Epilogue
HARPER
Ezra
There was one yogurt left. I ate it but I replaced it because I felt guilty, I just thought you should know so you don’t yell at me when the new one isn’t past the expiration date, God forbid you eat food before it spoils.
Me
Is that your way of saying eat my yogurt faster or don’t yell when you do it for me?
Ezra
You’re pretty!
SIX MONTHS LATER
G randma Blue swept back into the apartment like she’d never left—except she had an Italian scarf around her neck, a tan, and a look that screamed you two better have been productive while I was gone.
She sniffed the air, zeroed in on Ezra, and narrowed her eyes. “Hmph. Still smells like sexual deviant. At least you’re consistent.”
“Welcome home,” Ezra said dryly, flipping a pancake onto a plate. “Would you like breakfast before or after you lecture us?”
“Both.” She plopped down at the table, then peered over her glasses at me. “So. Where’s my great-grandchild?”
I choked on my orange juice. “Grandma!”
Ezra thumped me on the back, smirking. “You’re not even subtle about it.”
“Don’t need to be.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “The world’s been watching you two argue, kiss, argue again, and post increasingly questionable cooking livestreams. You think I flew all the way back from Florence just to eat pancakes? I expect results.”
“Results?” Ezra repeated. “What is this, a group project?”
Grandma smirked. “Exactly. And I’m the supervisor.”
Ezra sighed, slid an arm around my waist, and kissed my temple—smug, soft, completely him. “We’ll get there,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Right now, we’re still figuring out the practice stage.”
Grandma clapped. “Practice makes perfect. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Ezra groaned, I buried my face in his shoulder, and the comments section of our latest livestream exploded with #GrandmaBlueForPresident.
Some things never change.
And some things? Finally, beautifully, did.