Epilogue
JOHNNY
I was about to become Bloom Matchmaking Agency’s latest success story.
It was May in Chicago, and we’d brought my bike down from the distillery last weekend—wanting it to enjoy on those sunny days, to ride along the lake. Poppy’s arms were wrapped around my waist, her hands linked together, an emerald sparkling on her left hand.
She’d said yes just last night.
Then she’d reached out to Sophie to talk about next steps…to talk about kids.
This was what made Bloom different, of course—matchmaking from making the match in the first place, to marriage, to having kids. Poppy said it was where Sophie really thrived, where she enjoyed the work the most. She liked seeing couples fall in love and have babies.
And I wanted to give Poppy babies more than I’d wanted most things in my life.
“Is it weird that I’m nervous?” she asked as she dismounted and pulled her helmet off, looking around. “I mean…it’s kind of weird that I work here and now I’m going to be talking to my boss about like…how many kids we want to have, how often we’re having sex…”
"It's a little weird," I said. "But Sophie's seen everything. She's not going to blink."
"She's going to blink," Poppy said. "It's me."
I took the helmet from her and hung it off the handlebar, then caught her hand—the left one, the ring catching the May sunlight the same way it had caught the candlelight last night when she'd looked at it for the first time.
She'd cried a little. Pretended she hadn't. I'd let her pretend.
"You've sat in on probably a hundred of these conversations," I said. "You know exactly how it goes."
"That's different. I was on the other side of the desk.
" She looked up at the greystone, the window boxes Sophie had replanted for spring, the small hand-painted sign. She was here for work and for the meeting—still had her job and didn’t intend on leaving anytime soon—but I could tell she was seeing it in a different light. “I’ve never been a client before."
"You're not just a client," I said. "You're Poppy."
She looked at me.
"Which means Sophie already knows everything she needs to know about you," I said. "She just needs to meet me on this side of the desk."
Poppy considered that. Then she squeezed my hand.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go make some babies."
I laughed—surprised out of me, the way she still managed to do at least once a day—and followed her up the front steps of the place where I'd spent two years finding elaborate reasons to linger, finally walking in as exactly what I was.
Hers.
Jasper was waiting at the desk, and his eyes darted up with a sly grin as soon as the door chimed.
“Ah…Mr. and Mrs. Lawson, here for your eight o’clock?” he said.
Poppy rolled her eyes. “Stop. I just saw you yesterday.”
“Yeah, but you were clocking out then and now you’re here for an appointment,” he said. “A big fancy appointment with your big fancy—” His eyes darted to Poppy’s hand. “Oh my god. Fiancé?”
Poppy gave him a bashful nod. “Mmhm.”
Jasper stood up and rounded the desk to grab her hand. “Ugh. It’s gorgeous. When the hell did this happen?”
“Last night,” I said. “But…I don’t get credit. She picked it out herself.” He gave me a look. “Also. I’m not fancy.”
“But he is big,” Poppy blurted out.
My eyes widened as I stared at her.
She shrugged.
“No secrets here,” she said.
I looked at Jasper.
“Okay,” he said, going back around the desk with slightly pink ears. “Noted. Moving on…for now.” He pulled something up on the screen, then glanced over at the door. “Sophie should be ready for you.”
“Thanks, Jasper,” I said.
“Congratulations,” he said.
We walked toward the consult room, Poppy leaning in to nudge me. “Sorry…he’s always messing with me and I figure turnabout’s fair play—”
I snorted. “You can brag about my dick to whoever you want, baby.”
Now it was her turn to blush.
Poppy opened the door and stepped through first, with me following.
Sophie was sitting on the other side of her desk—a setting I remembered well from my many appointments here, though I hadn’t had one since a first consult after me and Poppy came clean about being together back in December.
Since then, Sophie had left it to us; we hadn’t needed much guidance, turns out.
Love is like that. The algorithm worked.
“You nervous?” Sophie asked with a wink as Poppy slumped to a seat.
“Of course I am,” Poppy said right away. “I mean…I know what you talk about in these appointments and I just—I know you too well to feel like that’s even a little bit appropriate.”
Sophie laughed and shook her head.
“Just want to get our ducks in a row since you both said you want kids and you set this as the date you wanted to start trying.” Her eyes darted to Poppy’s hand. “And…I see he got a yes?”
