Epilogue
There used to be television commercials post-championship football game win, when a reporter would ask the MVP, “What’s next?” Then they’d enthusiastically shout, “I’m going to Disney World!”
I was in one as a child star and got to pop the question once.
Speaking of popping questions, after Declan proposed, we remained at Disneyland, getting VIP treatment on all the rides. And guess what? I didn’t fall into a single fountain.
However, we didn’t go to Disney World for our honeymoon. I’ve had enough theme park excitement for a lifetime.
Not wanting to wait a second longer to say I do, Declan and I got hitched the next weekend.
We had an intimate wedding ceremony with Etta Jo and Giselle as my bridal party.
Coach Hammer gave me away and passed off the rings.
No, my parents didn’t show up, but that’s okay.
I didn’t want to have to confiscate their phones or kick out their ever-present cameraman.
We decided not to host a formal reception because the First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball is coming up fast. However, we did a mini reception at a fancy steak house, rented out a movie theater, and then went bowling.
It was a blast and reminded me of the kinds of things Declan and I used to do when we were in high school.
Were there pranks? Not on our big day, but I did hear two Bruisers giggling as they ran out of the bathroom at the bowling alley. When Brandon came out a few minutes later, there was some strongarming.
In the meantime, our honeymoon took us to sea on Declan’s yacht, where it was just the two of us for two swoony and blissy weeks.
When we got back, we attended the ball, and then I eagerly started my mobile cupcake business while Declan jumped into the season. So far, things are pretty sweet.
So that’s my status update and if you ever want to try a corn chip-inspired cake with chocolate frosting, look for a pink van with a cupcake on top outside football stadiums nationwide.
In fact, I’m parked outside one right now. Usually, on game days, I feature chocolate cupcakes with blue frosting—Bruiser themed.
But today I added a little something inside and I made enough for the entire stadium...with a little help. Okay, it was a herculean effort, but it’s a big game and I cannot wait to see my husband and best friend’s face on the Jumbotron when everyone bites into their cupcake at the same time.
Declan can go big, dropping into the courtyard at Etta Jo’s apartment by parachute, whisk me off to Los Angeles in his private jet, then propose to me at Disneyland.
But I have a surprise of my own up my sleeve, er, in the oven. Wink, wink.
Etta Jo bustles around, nervous for me. Giselle is as cool as a cucumber as she sets the cupcakes for the team on a platter.
“This was genius,” she says.
“Are you sure you want to do this at halftime? What if it throws Declan off his game?” Etta Jo asks.
“He’s laser-focused no matter what. I think this news will only be fuel to fight harder.”
“You mean play harder?” Etta Jo asks.
“It’s always a fight on the field for the ball,” Giselle says with a laugh, because her boyfriend’s team is the rival today.
“But not for your heart,” Etta Jo teases.
“Well, I make Garrison work for it a little bit. For instance, I don’t go to all his games. Don’t want him to get a bigger head than he already has.”
“Do you mean he has a special helmet?” Etta Jo asks, extremely concerned about player safety lately.
“No, I mean his ego. Any man who owns a yacht needs a good woman to keep him in check,” Giselle says.
“This is true,” I add.
“Keep him on his toes,” Giselle says.
“Prank him every once in a while.” I wink, thinking about the harmless and sweet April Fool’s style jokes Declan and I play on each other.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Etta Jo asks.
“No, we have rules. No pranks on Sundays or game days. Nothing that could maim, burn, or render the other incapacitated in any way for any amount of time.”
“Wow, you guys put a lot of thought into this,” Giselle says.
“A couple that laughs together, stays together.” I smile. “But there’s more.”
“We’d love to hear about it, but we ought to bring these cupcakes up. It’s almost go time and I don’t want to fumble this tray, have a team member slip in the frosting, and fall.”
“Etta Jo, they’re wearing cleats. They play in mud, snow, and ice. They’re tough, rugged guys,” Giselle says.
“All the same.”
Giselle and I exchange a look, wondering what’s gotten into our friend and her preoccupation with the guys’ safety.
Then I gasp but quickly stifle it with a swoony, blissy sound because now is not the time to reveal what I just figured out about Etta Jo and Brandon Campos. We are on a mission and it’s to share with Declan and the country, as it turns out, that he’s soon to be a father.
Cupcake trays in hand, the girls and I march toward the stadium. The crowd cheers when the halftime act wraps up. The announcer’s deep voice booms and everyone becomes relatively quiet. But my heart is loud in my ears as I step up to his booth and he introduces me.
Etta Jo and Giselle remain by my side. Both prepared with cupcakes and one for me.
“We have a special announcement that we need your help with. I’d like to introduce Maggie, the wife of number forty-four, Declan Printz.”
My hands shake slightly as I step in front of the microphone. Meanwhile, the vendors distribute the cupcakes to fans on both teams.
“Hello.” I sound like a squeaky mouse.
Then, remembering that my parents and the entire world will likely see this, I clear my throat and summon my skills as a child performer, only I’m a woman now and this moment is going to change my life and Declan’s.
