Epilogue
One Year Later
“What if they rob the bank?”
West barks a loud laugh of surprise from across the small office. He turns to look at me, his fingers poised over the keyboard, his glasses resting on his nose. “Why would they rob the bank?”
“Because it’s fun!” I tilt my head to the side from where I’m stretched out on the couch, legs slung over the armrest. I squint at the paint samples taped to the wall over West’s head, trying to distinguish between the many shades of green.
I thought it would be fun to repaint the office now that we spend so much time here.
When I picked up a pretty blue paint sample, he suggested something more neutral.
Like pink? I asked, which earned me a wry smile.
Subtle as a brick, this man.
West laughs now and turns back around, fingers flying over the keys, filling the room with the gentle clacking that has become the soundtrack to my life. “ ‘Because it’s fun’ can’t always be character motivation,” he says.
“Agree to disagree.” Fun is the entire reason that West and I are cowriting this outrageous genre mishmash of a book. It is ridiculous and silly and the most fun I’ve had in years. West is still typing. “What are you writing now?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Not another metaphor.”
“No. Still the same metaphor.”
“West!”
“Shh. It’s not your turn.”
I grin at the ceiling as Hemingway puts his head under my hand and waits for head scratches.
(Gabbi cast the tiebreaking vote for his name.
I lost.) Some days I can barely wrap my mind around how much my life has changed in the last year.
I handled what I needed to in New York while West finished up the school year, and I moved in with him over Memorial Day weekend.
By that point, it didn’t feel even remotely fast. I was ready to be wherever he was, and Tucson makes the most sense, at least for now.
I kept my apartment, though I doubt we’ll live in New York anytime soon.
“Ooh! I have an idea!” I jump up from the couch and gently swat West’s hands away from the keyboard.
“Hey! I wasn’t done!”
“No metaphor needs to be that long,” I say as I start typing.
I attempt to push him sideways off the chair with my hip, but he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me onto his lap.
He cinches them tighter as I type, resting his chin on my shoulder and reading the words as they appear on the screen.
He throws his head back and laughs. “Fine. I’ll give you your spontaneous bank robbery. But I want them to kiss at the end of it.”
I turn my head slightly until our eyes meet. It brings my lips very near his. “So soon?”
“He can’t possibly wait another second.” West traces the words against my lips.
“I thought we both agreed that these characters are not us.”
He looks affronted. “I’m not the morally dubious crime boss?”
“Correct. Just like I’m not the time-traveling space pirate from the future.”
He scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”
West allows me about twenty uninterrupted minutes of typing before he presses openmouthed kisses down my neck.
It might be a new record for the most patient he’s ever been.
I shiver as his teeth softly graze my skin.
I type two and a half more sentences, but when I drop my head to the side, exposing more of my neck, he knows he’s got me.
He twists me around in his lap, crushing his lips to mine and reaching his hands under my shirt as he pulls my hips closer.
Our goldendoodle tries to nudge his head between us. “Shoo, Hemingway,” I say. “Go. Get out.”
He flops down on his stomach and rests his head on his paws, unfazed.
West laughs and stands, holding me tight against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss his jaw as he carries me to our bed.
“This is why Hemingway is a bad dog name! It sounds ridiculous when we try to tell him what to do or discipline him or call him at the park—” West drops me on the bed, effectively silencing my thoughts.
He has my shirt off and my hands pinned above my head in less than thirty seconds.
“I’ll let you name the next one,” he says as he grins down at me.
I lift my head in surprise. “The next dog?”
“Dog, baby, whatever comes first.”
I huff a laugh. “Big talk considering we’re not even engaged yet.”
“Details.” He drops a kiss to my lips.
“Big ones.”
He laughs against my skin.
Neither of us is presenting at the Tucson Festival of Books this year, which means West and I get to wander through the tents at our own pace without worrying about signing lines or author panels.
Shattered did well enough that my publisher agreed to the sequel, which will be published later this year, but I haven’t decided if I want to tour with it yet.
The internet backlash against West and me burned hot for about a month before receding to embers that occasionally flicker to life and catch us by surprise in the form of a scathing email or angry review that focuses on our personal lives more than our work.
I’m learning to create separation between my books and my life.
It starts with reminding myself that my work is not me, and other people’s opinions on it have very little to do with my life.
West found a new agent and is working on what he hopes will be his third novel.
I’m also working on a new project, slowly and without putting too much pressure on myself.
And we’re both having the time of our lives cowriting our time-travel-space-pirate-crime-boss novel, which will likely never see the inside of a bookstore.
“You’ve been staring at that book for five minutes,” West comments as he takes it from my hands and pays for it.
I blink back to the present. “Just thinking.”
He tucks my new book under his arm and laces our hands together. “About what?”
I glance up at him and part of my brain sighs. There you are. I still can’t believe he’s mine. Finally. “Last year.”
“Ah. When you were in such denial about being in love with me that you resorted to the world’s worst revenge plan.” He looks down at me with an arched brow.
I roll my eyes. “You loved the attention.”
“And you’ll never hear me say otherwise, Darling.”
He’s leading us away from the festival, down to our spot outside Modern Languages. “I was feeling claustrophobic back there. Mind if we hide out here for a while?”
“Of course not.” I pluck my book from under his arm and walk to the bench under the palm trees.
“Hey, Mars?”
I turn, and the book slides from my hand when I see West down on one knee. “Margot Darling,” he starts, and abruptly my eyes well with tears.
“Hey, no, no, no. If you start crying now, I’ll never make it through this.” His voice is hoarse.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and blink rapidly. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I have medically diagnosed overactive tear ducts.”
“That sounds familiar, yes.” His lilt is teasing, but his eyes are full of affection that makes my body flush. I sink to my knees and take his hands. As my eyes draw level with his, we both fight tears.
He takes a breath and starts again. “I met you in this exact spot nearly fifteen years ago, and I’ve been in free fall ever since.
It took me too long to realize that the feeling of the ground slipping from under my feet and the desire to land by your side was love, and even longer to figure out what to do with it.
I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you.
I should have said it every day, in all the clumsy and ineloquent ways I know how.
If you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know that I love you.
” He pulls a ring box out of his pocket and opens it. “Mars, darling, will you marry me?”
I know I should look at the diamond ring he’s holding, but I can’t pull my attention from his blue-and-amber eyes. In moments like this, I swear I can see my whole world in those irises. “Yes. Of course. I’ll marry you whenever and wherever you want, West Emerson.”
Salt water mingles on our lips as we kiss, and when West slides the ring onto my finger, I can’t help but think that I could write for the rest of my life and never capture this happiness on paper.