Epilogue
Fine, she was right.
They were at the airport too early.
Griffin stood, alone, before the sparsely populated gate, frowning at the screen that said it was still ninety minutes to boarding, and suppressed a sigh.
If he was honest, he didn’t really need the confirmation of the time. After all, barely ten minutes ago, when he’d made it out the other end of security, Layla had been waiting to wave her lit-up watch in his face, her smile smug.
“Told you we were leaving too early,” she’d said, and he’d grunted back in acknowledgment, too nervous to say much of anything else. But he liked the way she shuffled her feet in something like victory. “I’m a travel expert!”
Fucking cute, her braggy little dance.
And anyway, between the two of them, she was the travel expert, no argument there.
Over the last year and a half—ever since that day he’d shown up in Boston—Layla had kept on with her work as a locum tenens, an arrangement that had been both difficult and right for the two of them.
In their weeks apart, he missed her—sometimes, enough to get his wires crossed, his pain kicking up strangely—but it was good for him to deal with it, to keep talking about it at his appointments, to distract himself with his work, to tell her about it without shame.
It was good for them to talk on the phone, for him to see his own face on a screen for video calls and how she smiled with delight at it; it was good to think of ways to stay close to someone, to get to know someone who was—especially in those early months—still so new to him.
Even if that someone was often far away.
But when Layla wasn’t far away—when she flew to him in between, when she started staying longer, when she agreed to move the things she had in storage to his place—that was better than good; that was how he learned her best. That’s how he knew all the sounds she could truly sleep through, the candy wrappers she always had in her scrubs pockets, the way she made a grilled cheese all wrong, the quickness with which she could pick up something like crocheting, at least as long as his mom was showing her.
That’s how he knew that she had it in her to do a goofy dance when she was right about something, that her real, honest laugh was louder than he would have ever guessed, that sometimes, she liked to be held so close and tight that he thought it might hurt her.
“I’m not so bad anymore,” he’d said back to her, after the little travel expert dance, and she’d made a Hmming noise, conceding the point.
They were, after all, about to board an international flight.
He wasn’t so bad anymore about traveling, not after he’d also gone to see her in various cities, each time a little easier.
He couldn’t say he liked it—the bland apartments she stayed in, the beds he hated except that she was in them, all the new things there were to get used to in every place—but Layla was worth it.
Seeing her off to work, taking care of her after a shift, that was worth it.
Making plans to take her places—restaurants, parks, whatever he could find in whatever town she was in—that was worth it.
Every time, she was happy. Every time, it reminded him of how she’d built a bell tower for herself once, too.
It reminded him of how they’d climbed down together.
And anyway, it’d been good practice for this. The trip they’d planned together, for one of her longer breaks between placements.
The trip for which he’d tacked something extra on.
“Mom,” a small voice whispered nearby, a note to it that was well familiar to him by now—more so, surely, for all the time he spent outside, no hat, these days.
Subtly, he turned his face and saw the source: a kid whose age he couldn’t guess, but stood only knee-high to his mother, who was holding his hand tightly, obviously trying to rush him past where Griffin stood.
“Look at his—” the kid was saying, as his mother shushed him harshly, giving Griffin a weak, apologetic smile, her eyes cast mostly down as she passed.
Griffin waited, knowing the lagging kid would eventually look back.
When he did, Griffin lifted his left hand and waved, stifling a laugh when the kid squeaked—in delight or fear, or some combination—and stumbled against his mother’s leg.
“I better savor this,” Layla announced, coming back to his side after her trip to the nearest coffee kiosk. She had a to-go cup large enough to give a lesser person—him, certainly—a caffeine-induced heart event. “My last real coffee for two weeks!”
He smiled down at her, leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Don’t let anyone there hear you say that.”
She mimed zipping her lips shut, gave a passing glance at the kid and his mom before turning back to Griffin, unbothered.
Another good thing between them, how they’d gotten through this: Layla’s anxiety, in the first year or so they were together, about the kids question.
For a while, it felt like anytime they were in the presence of any random kid, Layla would watch him too close—waiting for some tell, some look of longing in him.
