Epilogue
MANUELA
Fourteen months later
“Manu, babe,” Connor calls the second he walks into the apartment.
The door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the hallway, and I hear the dull thump of his shoes hitting the floor as he kicks them off.
His steps move closer, unhurried but with purpose, like he’s already tracking me by sound. “Babe.”
“Nooooooo, go away,” I call back, loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the bathroom fan.
“What are you doing in there?” His voice is curious, not suspicious, and I can feel the smile on his handsome face.
“Nothing! Go away!” I start laughing, because of course the boundaries don’t exist in this relationship. It’s like the moment we set foot in the same space, he wants to be right next to me, breathing my air. I don’t blame him; the feeling is mutual. But can’t a girl pluck her chin hairs in peace?
“Connie,” I say, raising my voice so it carries through the closed door, “I say this with all the love in the world, but get the fuck away from this bathroom.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” His footsteps stop just outside. I can picture him leaning against the doorframe, head tilted, waiting for me to slip.
“Connor,” I say, trying to keep my tone even as I angle the tweezers toward my reflection, “I’m just finishing up with something.”
“You’re just doing your makeup,” he says, like it’s an accusation. “I want to tell you what happened at work today.”
“Connor!” I set the tweezers down with a soft clink and throw my hands up at the mirror. “Let me pluck my chin hairs in peace!”
There’s a pause, then a surprised, almost offended, “What chin hairs? You don’t have any chin hairs.” I hear the shift in his voice—a thread of concern under the teasing.
“Well,” I reply, meeting my own eyes in the mirror, “apparently, once you turn thirty-four, everything goes south.”
“South where?” he shoots back instantly. “To Argentina?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh my god, go away!”
“Okay, fine,” he says, voice drifting like he’s about to retreat but not really. “But you are the prettiest girl ever. I don’t care about your chin hairs.”
I pivot toward the door, eyebrows up. “So you have seen my chin hairs then!”
“I still like you a lot,” he says without hesitation. “Like, a lot a lot.”
“Yes, I like you a lot,” I admit, turning back to the mirror, “but not enough to let you witness this monstrosity.”
The door creaks, and suddenly he’s behind me, the mirror catching his reflection as he steps into the small space like he’s been invited.
His hands slide around my hips, pulling me back against his warm, solid frame.
He’s still chilly from his walk home, the damp edge of November clinging to his clothes.
“This winter seems to be dragging already,” he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to my temple.
“It’s barely November,” I say, feeling his body heat seep into mine. “I do not care.”
“But I do,” he counters.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Connor. I’m getting old.”
He frowns, but it’s soft. “How can you get old at thirty-five? We’re in our prime.”
“Speak for yourself. I pulled a muscle the other day while getting out of bed.” I reach for the tweezers again. “Really, there should be an unsubscribe button.”
“Manuela.”
“Connor,” I echo, meeting his gaze in the glass.
“Why so serious?” he asks, his tone somewhere between amused and genuinely curious. “Where is this coming from? I’ve never heard you talk about this before.”
“Did you know that pregnancies after the age of thirty-five are considered geriatric?” I say, turning toward him now, leaning against the counter. “Literally, the classification is the same for a pregnant person in their seventies as someone in their mid-to-late thirties.”
His eyebrows lift. “Okay. Do you know anyone who was pregnant in their seventies?”
“That’s not the point.” I wave him off. “The point is that I’m getting old, and I hate it.”
“Babe.” He takes a deep breath, then breaks away, stepping out of the bathroom without another word. I hear the faint sound of the closet door sliding open.
When he comes back, he’s holding a white rectangular envelope, the kind that comes tucked into bills for mailing back checks. His expression is determined. “You leave me no choice.”
“No choice for what?” I ask, glancing down as my phone buzzes on the counter—Camila, calling from somewhere in the Mediterranean. She’s on her delayed honeymoon after the whole drama last year.
Before I can answer, Connor moves. In one smooth motion, he pushes the envelope into my hand and takes my phone from the counter, tossing it gently out into the carpeted closet hallway.
“Connor, what is going on?”
“Open it.”
I hesitate, narrowing my eyes.
“Just open it and stop asking questions,” he says, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are so impatient sometimes.”
I glare, but I’m already sliding a finger under the flap.
“But I love you so much, baby. Just the way you are,” he adds, his voice softer now. He leans in to give me a quick peck on the lips, then steps back, waiting.
Inside are photos—one per month, starting with January first and moving through the year. I shuffle through them slowly, my mind catching up to what I’m seeing.
The last one stops me cold. It’s from Elle’s new rooftop a few weeks ago, when the weather was still warm.
She had a huge housewarming party for herself once they moved to a bigger house, and of course it was as extravagant as her wedding.
We’re lounging on her loveseat, the herb planters behind us overflowing.
I’m looking at the camera, but he’s looking at me with dreamy eyes—the same way he looked at me in Switzerland two summers ago, and last summer when we traveled through the United States in my attempt to at least visit a few of the national parks.
“What is this?” I ask, even as my stomach flips.
In every single picture, Connor is holding the same small, vintage pink box with decorative filigree on the edges.
“I’ve been trying to propose to you for months,” he says, smiling wryly. “But for one reason or another, I haven’t been able to. And since you’re not getting old, I might as well do it—”
“In the bathroom of our home?” I cut in, staring at him.
“Yes, baby. In the bathroom. You leave me no choice.” He slips into the most exaggerated Spanish accent I’ve ever heard. “Manuela Torres, ?te querés casar conmigo?”
The accent vanishes on the last word, replaced with perfect pronunciation. He even skips the s after querés, just like we do in Argentina.
“What the fuck?”
“What? What’s wrong?” His brow creases, real worry flickering there. “Shit. Did I read this incorrectly?” He closes the box and sets it on the counter, where it immediately slides into the sink.
“Oh my god,” I say, reaching for it. “Did you talk to my mother?”
“Who do you think’s been teaching me Spanish?”
“You already speak Spanish.”
“I mean, yes? I just… wasn’t brave enough to speak it to you. We talked about my semester abroad in Chile already.”
“Connor.”
“So… no? You don’t want to marry me?”
From outside, my mother’s voice carries in: “?Qué dijo?”
Every inch of my exposed skin flushes. “My mother is here? Connor, what have you done?”
“So, no? You haven’t answered.”
I flip the box open. My jaw drops. “Baby, what the fuck?”
“Manuela…” His voice dips into Spanish again, and I can feel the warmth in the way he says it, love threaded through every syllable. “?Te querés casar conmigo?”
“Yes,” I say on a breath, then laugh. “Sí. Do we speak Spanish now?”
“Manuela, hija—”
“Is my mother here?”
“Manu! Come out here!”
“Is that Amelia?” My head snaps toward the door. “Are my friends here too?”
Connor chuckles and pulls me into his body, and it’s at that moment I realize I’m cry-laughing, tears streaming down my face and into my boyfrie—fiancé’s shirt.
“I just wanted to pluck my chin hair. I didn’t want to pressure you into proposing.”
“What did you think tonight was? Elle was setting it all up in her new backyard.”
“I thought we were going to have dinner with one of your clients.”
“Baby, when have we ever gone to dinner with a client?”
“I don’t know, Connor!”
“Manu.” Camila’s voice joins from behind the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon? Why is everyone here?”
There’s a pause, then—
“Oh my god, I’m engaged!”
THE END