Epilogue February
Some people hate February, especially in Chicago, because it’s when the long, dark slog of actual winter really settles over the city. The holidays are all in the rearview mirror, with endless cold nights stretching out ahead. I used to be one of those people. But not anymore. Now, I appreciate all those long, dark nights. They give you an excuse to stay in, and reflect, and maybe even find ways to keep yourself warm.
Bleary, still blinking away the sleep, I pick my phone up from my bedside table where it’s still plugged in. It’s 6:58 a.m., which means in two minutes, my alarm is going to go off. But it’s Sunday, and I don’t have anywhere to be. So I slide my finger across the alarm, canceling the seven-o’clock wakeup, and roll over.
Josh is staring at me, eyes comically wide.
I yelp, and he laughs.
“Morning,” he says.
“I thought you were still sleeping,” I say, digging my fingers into his ribs and tickling him. “Don’t stare at me like that, it’s creepy!”
“Sorry, luv,” he says, still chuckling.
“No, you’re not!”
I like this side of him, the one that’s still so new to me. The goofy, endearing side, so much warmer than the banter that first drew me in. I love how when it’s just us, he’s so playful. I would never have guessed that this man was the king of terrible dad jokes. He’s also tender, and incredibly attentive. He rubs my back and asks about my day. He remembers my coworkers’ names. When I took him out for drinks with Carlos, Bryan, and Sasha last week, he was engaging and animated, but when we slipped into bed that night he asked shyly if I thought they liked him.
I know they matter to you , he said. I want that best-friend seal of approval.
I assured him that they liked him. Which they very much did. Bryan had even texted post-drinks to say I adore your Jewnicorn , but I kept that detail to myself.
“Hey,” Josh says. His accent paired with his intensely serious face makes every word sound so formal. “I’ve been meaning to say... I still think about what an idiot I was early on, not telling you about my kids and all that. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. Don’t know why it’s still sometimes so hard to just...just say it, you know?”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, meaning it. “I get it.”
There are things I didn’t tell you , I think. Things I never can.
“I just didn’t want to... I don’t know,” he says, taking my hands in his, kissing my knuckles. “Scare you off, I suppose.”
“I don’t scare easy,” I assure him.
“I want to be real with you,” he says.
“That’s my favorite thing about you,” I tell him. “You’re real.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then,” he says. “Well. In the spirit of being real. I really have to piss.”
“So romantic,” I say, rolling my eyes.
While Josh is in the bathroom, I quickly scroll through my phone. Bryan sent Sasha and me a midnight text, a selfie of him with little Chela.
Bryan: She does not sleep. But God, she’s cute.
I heart the image.
I miss having Bryan and Sasha at the office. But sleepless nights aside, Bryan loves being the stay-at-home dad who can take on a freelance gig here and there. And the new senior account executive position at Ogilvy has been great for Sasha. Seeing how much happier they both are makes me wonder if I should jump ship soon, too. But for now, I’m riding the wave of being seen as the Java-Lo account savior.
Amy loved the headlines and rationale I’d sent her right before the wedding. She took them to the group creative director on the Java-Lo account, who immediately brought none other than Bryan in to draft some visual concepts. They took them in to the big pitch before the holiday break, and the client went absolutely bananas for the simple Hi, Lo headline, paired with the concept of seeing Java-Lo everywhere you go. It’s inspiring them to push their home line and their corporate standbys simultaneously, which they’ve never done before. They’re buying up billboards nationwide. Amy made sure everyone knew that it was my ideas that saved the day.
It’s nice not to feel like the anonymous new kid at Mercer & Mercer anymore. No one calls me Neve anymore, and I chat with all of my coworkers, instead of only my little clique of Sasha and Bryan. I even have lunch with Nancy once a week or so, which isn’t something I ever would have predicted.
At our first lunch together, she told me about her messy divorce just over a year ago. I really lost it for a while there , she said. I even made this voodoo doll of my ex, like with some of the hair I found on his old comb. And I swear when I poked it, bad things really did happen to him. Like, he got COVID and stuff. Do you think that’s crazy?
No , I told her. I actually don’t.
