Epilogue
Owen
“Isn’t that your neighbor’s friend, Liam?” I ask from our booth at Bar None.
“Yeah,” she says. “He looks like he could use a friend.” We watch as he tips his beer back before gesturing to the bartender to refill his shot glass.
“We are not going to rush in and save everyone who looks a little distressed at a bar,” I laugh. “That rarely ends well.”
“Sometimes it ends very well,” she muses.
We clink our bourbon glasses together and each take a sip. I lean over and give her a quick kiss.
“I like the way you taste,” I tell her.
“I like it when you taste me,” she says, smirking and taking another sip of her drink.
“Ugh,” I groan. “How long is Andy gone tonight? We should go back to your place right now.”
“Her parents were in town for the night, so she went to watch their show.”
“Their show?” I ask, nipping at the soft skin under her jaw, the way I know she loves.
“She had sort of an unconventional upbringing,” she breathes, distracted by my kisses. “But she’s probably home by now. Besides, we have barely left that apartment for a week.”
I can’t believe it’s only been a week since I showed up on her doorstep.
It feels like a lifetime I’ve been devoted to this woman.
I haven’t been back to Santa Barbara now for weeks, and as much as I don’t mind living out of a suitcase, I do have to go back tomorrow.
Then out to DC again, before coming back here. Back to Liv.
“You know, that apartment across the hall from us is still vacant,” she says, cupping my face and kissing me again.
“I thought we weren’t going to rush things?
” I tease, but my heart is hammering at the prospect of having a more permanent spot here.
In San Francisco, near Eli, but most of all, near her.
My thoughts swirl with daydreams of early morning oat milk lattes together and trips to the farmer’s market in the Ferry Building.
While Liv is right that we have spent most of the past week tangled up in each other, we did finally walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, and I smiled and took pictures like an idiot tourist the whole way. It was great. I want more of it.
“Oh,” she reached into her pocket. “I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.
” She slides the Chinatown engagement ring from when we were faking it across the table.
I looked down at the ring and up to her face.
“I just thought…” she stammers, seeing the hurt I was trying to hide.
“Now that we’re really dating, I should give back the fake engagement ring. ”
I thought about my sisters telling me not to rush things, to give her a little space. But here she was, the one already hinting at moving in together, while I was trying to take it slow. But I also boarded a plane here with no idea if she’d agree to see me again, and that worked out okay.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, picking up the ring and placing it back in her hand. “Why don’t you hang on to it, and if at some point you want to, let me know, and we’ll trade it for a real one?” I close her fingers around the ring and face forward, taking a sip of bourbon.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her spinning the ring and biting her lip slightly, the way I’ve quickly learned is her nervous tell.
Maybe I overstepped and pushed too far. But I also know we’ll be okay.
We can talk about it, share our concerns, and be real with each other.
We can share our fears and push back when it’s too much for either of us. We won’t break.
“I don’t know,” she says, and my throat tightens a little at the question in her voice.
“I kinda like this one.” She slips it back on her left hand and holds it out to inspect the glittery bauble.
I watch her with the ring—my ring—and I know I can’t wait for her to wear one for real.
But I meant what I said: whenever she’s ready.
“I think this is the real one,” she finishes and picks up her drink, leaving the ring in place.
“Like…” I stammer, “Like it’s the real one right now?”
“Yeah. You’re not the only one who knows what she wants when it’s right in front of her.”