for a long time. You know women," she said, shrugging. "Anyway, I noticed about six months ago, he has had one caller."
"Wow, he's losing his touch, huh?" Lea asked.
"No. See. That's the thing. He gets calls in. But his line is always busy. With one caller."
"Jesus. That must be costing her a fortune," Helen said, shaking her head.
"Believe me, it is. And, hey, no judgements. People get lonely. If she wants to spend her money talking to some random guy, good for her. The thing is... I recognized that voice."
"Is it one of the other women?" Lea asked, face scrunching up.
I'd been to Fee's office. For the most part, the women who worked in phone sex were moms and older ladies. They took calls while knitting or creating Halloween costumes by hand.
They weren't exactly the sort who seemed like they'd have some giant crush on Rush, enough to spend all the money they made working there, calling in there.
"Well, yes and no," Fee said, taking an exaggerated sip of her coffee, eyes watching us, knowing we were all waiting to hear what she had to say, all prepping and cooking ceasing for a long moment.
"Fee," Helen said, tone a little firm. And despite our love for each other, despite knowing she was as good a woman as they came, we all jumped to do whatever she wanted when she got her mom-voice on.