Poppy scowled. “You knew?”
“He may or may not have asked if I thought you would like the ring,” Sophie said.
Poppy turned to look at me.
I kept my face completely neutral.
"You asked Sophie about the ring," she said.
"I asked Sophie if emeralds were appropriate," I said. "She has good taste."
"He wanted to get it right," Sophie said. "And he did."
Poppy looked at the ring. Then at me. Then at Sophie.
"I'm surrounded," she said.
"You're loved," Sophie said simply, and opened her notebook. "Now. Let's talk about making you a mother."
Poppy exhaled and sat up straighter in the chair, like she was squaring herself for it. I reached over and took her hand, the emerald warm under my thumb.
Sophie looked at us both for a moment.
"I've been doing this a long time," she finally said. "And I want you to know that this—" she gestured between us, "—is exactly why I do it. Not the algorithm. Not the intake forms." She clicked her pen. "This."
Poppy smiled over at me.
"Okay," Sophie said, all business again, the warmth tucked back under the professionalism. "You're both healthy. You're both clear on what you want. So let's talk about how we get you there."
“Lots of sex, I assume,” Poppy said.
A blush painted her cheeks at the ensuing silence.
“I mean…god, I know there’s more to it—”
“Well, not really,” Sophie laughed. “You’re off the pill?”
“As of this morning.”
“Good,” Sophie nodded. “Alright. Well—there are tools you can use to try and make it happen faster. You know the—”
“—the Bloom app, right.” Poppy nodded. “I’ve shown enough people how to use it at this point that I think I could recite the instructions by heart.”
Sophie smiled. "Then you know what you're doing." She made a note. "How are you feeling about the timeline? You said you wanted to start now—is that still where you both are?"
"Yes," Poppy and I said at the same time.
Sophie looked up.
"Okay," she said. "Good." She looked at me specifically then—direct, assessing, the midwife underneath the matchmaker. "Johnny. Any concerns on your end? Questions?"
"None," I said.
"You're aware that at your age—"
"I'm aware," I said. "We've talked about it. Whatever it takes, however long it takes."
Sophie nodded, satisfied, and made another note. "I'll want to do a full workup on both of you. Standard protocol." She set her pen down. "And I want you to know that whatever comes next—whether it happens quickly or takes some time—you're not doing it alone. That's what this place is for."
Poppy's hand tightened in mine.
"I know," she said softly. "I've always known that. I just didn't think I'd be on this side of it."
"Neither did I," Sophie said. And something in her voice made me look at her more carefully—something that wasn't quite professional distance, something that had been there the whole time underneath it.
She wanted this for us. Had probably wanted it for longer than either of us knew.
"Alright," she said, clicking her pen closed. "Go home. Start trying." She looked at Poppy over the desk. "And Poppy—I'll see you at your desk in an hour."
Poppy gaped at her. “Are you—are you telling me to—”
“Go home and start trying, like I said,” she laughed. “Unless…you already feel like you’ve tried enough for the day?”
“She’ll see you in an hour,” I said, taking her hand and standing up.
Sophie laughed louder.
Minutes later, we stepped out into the May morning, the door chiming behind us. Poppy stood at the top of the steps for a second, looking out at the street—the trees in full leaf, the light coming through them, a Saturday morning in Lincoln Park.
"She told me to go home and have sex," she said.
"Professionally."
"Professionally told me to go home and have sex." She looked at me. "My boss."
"Your boss who matched us," I said. "Your boss who has been doing this for ten years and knows exactly what she's doing."
Poppy considered that.
"Okay," she said. "When you put it like that."
I took her hand—the left one, the ring warm in the sun—and walked her down the steps to the bike.
She put the cobalt blue helmet on without being asked. The one with the Sharpie drawings from when Cassius and Marco were teenagers, the one that was hers now in every way that mattered.
I got on first. She climbed on behind me, arms around my waist, chin tucked against my shoulder.
Same as November. Same as always.
"John," she said, into my jacket.
"Yeah."
"I'm really glad you kept coming back to that front desk."
I started the bike.
"Love at first sight does that to a man,” I murmured.
Then we took off, driving up the street…
…driving home.
To start trying.
THE END