She smiled, and it occurred to me again that everyone gets hurt, and finds their own—sometimes legitimately insane—ways to cope. No one’s perfect, and certainly not me. I’m working on it, but I have a long way to go. I can admit now that I’d written Nancy off way too early. She’s just a person piecing her life back together, like most of us. And her energy is kind of infectious, and there are some definite perks to befriending the office gossip.
Like being one of the first to hear when that godawful Barry from corporate got fired right after the New Year, which was enough to make me want to stay with Mercer & Mercer a little while longer. I know eventually I’ll leave advertising. Maybe take on a nonprofit role, something that pays less but makes me feel like I’m making a difference in the world. But change doesn’t happen overnight. Even when I know what I need to do, it takes me a hot minute to do it, and that’s probably going to be true for a little while longer.
“I’m back,” says Josh, slipping under the covers and shimmying up against me. “And your bathroom floors are cold as faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.”
He puts his icicle toes on top of my warm feet. I squeal, shoving him away. But then he pulls me close and kisses me, and soon, everything’s warm again. More than warm. Hot. I kiss him slowly, intentionally. I love how soft his lips are. He pulls me up against him, and I love the hard part of him, too.
“Faaaaaack meee,” I say, in the worst British accent ever.
“You makin’ fun of me?” Josh says, and somehow his Brooklyn accent is worse than my British one.
“Per’aps I yam,” I say. “But I’m also puttin’ in a request. Guvnah.”
He laughs so hard that he snorts, then kisses me with such intensity that I melt right into him. When we’re done ravaging each other in the bed, I lead him into the shower. There is no fear of him disappearing or falling apart when the water touches his perfectly human flesh. He washes my hair, massaging my head with his strong fingers, slick soap and hot water running down our bodies.
“Hey,” he says, wrapping one of my periwinkle-blue towels around his waist after stepping out of the shower. I admire the dark curls of his robust chest hair, the lean muscles of his arms, the slightly soft curve of his stomach. Hello, tum , I think, grateful for how accepting he is of my appetite—which is no longer ravenous, but still significant. And even more grateful for the other appetite he awakens in me. “I’m starving. Want to go get some bagels?”
“Ugh, yes,” I say, nodding and slipping into my purple robe. “Bagels sound so good. I’m starving.”
“I’ll pop across the hall and get dressed,” he says.
“You’re going to go out in the hall like that?” I ask, tugging at the edge of the towel covering the lower half of him. “What if one of the neighbors sees you?”
“Lucky them,” he says with a cheeky grin, waggling his thick, dark brows. “Meet you in the hallway, then?”
Josh leaves, and I can’t stop smiling the whole time as I get dressed, put on deodorant, and towel-dry my hair. I skip the diffuser for time’s sake, instead twisting my curls and piling them on top of my head in a scrunchie. I grab my warmest hat and inelegantly jam it down on top of my hair. It’s going to be a puffy, frizzy mess later, but I don’t even care. I’m making progress in some ways, if not in all ways.
There’s so much I’m looking forward to now. I’m taking Josh with me when I visit Rosie and Ana in St. Louis next month. If Mom has her way, we’ll be joining her for Shabbat services the week after that. Bestie Brunch will be the following weekend. Then, for what would have been my dad’s seventy-fifth birthday in April, my mother and sister and I will go have giant overstuffed sandwiches with garlic pickles at his favorite deli.
My calendar has gone from empty to full, and I’m grateful that this season is so much warmer than the last. It’s cold outside, though, so I’ll need my new winter coat. The one I bought on sale right after the holidays. Yet another lesson from my dad: snag the deal without skimping on quality.
When I get to the front hall closet, I hesitate before opening it, just for a second. Then I exhale, twist the handle, and pull open the door. Front and center, I see my good winter coat. It’s an evergreen North Face jacket, nestled in among many other, less-worthy coats.
And there in the far corner, hidden from view by all the silently hanging winter wear, is the reassuring form of my slumbering golem.
His eyes are closed, his forehead still smudged. He’s not destroyed, only dormant. He won’t hurt anyone, because this monster will never move or breathe again.
Unless I need to wake him up.