Epilogue Product Lifestyle Management
Christmas Day
Kaley
I’m wrist deep in Christmas cookies when my phone beeps.
Thinking it’s my mother giving me an ETA on when she and Kathy are heading over to our house for brunch, I leave my phone lying on kitchen table alone and finish up plating the cookies the girls and I baked yesterday.
Rose, Trish, and their friends Jackie, Jules and Rebeca—who have thankfully become my friends too—came over for a Christmas Eve cookie baking party.
Which turned into a Christmas Eve party when Evan decided to rent a bouncy house.
I thought he would’ve had PTSD from the last bouncy house he entered, but apparently not. And while the bouncy house is gingerbread themed and smaller in scale that the one at NASA had been—it still features a ball pit.
The kids loved it. At least that’s what the ones baking concluded from the squeals of laughter we heard from inside the house.
That and none of the kids came in asking to lick the bowls or spoons but rather kept playing with their exhausted fathers—and Jules, who is not a baker—until we called them in to taste test.
Holt, Jules’ husband, who is a baker and a fantastic one at that, baked the chocolate eggnog sugar cookies that won the adult vote.
Whereas Rose’s kitchen sink chocolate cookies—that had nothing to do with Christmas but were jammed full of every candy imaginable—won the kid vote.
Then Evan surprised me with a birthday cake, and everyone sang me an early happy birthday. It was lemon chiffon. A flavor that Evan said reminded him of me, and a cake that I will never look at the same way since we used the leftovers in a very creative, very messy way later that night.
It was a chaotic, happy, sticky day.
I loved it.
But it also cost me a good night’s sleep as I lay in bed replaying it over and over. Right before I finally dropped off to sleep—on clean sheets and Evan beside me—I came to the conclusion that being happy makes me greedy.
Because I want it every year, but more.
I want the kids super manning Evan in the ball pit to be our own. I want the matching mother and daughter outfits to be the ones I wear with my daughter—but maybe not bedazzled. And I want to fall asleep next to Evan—like I have every night this past year—but for the rest of my life.
I want to get married.
However.
Going by the second rule of our relationship—if you need something, ask for it—then that means I have ask Evan .
Brushing cookie crumbs off my hands, I take out the French toast casserole I made last night for Christmas bunch, set it on the counter, and pout.
Call me old-fashioned, unfeminist, or whatever else, but the truth is I don’t want to ask Evan to marry me. I want him to ask me .
I had a small blip of hope this morning when Evan and I exchanged presents under the tree while the Rat Pack Christmas album played. But while I loved the lingerie sets and birthstone earrings he gave me, there hadn’t been a ring.
My phone beeps again.
Preheating the oven, I leave the casserole to reach room temp and grab my phone off the kitchen table.
The texts weren’t from my mother or Kathy, but from Evan. My pout vanishes on a laugh as I read the two short messages.
S.O.S.
I’m stuck.
Shaking my head, I look out the back window into the backyard. Stepping closer, I squint through the glass, making out Evan’s sneakers set beside the lolly-pop balloon entrance.
Ten minutes ago, Evan went outside to inflate it in case our moms wanted to jump in it later.
As he was so excited about getting it for a free day because the rental company didn’t want to come pick it up on Christmas, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the chances of our mothers wanting a bounce session was low.
So off he went to run the air compressor. But he wasn’t supposed to get in it. And with no kids or SAFER on his back, how the heck did he manage to get stuck again?
I text on my way , then, rolling my eyes, head to the back door.
December in Texas isn’t cold. It’s gray. It might be a crap shoot on whether it’ll be humid or not, but it’s always gray.
Which makes the variant colors of the candy-decorated gingerbread house stand out in comparison.
Reaching the bouncy house, I toe off my shoes before crawling on all fours to get inside the circular door. “Evan?”
No reply. It could be he can’t hear me over the air compressor, so I struggle to my feet and bounce step to the ball pit. “Evan?”
This time, I’m answered by a hand shooting straight up out of the balls, giving me déjà vu.
“Evan Mitchell, you are no longer allowed in a bounce house unsupervised.” My voice quavers from laughter and from my uneven steps as I balance while sifting my way toward the arm flagpoling in the center of the pit.
Reaching his side, I grab his hand. My grip is awkward, though, as his hand is closed in a tight fist. Too focused on staying on my feet, I ignore it and circle my fingers around his wrist, pulling him topside just like I did in the past.
In a whoosh, he’s unearthed—tousled brown hair, wide, boyish grin revealed.
Yet in addition to the looks, Evan also makes my life fun. Laughing, I let go of his wrist, folding my arms over my chest. “What in the world were you?—”
But my smile and laughter fade as I stare at what else he reveals. The hand of the arm I held opens, a beautiful oval solitaire diamond ring resting in its palm.
“Kaley.” Still smiling, Evan shifts under the red and green plastic balls until one knee is beneath him.
“This past year has been more than I could’ve hoped for.
And while I’m grateful for everything you’ve brought into my life, I hope you don’t mind if I selfishly ask you for another Christmas present on your birthday. ”
At the last few words, I finally break free from staring at the ring and gaze into Evan’s eyes. It’s very hard to swallow.
“Kaley Parker.” Taking my left hand, he slides the diamond on my finger. “Will you give me the best Christmas gift I could receive and marry me?”
The air compressor dims, my heartbeat thunders and the world becomes very small and very bright.
“Yes.” Half-laughing, half-crying, I pull him to his feet. “Yes, you idiot, I’ll marry you.” And then we’re kissing, our rush of happiness throwing us off balance.
Until once more I’m covered with balls and Evan Mitchell.