Epilogue
I was pretty sure Reagan put on this big shindig simply to make Harvey uncomfortable.
She was hosting a viewing party for a montage of his three commercials he had filmed for Devil Tears.
She'd had people in to clear out the lower level of the office building, brought in chairs, got a projector and screen, rented popcorn and slushy machines, invited just about everyone she knew, including Harvey's friends who, apparently, did not know he was going to be the new spokesperson, and were having a hell of a time ribbing him about it.
"You're evil," I told her as she moved in at my side, handing me a glass of whiskey.
An actual glass. Because Reagan refused to use plastic even for social events.
Then again, it probably shouldn't have surprised me.
On top of being conscious of plastic waste, she had been raised differently.
There were no backyard barbecues with red Solo cups and throw-away plates.
No. She'd always known catered events with real glass, with real china for chrissakes.
"He puts on a good show, but he is just as excited about this as I am. As we all are," she clarified. "Have I thanked you for the idea yet?" she asked, bumping her hip to mine.
"Yes."
"Well, thank you again. I think this is going to be a huge hit."
She'd been pulling a lot of late nights. Then, after I dragged her to bed, I often woke up to find her fiddling around with the mockups from the graphic designer for new promotional materials.
Reagan didn't do much by halves. When she was in, she was all in.
And now that she had settled things with her family, now that they had loosened up the reins a little, so focused as they were on their own project, she was running with it, doing everything in her power to make her business something she could be proud of.
She didn't need the money.
Which made her ambition all the more admirable in my eyes. I'd never worked as hard at anything as she did at rebranding her company.
It was humbling.
And I wanted nothing more than for her to succeed.
We would soon see.
"That better be apple juice," Reagan said, voice slipping into a mom-tone as Calvin moved over toward us, something a suspicious shade in his glass.
"Alcohol is bad," he agreed, voice dry. "That's why we work at a whiskey company," he added. Then took a long sip of something I knew for damn sure wasn't apple juice.
"Thanks for inviting me," Marley said, moving into our little circle. "My mom didn't want me to come on a school night, but my dad talked her into it."
"Heaven forbid you leave the convent for a night, right?"
Marley's eyes rolled as she leaned forward, sniffing at his glass before giving Reagan a firm look. "That is alcohol in his glass. He is clearly underaged."
"Mind your business, narc," Calvin shot back, taking a long sip as he looked right at her.
Reagan and I shared a look, one that said we were both starting to suspect Krissy had been right about the two of them.
"You're incorrigible."
"And you're a captious brat," Calvin shot back sending her steely glare before swaggering off.
"I... I can't believe he called me a brat,” she said at his retreating form. "For someone who uses as many four-letter words as he does, he actually has a great vocabulary. And 'brat' is the best he can come up with?" she asked, face scrunching up.
"You're going to take offense to 'brat' and not 'captious?'" Regan asked.
"Well, I do tend to find fault in him. He just has so many of them. Anyway, yeah, I'm excited to see the commercial. I think this company can really go places. I mean as far as a liquor company can go anyway."
"Gee, thanks Marley," Reagan said to the girl who clearly didn't pick up on the sarcasm.
"She really doesn't mean to come off like that," she added to me as Marley spotted Calvin reaching for a bottle again, mumbling “unbelievable” before charging off to try to stop him.
"She just has really lofty ideas in life. "
"She's going to have her ass handed to her in life if she doesn’t rein it in a bit."
"Well," Reagan said, watching as the two kids leaned in close, having a whisper-fight right there in front of everyone else.
"I think Calvin is doing his best to prepare her for the bull-headedness she is going to face in whatever career path she chooses to go into.
Oh, boy," she said, grimacing when Marley tried to grab the glass out of Calvin’s hand as he rose it to drink, Calvin fighting to hold onto it, making the whiskey surge up in the glass and spill onto Marley's shoes.
We were too far away, but we could both imagine the conversation—fight—that followed. About not wanting to smell like alcohol, about getting in trouble. Then Calvin shooting back that she is being dramatic and needs to calm down.
Eventually, he bent down, taking off her shoes, moving to stand, realizing she was wiping tears off her cheeks.
The stricken look on his face was priceless. And I was a dick for thinking that since I was sure I'd had that same look on my face when Reagan cried in front of me the first time.