He had not been lying to her in Paris: There was no future, real or imagined, he wanted more than he wanted to be with Layla.
But it’d taken a lot of convincing to get her to understand that it went beyond that: that he had not, even before her, even before the fire, ever seen himself with kids, that it was not something he wanted for his life.
I’ll tell you however many times you need to hear it, he’d told her one night, a few months ago. I’ll keep pulling you back from whatever gate you’re thinking of going through.
That, finally—after all the nights she’d hung in there with him, waiting while he fought off the shades—seemed to get through to her.
It was part of why this particular trip felt special. Important.
Only part, though.
The other part, he had been keeping a secret.
He took what he hoped was a subtle breath through his nose, made note of the needle-feeling under his left armpit, didn’t dwell.
He said, “Eighty-eight minutes,” in a way that he hoped betrayed nothing of his nervous anticipation.
“Okay,” Layla said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Let’s walk for a while.”
* * *
Even for first class, boarding had been touch and go.
Meaning, Griffin had been touched a lot, by accident—by a fellow passenger, by a flight attendant who moved carelessly, by more than one suitcase—and he wanted to go.
In his seat, he was sweating a little—trying to control it so his skin wouldn’t react, his left leg feeling preternaturally long, a psychosomatic consequence of adjusting to an unfamiliar chair, however comfortable.
He thought of the extra clothes he kept in his carry-on now, in case these got damp, the prescription he had if his stress got out of control, the fact that the woman sitting beside him had seen him way worse, and never cared.
He breathed easier, but still.
He was fucking nervous.
This whole thing—he might’ve overshot it. It might be too soon. Too complicated.
Against his right leg, his phone vibrated with a notification, and he was pretty sure he knew who it was. He slid his eyes to Layla, who was smiling down at her own phone, probably texting with Cara, so he reached into his pocket and took his out, too, tilting the screen slightly away from her.
Did you do it yet?
Michael, as expected.
Not until we’re in the air, Griff replied.
He watched as the bubbles popped up, then disappeared. Popped up again. Disappeared.
Christ, Griffin thought. He’s going to tell me not to do it. Waits until I’m on the plane to tell me not to do it.
I told Em, came Michael’s eventual reply. SORRY
Griffin smiled as he typed back: I knew you would.
Michael and Emily were pretty anti-secrets these days, at least when it came to each other.
About six months ago, they’d pulled off a pretty big one, sneaking away—alone—to City Hall on a Thursday afternoon to get married, hopping a flight for a weekend trip right after.
They hadn’t told anyone until they were safely ensconced in their beachside hotel room, sending around a set of photos: hands joined as they stood before the judge, their first kiss as husband and wife, a selfie from their honeymoon balcony, backlit by an orange sunset over the glowing ocean.
In the weeks after, Griffin and Layla had heard about the fallout—Griff from Michael, Layla from Emily—that had come from both the MacKenzies and the Placketts, no matter that Michael and Emily had promised a small family celebration later.
Whether that would eventually happen—and whether Griff and Layla would make an appearance at it—was still up in the air.
She’s gonna like it, Michael texted.
She likes her plans, Griffin replied.
She’ll like it, Michael texted. Em says so. Good luck.
Then, the flight attendant—speaking first in rich, musical-sounding Italian before switching to accented English—announced that the cabin door was closing.
Thanks, Mikey, Griffin typed, and shut off his phone.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, he was ready to do it.
He had a window for making it work, he knew.
In first class, no matter the amount of coffee, Layla would fall asleep, out like a light, no eye mask necessary.
She had her book out already, a Rick Steves guide to Florence and Tuscany, which she’d already tabbed with brightly colored sticky notes.
By this point, she had to have been over this book so many times that it would bore her into sleep.
Because she likes plans, he thought, and almost lost his nerve.
But then he remembered.
He remembered that she liked him—no, she loved him—she had told him hundreds of times now, the first time carved like a sculpture set on his heart. He remembered her skin under a specific sky, remembered a tower of gold. He remembered how they’d started, how they’d both become something new.
