Epilogue
Elias
For three years, I’ve been imagining how I’d celebrate finally completing my scholarship and getting accepted into one of the hardest doctoral programmes in the world.
The fantasy’s taken many shapes over the years: a massive party with all my Harvard friends, colleagues, the Brotherhood.
A crashing blow-out, drinking myself to pitch-black oblivion.
Taking Dess to Paris, spinning her around the dance floor of a fancy Parisian club.
But actually, on the day in question, I end up wanting only one thing.
It’s late on a Friday night. Cambridge is dipped in a pink sunset, with the buzz of end-of-academic-year festivity drifting through the streets.
Music spilling out of bars and apartments, groups of girls in sparkly dresses sipping pre-drinks in the windows of cheap restaurants.
Tipsy students in May Ball black tie wandering to the river in chatty, stumbling clusters.
Tired professors, finally free from the shackles of wrangling undergrads and marking papers, are pouring out of the various campus buildings in groups, dumping book boxes in the backs of their cars or swapping bottles of cheap champagne—their measly reward for dragging their students kicking and screaming through the academic year.
I’ve not slept a full night for the past three weeks. The problem with being a star student in a small elite class of only eleven equally stellar students is that there’s no hiding. No coasting. The best is the bare minimum—exceptional is what’s expected.
That’s meant pulling all-nighter after all-nighter.
Hunched over a computer in the lab, analysing simulation datasets and arguing over equations with the other lab assistants who are all just as sleep-deprived and on edge.
Or camping in a well-defended corner of Harvard Library with Vaanya Singh and Victor Banks, meticulously combing through each other’s thesis bibliographies.
At one point, Vic dropped his head onto the desk so hard the thunk made us all jump.
“I fucking hate space,” he said.
Which—well, yeah. When you study it, you kind of have to hate it about as much as you have to love it. Just like the elegance of a symmetrical equation—all things in balance.
Vaanya laughed and I’d gotten up and trudged downstairs to grab him what must’ve been his fifth cup of coffee… that evening.
They’ve both been accepted into the doctoral programme with me; I wonder how they’re celebrating tonight.
Vaanya, who’s been on a self-inflicted vow of chastity since starting her senior thesis, swore to go on three dates in one night, and Vic’s been talking a big game all year about how he’s going to try a Class A drug for the first time tonight, but I’d put money on the fact they’ll both be passed out in bed before the sun’s fully set.
Not that I’m making fun of them.
I’m about to do the exact same thing.
Not for the first time, I curse myself for choosing to live in an old refurbished ink factory with no lift.
The old industrial river zone had felt like a good idea at the time—nice and far from the popular bars and takeaways, but with an old bakery down the road, and two cheap but reliable coffee shops overlooking the Charles.
Our apartment is on the seventh floor, and today of all days, the stairs feel especially interminable.
Downstairs, I’m greeted with a handful of cards in the mailroom, including a big black hand-painted card, complete with silver stars, from Ophelia, a beautiful, gold-embossed one from Sophie and Evan, and a formal letter of solemn congratulations on official Oxford stationery from Benjamin.
Pretentious asshole. I grin as I collect my cards, and begin the climb up to the apartment.
By the time I get to our door, I have to stop, forehead pressed to the smooth wood, and gather the will to continue.
I grab my key and slide it into the lock automatically, but the door’s already unlocked. My back immediately straightens as I perk up.
Pushing the door open, I drop my backpack next to the rickety wooden console. There’s an enormous bouquet of flowers there. A truly garish display: bright orange Gerbera daisies, hot pink lilies, dyed blue orchids, and a gobsmacking amount of pink roses, all crammed into shiny gold wrapping.
With a wince, I reach for the card sitting next to it and flip it. In a tight scrawl—handwritten—it reads:
Congratulations, fuckwit.
Come to Russia soon.
Dimitri
I laugh to myself and shake my head, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl next to the flowers. With everything he’s dealing with in Russia, it’s the last place I want to go to, but guess we’ll all be going there… for the wedding.
Fuck, and isn’t that a whole other can of worms nobody wants to open. Nobody except Dimitri, apparently. Imagine wanting someone so much that you’d rather trap them into marrying knowing full well they’ll never forgive you for it, and still doing it.
