Epilogue
Three Years Later
I would love to end with a simple question: do you consider your work to be primarily art or primarily fashion?” The interviewer’s silk dress shines golden against the blues of Boston harbor.
A few years ago, having my very own event at the Institute of Contemporary Art would’ve been unimaginable, beyond a pipe dream. Yet here I am.
“I love this question,” I reply. “Early in my career I saw a much brighter line between the two. And even when they overlapped, I thought wow, that designer is using fashion as art and it felt innovative and subversive. But the longer I work in this field, the more obvious it becomes to me that fashion is art. Whether it’s through crochet and embroidery, which have often been demoted to the designation of ‘craft’ in the public eye, all the way up to custom couture.
Fashion is creative visual expression that evokes emotion in the eyes of the beholder. That’s art.”
“And did you design your own outfit today?” she asks.
“I did.” I twirl in place, showing off the pleats of the emerald green skirt, the perfect fit of the matching top. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it’s objectively a masterpiece.
“It’s stunning. And I’m so sad that our time is up, because I’ve loved talking with you.
To everyone who turned into today’s event over social media, we hope you’ll plan a trip to Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art in the near future.
You have one month left to see Lia Mercado’s Bienconnue Collection before it leaves for Chicago.
And for everyone who joined us in-person for today’s reception, please enjoy the open bar, and make sure to come speak with the artist herself before you leave.
Lia, we’re so lucky to have you. Thank you for taking the time. ”
“It’s an honor to be here. Thank you, everyone.”
Applause breaks out across the room. And front and center—with a wide, luminescent smile—is Owen, glowing with adoration in his navy blue, notch-lapel, tailored cotton suit.
I exit stage left and he comes to meet me, wrapping me in his arms, pride and admiration pressing me tight to his chest. He doesn’t kiss me—he knows I’m at work and I take my job extremely seriously—but every muscle in his body wants to.
And that almost makes it better: my body anticipating his next touch like it’s our first.
“You know you’re the most talented and beautiful woman in the world, right?” he says.
I roll my eyes through a smile. “Tell me about it.”
“No way—is that the famous Lia Mercado?”
I look over to find Andy’s teasing smile, meeting it with my own. “What, you want an autograph or something?”
He hugs me long and hard until his wife shrieks, “Okay, okay, stop hogging her! It’s my turn.”
Then Sophie sweeps me into a hug even longer and harder than Andy’s, rocking me back and forth. “I’m so proud of you, Lia! This is even more amazing than I was imagining, and I had set the bar really high in my mind.”
“Well, if it isn’t the accomplished Dr. Walsh and her broke author husband,” Owen teases.
“Fuck off,” Andy says, laughing as he shoves his brother’s shoulder.
Owen has spent enough time congratulating Andy for the novel he published a few months ago that the joke lands with love.
“Oh yeah, hi Owen,” Sophie says, chin peeking up over my shoulder to see him. She refuses to let go just yet. “Good to see you, love you too, but Lia’s simply more important today.”
Andy starts to ask, “Where are Nolan and—” but I cut him off.
“They might have left already. It’s their anniversary so they have a whole thing planned.”
“They need to just get married already,” Sophie says.
“Not everyone wants marriage, Soph,” I say.
“Oh, I know all about you and your raging feminist anti-marriage agenda,” she says. “But normal people get engaged when they’ve been happy together for that long.”
“You genuinely cannot say a single word about normal engagement timelines,” I say.
She responds with a simple, “Touché.”
“I may know something…” Owen says slyly from my side.
I whip around to face him. “What? Is he proposing? Did my brother tell you before telling me??”
Owen playacts at zipping his lips and tossing out the key. “We’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“We?” Sophie yells, spinning on her husband. “You know something too?”
“Today’s about Lia,” Andy says, completely dodging the question. “Can you give us the tour or are you busy kissing rich asses?”
“Oh, I can stay with you guys for a bit. I have at least thirty more minutes of badgering you about Nolan to do. Plus, it’ll make me a hot commodity if I seem like I’m unavailable.”
“Brilliant, talented, and gorgeous,” Owen says. “I’m so lucky.”
“Damn right you are,” I say with a wink that he knows would be a slap on the ass if we weren’t in public.
The rest of the event is perfect, and when the long day is over and Owen and I trudge home, beaming despite the exhaustion, I’m not surprised to find congratulatory bouquets from him on every surface.
Each one is different, unique, hand assembled with care.
The creamy white of lilies with the muted green of eucalyptus, roses in crimson and white, the delicate curve of dahlia petals and the striking contrast of anemones.
I admire each one as Owen takes off his jacket and tie, draping them over the back of the sofa.
