Epilogue Lovely Rain
Michelle
Life wasn’t entirely perfect in Paris.
Some days, for instance, it rained.
Oh, wait. That’s not a bad thing. Even the rain in Paris is lovely. Especially the rain in Paris.
I’d missed my brother while I was here, but we’d met up in London a few months ago when Jill performed in A Streetcar Named Desire.
Jack had joined me. His schedule is much lighter these days, though it’s starting to fill up again.
After spending a few months enjoying the perks of being a man of leisure—drinking espressos, shopping for lingerie for me while I worked—his venture studio has acquired a couple new businesses.
Now, he’s advising two French companies, one specializing in lingerie, the other a dating app, one breaking into the American market. He was born for this.
We live in the Sixth Arrondissement, not far from my work, in a flat above a vegan leather handbag store and a macaron shop.
Joy Delivered is thriving back home, thanks in part to its continued business online and in stores with its biggest partner, Eden.
The premiere vibrator boutique in New York stayed open, as did the sex clubs, all thanks to their campaign of positivity—and Jack’s recording.
It had turned out to be the tip of the iceberg, and last I’d heard, it had kicked off another conversation that started with Upper East Original and was spreading through the boroughs.
Casey’s fake petition to require neighborhood input on new development had become a real movement, with Leo Reyes at the forefront of it.
It was about doing good for the people of the community, not the bottom line of billionaires.
It was about joy instead of fear and anger.
And it was also about keeping what happens behind closed doors personal, private, and off-limits.
A lot of those were themes I’d written about in my book—that first offer had quickly turned into several, then a bidding war, and a fantastic final offer, and it came from the one editor who understood my vision.
A book that wove my story, not just the part I was semi-infamous for, but my parents’ death, my unrequited love, and my own journey toward intimacy, into my research.
It offered real tips and takeaways for readers to apply in their own lives.
It felt like more than a book. It felt powerful.
The law is powerful too, though, and both Conroy and The Spin Doctor are serving nice long sentences in the short-term rental called Rikers Island.
I hope they’re both seeking therapy.
One Tuesday morning in April, after a phone session with Shayla—who’d left her husband and was managing better on her own than she thought she would—I caught a train to Giverny.
Jack was working in the countryside today, advising a wealthy client in Rouen, and I’d turned my book in that morning.
We had nothing planned but a celebratory lunch at a café in the quiet village where Monet had painted.
When I arrived, I didn’t see him at the entrance. I checked my phone and saw a message: I’m already inside. Come find me on the bridge.
I meandered through the gardens, surrounded by ruby red, sky blue, and sun yellow petals.
Spring had arrived in Giverny, wrapping the village in a blanket of fresh colors.
The lily pond waters were blue and glassy, reflecting the last bit of midday sun before the gray clouds at the edge of the sky began to roll in.
Then I spotted Jack on the bridge, one arm resting on the railing, the other tucked casually into his pocket.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said, dropping a quick kiss on his lips. I’d never grown tired of kissing him. I never would.
“Thank you for meeting me here. I’m a lucky man to be able to play hooky with my favorite author. Do you want to walk around the gardens?”
“I would love to.”
“Oh, wait,” he said, smacking his forehead. “There’s something I meant to ask you.”
I tilted my head, curious. “What is it?”
And then he dropped to one knee.
My mouth fell open, and my breath caught as his eyes met mine—blazing with love and passion.
“Michelle,” he began, his voice soft and steady, “it only seems fitting to ask you this here. This is your favorite place in Paris that’s not in Paris, and it’s mine too.
Because it’s the place where I could finally tell you, over and over, how much I love you.
And ever since that day, I haven’t been able to stop saying it.
Because I feel it everywhere. In every part of me. ”
My hand flew to my heart as a tear slid down my cheek.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. “I do too,” I whispered.
“I’ve always asked you to give yourself to me. And you have. Before I even deserved it. And I hope to keep deserving it, every day for the rest of our lives. And now, I want to ask if you’ll give me one more thing. You. Always. Will you be my wife?”
I couldn’t wait another second. I dropped to my knees, throwing my arms around him as joy surged through me. “Yes,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m yours. Always.”
“Always is a very long time,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. “And it’s exactly how long I want you.”
He slid a beautiful diamond onto my finger and kissed me endlessly on that bridge. He didn’t even stop when it started to rain.
Yes, come to think of it, there isn’t a single thing wrong with Paris—or France. Not even the rain. The rain is wonderful too.