“Thank you, everyone for being here today. You may have seen Maggie Cakes, my mobile cupcake company, at games and even tried some of my baked goods. Well, today, everyone gets a cupcake. I have some exciting news to share and I need your help, so don’t bite into it just yet.
We’re all going to do it together on the count of three. ”
I scan the sidelines on the field for my husband. He stands, helmet in hand, staring up at me, lips parted, eyes bright.
Waving, my smile grows and I continue, “Declan, we’re expecting.”
“A baby?” he shouts.
I nod. “But the question is...”
Etta Jo grips my hand and into the microphone, she says, “Pretty in pink or...”
Giselle leans in and adds, “Or baby in blue?”
I finish with, “Take a bite and you’ll have a clue. Now, on the count of three, bite into your cupcake and then everyone shout out the reveal.”
The stadium is silent for five seconds before the word, “Blue” erupts from all corners. Everyone cheers, black and blue confetti blasts, showering the crowd, and on the jumbotron, my husband is smiling so big you’d think he already won the game.
I rush down to the field. He runs toward me and before I set foot on the turf, he picks me up, swings me around, and says, “We’re having a baby?”
“A boy,” I add, in case that wasn’t clear, what with the cupcakes and confetti.
Declan picks me up again and the crowd is wild, cheering for us and offering congratulations. For once in my life, I don’t mind the spotlight shining because this time, it’s on us.
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Be sure to come right back to read a snippet of Cateline and Wolf’s story, The NOT Love List.
Chapter 1: Cateline
Concordia is best known for its chocolate cake—three layers of moist deliciousness cushioned by fluffy buttercream and topped with rich ganache.
As someone with what I privately call a “Chocolate tooth,” having easy access to this kind of confection is vitally important. For the uninitiated, a chocolate tooth is like a sweet tooth, but specifically for all things cocoa-related. My dentist does not approve.
The chocolate cake was but one of the pros of moving to Concordia. Another thing this small country is famous for are the sweeping views of the ocean to the south and the lush mountainsides that give way to impressive peaks to the north.
The third are the sunrises. I live for those. Don’t get me wrong, sunsets are pretty, but there’s something especially promising about a new day.
If you’re a night owl, please don’t hate this early bird.
Upon waking, my first thought is chocolate cake. Don’t judge.
My second one is much like a character in a fairytale cartoon, I envision rushing to the window, throwing open the curtains, and letting in the light of what’s sure to be a beautiful day.
However, I don’t dare because I’d risk stumbling over the shoes, clothes in need of dry cleaning, and the rest of my life scattered on my bedroom floor like confetti.
Also, it’s still dark out. Like clockwork, my body knows what day it is without having to look at the puppy-themed calendar on the wall. I guarantee that if any of my clients wandered in here, they wouldn’t believe this is the headmistress’s room. Like my chocolate tooth, I keep my mess to myself.
I flop back onto the mattress, but something pokes into my side.
I dig out one of my many black high heels—this one with scalloped detail on the top line.
One of my previous clients noticed that I have an assortment of black high heels—different heights, textures, and styles.
All black, all designer, all made to elongate my legs.
I suppose some habits don’t disappear after the thirty days they say it takes to break one.
How many years has it been since I gave up what everyone said was a promising future in ballet? Before I can make that calculation, something else pokes me.
I click on the dim light on my bedside table.
The piece of mail is addressed to me, Cateline Berghier.
The first one like this came a few months ago and they’ve increased in frequency.
I ignored it until last week and was instantly sorry that I opened it.
The immigration office regrets to inform me that my work visa has expired and blah, blah, blah.
I’ll deal with that problem later. After I get this school back on track and after I deal with today. Every year, in late March, a tsunami-sized wave of regret and relief washes over me.
Yes, it’s that big. I’m French and have been told I have a flair for the dramatic. Actually, my mother said that. But trust me, when it comes to her, I have my reasons.
To everyone else in the world, I’m calm, reasonable, and have the style and poise that got me the job as headmistress and ranks me as one of the top etiquette teachers in the world.
Take that, mère.
However, it’s my clients who have a flair for the dramatic, evidenced by them messing up their lives in such a way that necessitates character rehabilitation at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
Then again, I’m all too familiar with messes.
My private bedroom in the headmistress’s suite notwithstanding—this space is an exception.
The main room is tidy and organized, as it should be.
My room, not so much. There are only so many things I can stay on top of and this one I can leave behind the closed door.
About a decade ago, my entire life was a mess. I made a vow to be true to myself and have kept my word ever since. But that doesn’t stop me from pulling out the box at the back of my closet once every year to make sure I made the right choice.
After carefully picking my way across the room, and kicking aside yet another pair of black high heels, I open the closet. From the back, I pull out a box and remove the lid. My hand immediately lands on the pale pink tulle tutu. A ripple runs through me, landing deep in my stomach.
I set it to the side and remove the leotard, the tights, and at last, the ballet slippers—my satin pointe shoes. They’re as worn and beloved as I remember. My fingers smooth across the ties and the ripple inside turns into a tug.
As usual, I have a long day ahead, but this is something I get up early for once a year. It’s something I have to do. I owe it to the brave young woman who made a tough decision all those years ago.
