Epilogue
WILL
Itext Priestley before I hop on the subway after work.
Do you need me to pick anything up on my way home?
I keep checking my phone as I descend the steps, knowing I’ll lose connection as soon as I’m down in the tunnel.
His response comes through a couple of seconds later.
No, got dinner and picked up our dry cleaning.
That simple sentence shouldn’t make me grin the way it does, but I can’t describe how good it feels to have someone to share the load with.
We’ve got each other’s backs in every way two people can, and I think that’s something to smile about.
When I get to the station in Jersey, I pick up a bunch of flowers.
When I unlock the front door to the apartment, the air smells like that Thai place we love. My stomach instantly grumbles.
“Baby, you home?”
Priestley comes out of the bedroom in a pair of grey sweats and an old Princeton t-shirt. His black hair is swept neatly off his face and his pretty feet are bare.
A shy smile spreads across his face. I look down and remember the flowers in my hand.
“How very courtly of you, William,” he says.
I snort. “C’mere. How was your day?”
He pads over in his bare feet and takes the flowers before giving me a kiss.
The old Priestley might have scoffed at cheap, train station flowers, noted the overkill of baby’s breath and lack of roses, but he’s getting better at not being a snob.
Hanging around my family has been a good influence on him.
Priestley tells me about a difficult client his company is working with while I arrange the food onto plates and head over to the dining table.
The apartment is basic, and cheaper than apartments in the city.
We want to move there eventually, but while we’re still new at our jobs and working our way up, it’s much smarter to commute and live somewhere more affordable.
We’re able to plan out our own future business while we each get experience at other, more established companies and have the security of an income while we do it.
It might be entry-level income but it pays the bills.
I always thought Priestley would rather have his hand amputated than lose his Black Card, but when his dad threw a hissy fit and took his credit cards away, he barely blinked an eye, even when he threatened to freeze his trust fund.
I play with his hand idly while we eat. He acts like he hasn’t noticed, though I know he loves it.
“How about you? I haven’t stopped complaining since the second you walked through the door,” he says.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“No,” he says with a straight face. “You’re here for excellent blow jobs and because you look good naked.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Knew you only wanted me for my body.”
He flashes me a devilish smile before tucking back into his food.
“I should have picked up some dessert. I didn’t think.”
“There’s cheesecake in the fridge,” he says.
My head snaps up and he smiles.
“Can’t have your sweet tooth going unsatisfied now, can we?”
An alarm goes off on Priestley’s phone. He jumps up, turning the TV on.
“What was that?”
“Puck drops in five. Let’s finish eating on the couch.”
I pick my plate up and join him, moving the remote out of the way.
I can’t believe how into hockey he is now.
Sometimes I catch him on the phone with my dad, having animated conversations about trade deadlines and goalie save percentages.
My dad loves listening to Priestley talk about hockey in numbers.
I know most of it goes over Dad’s head, but he likes seeing Priestley get excited about the sport in a way that makes sense to Priestley.
His face lights up as he watches the game build-up. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
He smiles, batting me away. “Stop, no distractions. This is an important game.”
“‘Course, sorry.”
Someone starts texting him during the first period. I lean over to see who it is. My heart soars when I see my dad’s name pop up.
Maybe I should be offended that my dad isn’t texting me? But I’m not.
PRIESTLEY
I’m in a good mood thanks to David Pastrnak’s OT goal against Pittsburgh. I text with Joe while Will washes the dishes. When I look up again, Will’s disappeared into the bedroom. I turn the TV off and follow him.
He’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He spots me in the mirror and pumps his eyebrows, his mouth full of toothpaste. I laugh and shake my head.
My stomach knots at the sight of him in his ratty sleep shorts and Boston College Hockey tee—it suits him more than the Princeton one, though he’d look good in literally anything. I’m still watching him after he spits his toothpaste out and rinses his mouth.
“Okay?”
I nod. No one has ever been able to read me before. I’d never let them. It’s scary to let someone in, but it feels good, too. It’s far less lonely than pushing everyone away.
Will puts his hand out and I go to him without hesitation. He wraps me up in his arms and kisses my forehead.
“Love you, Rosie.”
I hum with satisfaction. “I love you, too.”
He rubs my back.
“Tomorrow, I was thinking we take Jamie somewhere. Has he been to Six Flags? That kid needs to have more fun.”
I snort. God, I love how much he cares about my family. Probably as much as I care about his.
“Will?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever want to have kids?”
He pulls away enough to look down into my face.
“Do you?”
I pout. “I asked first.”
Will swallows. “Yeah,” he says. Why does he look so nervous? He runs a hand through his hair. I want to grab that hand and put it back on me.
“Me, too.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “I know I seem like the kind of person who doesn’t like babies, but I’m not.”
He grins. “I know that.”
“I thought we’d start off small with a pet and graduate from there?”
“Like hamster to rabbit, to cat to dog, to human?”
“Exactly. Or maybe we should start with a gold-fish first. We do work a lot.”
He laughs, ruffling my hair. “Sure, let’s do that. Not yet, though. I like having you to myself.”
“Definitely not yet,” I agree.
We go to bed, kissing lazily until we fall asleep. While Will snores softly beside me, I imagine a house full of kids. A big, stupid dog like Will’s dog. Peewee team practices and sensible cars. My god, am I daydreaming about being a soccer dad?
Will groans and turns over in his sleep. I stroke his back and he hums.
“Will?”
He hums again. I can’t tell if I woke him up or not until he turns his head and says something unintelligible.
I lean into his ear. “Do I still get dibs on you?”
“Hmm?” He smiles. “I swear t’god,” he mumbles. His accent gets stronger when he’s tired and I fucking love it. “Yeah, you’ve got dibs. Now go to sleep, Rosie.”
THE END