After the things I’ve done in my life, maybe I shouldn’t judge. I cast the ugly bouquet one last glance. Desdemona’s going to hate having those in the flat—but that was probably part of the fun for Dimitri. And talking of Desdemona…
The apartment is still, silent, and dark.
None of the lamps are on, and the only light is the dreamy pink glow from the sunset coming in through the windows.
I frown, glancing around. Desdemona’s equipment bag is dropped in one corner, her racket cover propped next to it.
Both Ralph Lauren, naturally, since she’s officially one of their ambassadors.
I smirk to myself, thinking about her pink cheeks when I flipped through the Vogue spread they did on her.
Mortified, she’d try to snatch the magazine from me, but I’d still gotten a good look.
Despite all the insanely gorgeous shots of Desdemona on a tennis court, her long legs in long white socks and white heels she’d never wear anywhere near a court in real life, or her exposed stomach while she poses with her racket high and her jumper riding up, my favourite photo is the one they put on the cover.
A black-and-white shot where she’s wearing a simple oversized blazer over a sports bra, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, backlit by the sun.
Her posture is relaxed and her gaze is direct.
Her expression is serious, commanding, a little intimidating.
Somehow, the photographer managed to capture the exact essence of Desdemona: not just a talented young woman—but a force of nature.
“Sweetheart?” I call, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it on the back of the couch. “You in here?” Silence. I grin slyly to myself. “Don’t make me look for you, love, you know what’ll happen when I find you.”
No answer. Hm, that usually works.
She’s in between tournaments at the moment, but she’s been training every day, so maybe she’s just arrived and is still in the shower.
The thought gives me a boost of energy I’ve not felt in weeks.
Rolling back the sleeves of my shirt—because of course, this is Harvard, and just because it’s the day of your senior thesis deadline doesn’t mean you can get out of running office hours for lost and confused first-years—I make my way into the bedroom.
I push open the door and—
A popping noise punctures the silence, and an explosion of sparkling confetti blows up in my face.
I take a step back, genuinely taken aback. The gold sparkles disperse, spinning away, revealing a beaming Desdemona. “Congratulations!”
She looks well and truly proud of herself. She’s clearly been planning this for a while: she has that arrogant look on her face like she’s pulled something off. I allow myself the sheer indulgent pleasure of looking at her.
She’s wearing a designer party dress: white satin, tailored to the nearest Planck length, hints of lace so delicate it’s practically a figment of the imagination.
A necklace of pearls, the tiny tennis bracelet of white diamonds on her wrist, overlapping her O tattoo.
But she’s also still barefoot; her hair’s not up yet, it’s draped on her shoulders like a heavy golden cloak.
My heart melts, cracks as if from unbearable heat.
I move through the cloud of confetti before it’s even finished fluttering away. I catch Desdemona up into my arms and kiss her right on her triumphant smile.
“What’s all this, then?” I ask her between kisses.
“You said you wanted to celebrate in style, didn’t you?
” she says, breathless with kissing. She tears herself from my embrace only long enough to grab a bottle of champagne that’s waiting in a silver bucket, so cold it’s sweating, but I drag her back to me even as she speaks.
“I got us some champagne, and I’ve booked—”
I take the champagne away from her, put it back down. “Forget about that.”
“Are you kidding?” She laughs, turning to free her mouth from mine, but that’s fine, because I love kissing her cheek, which I do, her jaw, her neck, where her perfume smells sweetest. “It’s that restaurant downtown we’ve always said we should try, the one with a three-hundred-year waitlist.”
“Only one thing in this world is worth waiting three hundred years for,” I breathe against her neck, sucking gently on the spot right above her pulse.
“Then you can wait until we get back,” she says, but she’s shuddering, and beneath the stiff satin of her dress, her nipples have pebbled, pushing against the fabric, and I give one of them a not-so-gentle swipe of my thumb, and Desdemona’s back arches.
Outside the windows, the sun has almost disappeared behind the horizon, leaving one final ruby ray behind.
And because this is our bedroom—Desdemona’s tennis skirt folded over the arm of the chair next to the window, and my old Carl Sagan paperbacks stacked on the windowsill, and Desdemona’s hairpins and brush on the silver tray next to the bed—our pillows, our bed, our space, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d want to be right now.