There is only one way to confirm that I didn’t choose the wrong path.
As the sky lightens, I clear the furniture from the middle of the spacious main room in my suite.
As the headmistress, it’s the largest in the manor and aside from my bedroom, the tidiest. Ordinarily, I feel like it’s a bit excessive, given the financial situation at Blancbourg, but today, it’s necessary.
I draw a deep breath, already feeling warm from rearranging things, and rolling up the rug to reveal the hardwood floor. A pinkish-yellow light like a ripe peach filters into the room as the sun rises.
Next, I pull my hair into a smooth bun—not at the nape of my neck like how I usually wear it when working, nor is it the messy kind I wear on the top of my head when I’m alone—which is the rest of the time.
Even in the dim light, my fingers remember what to do without me needing to think about how to achieve the perfect ballerina bun. I did it too many times to count when I was growing up.
Work is my life now, but before that, it was ballet. Gaston, my dreadful barbarian of an ex, tried to slip in there, but when he revealed his true—and at times aggressive—motives, I said goodbye to love and hello to my future.
My best friend and former assistant, Gemma Nelson, thinks I could stand to let a little love into my life, but this way, I don’t have to clean my room, won’t have to share my chocolate, and don’t have to worry about heartbreak.
Relationships are messy and in my experience, they can be dangerous.
But before I made my great ballet escape, I’d been in what felt like a lifelong relationship with the guy my mother wanted me to marry and who was my dance partner.
When I wasn’t with Gaston (and often when I was), I practiced ballet before school and afterward until my mother eventually found a tutor and my schedule switched.
After that, I studied early in the morning and late into the night while spending the majority of the day dancing.
Then they sent me to the academy where I danced full-time.
After doing my hair, I pull on the tights, leotard, and tutu. Lastly, I grip a shoe in each hand. Closing my eyes, I feel the curve, the potential, the meaning. They are the final piece to the version of myself I’d left behind. When I put them on, I’ll dance and know if I did the right thing.
Like every other time I perform this annual ritual, my stomach flutters with reluctance and anxiety because what if something is different? What if I changed my mind? What if I lace up the shoes and realize I made the wrong choice?
I’ll have to live with that regret and tell my mother that she was right. She’d respond, It’s too late. You should have listened to me. You’re too old. You messed up.
Although my bedroom is a mess, I’m otherwise a perfectionist and can’t tolerate the thought of being wrong.
However, there is only one way to find out.
I slide my foot into one shoe and then the other. If anyone were watching, they’d witness a ceremonial, almost reverential, method to my lacing the ballet slippers around my ankles.
Next, I point and flex my feet, do a few ankle rolls, and then go through the steps that I performed daily over the span of years.
Afterward, I move through first position, second, third, fourth, and fifth, then continue with centre practice.
I do a few more warm-ups and then glide effortlessly across the floor, performing arabesques, grande jetés, and a pirouette as part of but one of the many choreographed dances that are etched into my DNA.
The movements are part of my muscle memory, having been drilled into me early and often.
It’s like my bones are the worn grooves of water over stone.
My body knows what to do.
But my mind?
My heart?
My mind pings me with a reminder that I have to get ready for work soon.
Although I don’t currently have any students, I’m actively looking for new coaches, have to plug a hole in our finances, and find someone to plug a hole in the roof—we had to let the groundskeeper go and I don’t want to ask Arthur to climb up there.
He’d do it, but I can’t risk anything happening to him.
In other words, I must be on my toes—pun not intended.
My mind is hungry to learn, grow, and pursue opportunities to further my career as an educator. To remain independent and provide myself with a secure future.
However, my heart... My heart beats out a rhythm that I wasn’t expecting. It catches me off guard and I stumble but quickly recover.
I assumed it would have the same response that it’s had for the last ten years that I’ve suited up on the anniversary of my decision to leave ballet. To leave France. To pursue a life for myself.
Closing my eyes, I press my hand against my chest. My heart races from exertion, leaving me more breathless than I’ve been in a long time. But there’s something else too. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
However, there isn’t time to try to figure it out right now. The church bells in the village where I attend worship service every week ring, signaling the hour. Panic jolts me into action. I danced longer than usual and lost track of time.
I quickly unlace my pointe shoes, tear off the tutu, leotard, and the tights—not taking the usual care to make sure they don’t snag and run.
As I shove everything back into the box, I pause when I glimpse the contents at the bottom. The many newspaper articles, clippings, programs from shows, and photographs draw my attention.
My heart lurches—probably strained from the effort of dancing.
I’ve been holding my breath and gasp. Something foreign and liquid springs to my eyes as I gaze at the image of a young woman.
She stands under the spotlight, perfectly poised in the traditional ballet stance with one arm lifted, one leg extended in a clean line as she gazes at the sky, in the distance, at her future.
From the photograph, an innocent seventeen-year-old girl looks back at me.
It is me. Who I once was.
The photo had been captured during my last performance. But there is no time for reminiscing. I rub my eyes and stow everything back in the closet. Hurrying as I rearrange the furniture, uneasiness wells inside.
“Things sure have changed,” I mutter. For some reason, I don’t think that’s all the change on the calendar this week.