He remembered that she liked when he made plans of his own. For himself or for her or for them both.
So he leaned forward in his seat, reached around to his back pocket.
Stopped when the plane’s speaker crackled to life. When he heard the word medico, and felt Layla straighten in her seat beside him.
No, Griffin thought. Fucking no.
“Seriously?” Layla whispered in stunned disbelief, which at least made him feel less alone in his knee-jerk annoyed response to a medical emergency.
The announcement was in English now, a call for a doctor on the plane, and Griffin sat back, deflated but resigned. Obviously, if someone was in need of—
“Anyone?” the flight attendant said now, and Griffin raised his eyes as Layla was unhooking her seat belt. The flight attendant, he thought, looked a little cheeky for making this sort of announcement—he didn’t see what there was to fucking smile about, if someone needed a doctor.
But then, two rows up from where Layla and Griffin sat, a woman rose from her seat: blond, pink-cheeked as she turned to the side to make her way to the flight attendant.
“Maybe you’ll get the day off after all,” Griffin said, though he knew that wasn’t accurate—he knew Layla would go, too, even if there was another doctor on board.
Anyway, now that he had a better look at the woman ahead, he figured she was fresh out of med school, and might need some help with whatever was happening.
He’d taken Layla’s book from her, figured he’d look at it again for however long she was gone. It’d be fine to do it different than he’d planned; it would—
“Oh,” said Layla, stilling where she was, and then slowly sitting down again. He looked over at her—her wide eyes, her soft smile—and she nodded toward the flight attendant, who was now speaking softly to the blond woman.
And directing her to turn around.
Where a man knelt on one knee, his hands raised, a ring box held between them.
It only took a few seconds for the whole first-class cabin to catch on, for the blond woman to gasp and nod and then start crying, for a smatter of applause to build as the flight attendant announced that this request was for one very specific doctor, who had said yes to the proposal from her boyfriend—an airline employee who’d surprised her on today’s flight.
Layla said, “That’s sweet,” and Griffin cursed the very stupid thing he’d been reaching in his back pocket for.
“That floor,” Griffin said, nodding toward the still-kneeling man, “is probably—”
Layla laughed, leaning in to kiss him—a hard press of her lips first, and then a secret swipe of her tongue across his bottom lip—and it was enough, it was always enough, to jolt him back to reality.
To sensibility.
Layla did not want him to propose.
Not now, not for a long while. They’d talked about it; they’d gone over it. Their next big decision was about whether she’d do another year traveling, or whether it was time to settle somewhere—a hospital near him, or maybe somewhere new for them both. Not marriage.
He knew that, and that’s why he’d—
Well. That’s why he’d done what was in his back pocket.
That’s why he’d made this plan.
And that’s why he knew she’d love it.
So he leaned forward again, took the folded sheet out of his back pocket.
Before, he was going to say something first, something clever and romantic that he’d practiced just for her, but speaking in anything other than his native language right now—after the nerves, after that interruption—was impossible.
“Layla,” he said, which was a word he could say no matter what.
He slid the paper into her palm.
And when she smiled down at it—the secret folded square of it—he thought maybe she already knew.
Still, she unfolded it slowly, calmly, stealing glances at him, her cheeks a prettier pink than the blond who was still giggling and crying up ahead.
“An itinerary,” she said, when she had it open.
She was not giggling or crying, but he thought the curve of her lips, the dampness at the edges of her eyes, was his favorite sort of enthusiasm from Layla.
When they were in public, at least. When they were outside of whatever bed they found themselves in.
“A few extra days after Italy,” he said. “A little apartment for the two of us.”
“Paris,” she said. “Griff!”
She kissed him again—harder this time, longer. Very close to a not-in-public kiss.
He had to adjust himself when she finally pulled away.
“We can wander,” he said. “No pressure. You can think about what’s next.”
She smiled. A city of light all on her own, his Layla.
She said, “I know what’s next.”
And then she whispered it to him, the same way she had the very first time, in the language she’d learned only for herself.
“Griffin,” she said. “Je t’aime.”