This place is undeniably ours. Spacious and open the way Owen likes, but overflowing with color and texture from me.
Embroidered throw pillows and shelves of plants with sprawling green tendrils.
An overly demonstrative flat screen TV before a blue velvet couch.
A fridge stocked with those fancy flavored hummuses—the beet one and the pine nut one and the weird dessert ones, too.
It’s smaller than Owen’s sterile Seaport apartment was, but downright luxurious compared to the studio that I don’t miss one bit.
Archie nuzzles my shin with his nose, and I lower to my knees.
“Bellissimo caro mio! Com'è stato il tuo giorno?”
He responds with an articulate, “Rrrrrooo.”
“Hey, buddy.” Owen is on his knees next to me. “Did you congratulate your mom on her big day yet?” Then, in a voice that’s low and round and silly, he says on Archie’s behalf, “Congrats, mom.”
“Grazie, amore.” I kiss Archie’s head, then stand and turn to Owen. “And thank you for the flowers, my love.”
He wraps his arms around my middle, pulling me tight to his chest. “You were amazing today. How do you feel?”
“I feel good. I feel… like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
I still find my work exhausting a lot of the time.
Being a freelancer isn’t for the weak. And even now I still catch my proverbial fist clenched around plans that are more rigid than they need to be.
But slowly, finally, I’m learning to loosen my hold, taking the opportunities that serve me as they come up.
Therapy has helped with that a lot. And I’m even in a financial position to say no to some of the opportunities that arise, too, which definitely helps.
Especially now that I’m part of a two-income household.
We may not be married—I still don’t think that’s something I’ll ever want—but I know we’re in this together.
And I was so happy that my work started bringing financial stability at the same time Owen decided he needed to step away from Wilmar Gould.
Being there for him, and showing him that he didn’t need to be the sole provider, was a really important step for us.
And—to be clear—he does just fine. He’s still in big law making more money than God, just for a plaintiff-side firm now. And believe it or not, he’s already been offered a partner role.
No matter how much things change, some things stay the same, too.
“I have something else to show you,” Owen says against my hair.
I pull back, excitement sparkling in my eyes. “A present?”
Owen laughs. “Sort of, but not a physical one.”
I give him an exaggerated pout that has him laughing louder, pressing a kiss to my lips as he says, “I’ll buy you another physical present too if you want, but I’m excited about this.”
“Okay,” I say, putting some space between us so he can get whatever it is. “I’m ready. Show me.”
“Yes, Commander Mercado.”
Then his hands reach for the buttons on the front of his shirt.
“Owen, if you say your dick is my present, I’m gonna bite it off.”
His hands keep working even as he laughs. “I mean, that’s certainly on the table. Not the biting part, I mean, but…” The light blue of his button-up hits the floor. “I wanted to show you this.”
He pulls his white cotton undershirt over his head, revealing his strong torso, the asymmetrical pattern of black ink across it.
“Thank you for the gift of your body, my love, bu—wait a second. What’s this one?”
I press my palm next to a swirling design on the left side of his chest, the flesh still a tender pink. A continuous black line, looping back on itself to form the suggestion of a woman’s hands on piano keys.
“Is this…?”
“It’s the picture you drew. On our first date.”
Porchfest. Owen’s challenge. The event map I pulled from his hands, scrawling a lazy doodle across the back. I never would’ve imagined…
“You kept that? All this time?”
“Of course I did,” he says, wrapping his warm hands around my waist, pulling me to him.
“I told you it was never casual for me, Lia. I was already gone for you, and you could barely stand me.” His laugh is self-deprecating.
“Even then, I knew I’d never met anyone like you.
Your talent and your heart. Your willpower and your horrible attitude. ”
I’m laughing too as my hands reach for his dark beard, the scratch of it soothing against my palms.
“I know you’re still not sold on marriage as an institution, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be your husband. I plan to choose you every day for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, you’ll be a permanent part of me, for better or worse. And I really, really think it’s for the better.”
The light blue of my painted nail loops a circle across Owen’s tender flesh, the fragile skin just above his heart.
“You got this done without asking me what I think first? That’s pretty cocky of you.”
“It was,” he smirks. “And you love it, don’t you?”
I look up to his eyes, the cool blue of still waters, calming and teasing and adoring, as I say, “I absolutely do.”
And in that moment, all the tangled threads in the complicated pattern between us—a pattern we could never have planned, could only craft through instinct and healing and love—feel finally, perfectly tied off.
He helped me take the scraps of my life and turn it into something beautiful.
And it’s just the first piece in the collection of the rest of our lives.