He went to say something, causing Marley to turn and run barefoot out of the building. There was a pause before he jogged behind her, face contrite.
"I don't need the commercial," Krissy said, moving in at my side. "I just want to see the end of the Calvin and Marley show."
"You're going to have to wait a while," I said, shrugging.
"What? Why?"
"Because Calvin just turned eighteen,” I told her. “She's officially off-limits. He might be a delinquent, but he's not stupid.”
"Damn," Krissy said, sighing. "Oh, well. The anticipation for season two always makes it all the better when it premiers. Oh, hey, Luis is here!" she declared, beaming.
“We are going to have to pick those two up from some dive bar tonight, aren’t we?" I asked as Krissy walked over to Luis, wrapping her arms around him.
"Who are you kidding? They're going to drag us out with them. Apologize to your liver ahead of time," she added, cringing.
"I dunno. Think it could be fun if things end up like this again," I said, reaching for my phone, finding the picture Krissy and her brother had sent me from that one night out.
"I am going to get them back for that someday," she vowed.
"Dunno, baby. Don't think they're the type to care if half-naked selfies get around."
"True," she agreed, sighing. "Oh, we're ready!" she declared when the guy she'd hired to handle the technical parts of the night gave her a thumbs up. "I'll round up in here. You go make sure no one is outside."
Marley pushed past me, running upstairs to likely wash her feet. Outside, I found Calvin leaning down near the side of the building, spraying down Marley's shoes with a hose.
Seeing me move in, his head angled up, eyes dark. "She's so fucking pissed at me," he said, shaking his head.
"Noticed that. In my experience, girls don't like being called brats."
"Then she should stop being one," he insisted, stubborn in all his eighteen-year-old confidence.
"You wouldn't be so into her if she wasn’t exactly who she is," I shot back.
"I'm not into her."
"No? Could have fooled me. Looked pretty bent outta shape that you made her cry."
"Just because I don't like making chicks cry doesn't mean I'm into them," he insisted, jaw getting tight.
To that, my lips curved up, wondering if I had been as stupid as he was being. Probably. Probably more than a few times. I suddenly had a whole new respect toward King for putting up with me when I was Calvin's age.
"Good luck with the denial game, kid. Let me know how that works out for you in the long run. The commercials are about to air."
"I can't watch the commercials. I have to clean her fucking shoes," he grumbled.
When I got back to the door, I found Reagan standing there, smiling at me. It was a smile I didn't quite recognize, but it was warm and interested and curious.
"What, babe?"
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"If you want to put up with that in about twenty years."
"Put up with what? More delinquents?"
"Yeah. But maybe ones we made."
We hadn't done much of the long-term talking. We both figured there would be time for it, that we had other stuff on our plates at present.
We hadn't discussed kids.
"Want 'em if you give 'em to me," I told her, arms going around her lower back.
"Maybe a couple I made. Maybe a couple we invite in?" she asked, tone a little hesitant.
Adoption mattered to her. Of course it did. She'd been adopted. Luis had been adopted. Sammy had been adopted. They'd never have been able to be a family if not for that.
"Whatever way they come to us," I assured her. "Hopefully, we don't get one of those smartasses," I said, jerking my head toward Calvin behind me.
"Oh, Nixon. I'm pretty sure that any kid of yours is going to be a smartass. You're just going to need to resign yourself to that fact."
She was probably right.
And I was excited to someday find out.
Reagan - 6 months
"It's, um, it has a lot of character," I said, trying to choose my words carefully.
Nixon had called me earlier to say that our house hunt was officially over, that he found the perfect place for us.
We'd long ago decided that his place was too small for more than him, and that mine didn't have what we wanted to have for the long term. A yard. More bedrooms. Room to grow.
I'd handed off the task to Nixon since he knew more about foundations and electrical and whatnot than I ever would. We agreed to visit the ones he liked most out of the lot when he narrowed it down.
I thought we'd visit at least half a dozen houses.
Then he'd come home to tell me he'd found the one.
I wasn't prepared for it.
And by that, I mean I was not prepared for Nixon's dream house to be hideous.
There was no other way to describe it.
It was hideous.
A two-story colonial with a sand-colored brick front, an assortment of atrocious wallpaper, crumbling tile that should not have ever been sold in shades of pink, mint, and yellow, with wood paneling, and a shocking lack of windows.