Epilogue
REED
Eight years later
My heart pounding, I park my small suitcase inside our front door and tear through our moonlit living room.
I take the stairs, two at a time, and barrel down the hallway toward Leo’s nursery.
As I approach the doorway, I hear the glorious sound of Georgina singing “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon—the song I played for my beautiful wife the day she gave me Leonardo Ricci Rivers seven months ago.
As it turns out, I probably could have made Georgina a pop star, if she’d let me.
I would have needed to rely heavily on Autotune, but I swear I could have done it, just for the sheer fun of it.
As it is, though, Leo and I have been Georgina’s sole audience of two, the lucky ones who get to enjoy Georgina’s sweet, soulful voice behind closed doors.
I swear, that woman singing to our son, especially this song, is in a three-way tie for my all-time favorite sound.
The other two being every noise Leo makes, whether he’s laughing, crying, babbling, or eating, and every sound Georgina makes when we have sex.
Especially the ones she makes when she comes.
My chest heaving from anxiety and exertion, I enter the nursery, and discover Georgina sitting calmly in a glider, holding our sleeping son in her arms. When she senses my movement in the doorframe, she looks up and her features contort with apology.
“Oh, love. You didn’t need to drop everything. I shouldn’t have freaked you out like that.”
I bend down and kiss her in greeting. “You think I’d stay in Vegas when Leo was running a fever and you were worried sick about it?
You insult me.” I press my lips against Leo’s forehead, and to my relief, his skin feels only vaguely warmer than usual, not “on fire,” as Georgina described it to me, earlier today, in a panic.
“When was the last time you checked his temperature?”
“About thirty minutes ago. The doctor said to check it every hour.”
“Check it now.”
I pull up a chair, as Georgina presses a thermometer to Leo’s temple.
When it beeps, she holds up the reading, with a relieved smile on her face.
“It’s down again. This time, by point-three.
” She flashes an apologetic face. “I think it’s distinctly possible I overreacted here.
I’m sorry. I should have left you alone to have fun. ”
“Would you stop insulting me, please? I’m glad you called. I’d be upset if you hadn’t.”
“But your artists were up for so many awards. You should be at your after-party right now. Did anyone win?”
I scoff. “Nobody cares if I’m at the after-party.
Truthfully, I was grateful to have an excuse to leave.
And yes, we had lots of wins. Read about it on Google.
” I touch Leo’s soft brown hair and gaze adoringly at his features.
He’s got his mommy’s lips and nose. His daddy’s dark eyes and face shape.
And, man, does this kid have a stubborn, fiery spirit, probably inherited from both of us. “When did Amalia leave?”
“She never left. She’s downstairs now, asleep in her old bedroom.
You should have seen Amalia with Leo today.
She was a baby whisperer. And my dad was so sweet to meet me at the doctor’s office before I could get ahold of Amalia.
I was so grateful to him.” She kisses Leo’s little hand.
“You’ve got a lot of people who love you, little dude. ”
“He sure does. Including his daddy.” I reach out.
“Hand him over. I’ve been going through withdrawals.
I need my fix.” I unbutton and open my tuxedo shirt, and when Georgina hands him over, I press his tiny chest flush against mine—right over the ink on my left pec—which nowadays, as of seven months ago, reads, ReRiGeRiLeRi.
The same as Georgina’s tattoo on the inside of her left ring finger.
It wasn’t easy to bring Leonardo Ricci Rivers into the world.
It took three grueling rounds of IVF and a whole lot of prayers.
Which was why, when I finally saw my son for the first time in that delivery room, I wept like a baby, shedding actual tears—and a whole lot of them—for the first time since age fourteen.
And with each tear streaking down my face, I felt myself transforming—turning into the man I was always meant to be.
After Leo’s birth, I assumed it’d be another twenty-eight years until my next round of tears.
But I couldn’t have been more wrong about that.
Only four months later, I cried again. Just as hard.
This time, when my mother’s favorite nurse, Tina, called to tell me my mother had passed.
She’d been taken in her sleep, unexpectedly, by a massive stroke.
Of course, I was devastated by the news.
But I took solace in a few things. I was relieved to know Mom hadn’t suffered.
And that Georgina had cleared her father’s name all those years ago.
I loved knowing Mom had gotten to hold her grandson several times.
It also made me smile to think she’d taken so much pleasure in watching Georgina on TV every week, for two years before Georgina took her current extended maternity leave.
Mom absolutely loved bragging to nurses and friends that Georgina’s skyrocketing TV career was all thanks to her.
“Years ago, I was the one who told Georgie she’s got a face for TV!
” Mom always used to say. And Georgina, saint that she is, would always reply something along the lines of “Yep! I never would have thought to get into TV if it hadn’t been for Eleanor’s suggestion! ”
Georgina and I have been sitting quietly for several minutes in Leo’s nursery, both of us staring in awe at the little miracle in my arms, when Georgina’s soft voice finally cuts the moonlit silence. “I talked to Amalia about that job offer today.”
“Yeah?” I say, even though I know exactly what Georgina is going to say.
She’s going to tell me she’s decided to take the job.
Which is a no-brainer, by the way. High-profile TV jobs based in LA, like the one recently offered to Georgina, don’t come along very often.
Turning it down would be unthinkable, if you ask me.
But I’ve kept my mouth shut this past month, letting her process the offer on her own, and providing input only when asked.
“My conversation with Amalia gave me some much-needed clarity,” she says.
“Oh yeah? Good.” I wait, and when she says nothing, I add, “Care to elaborate?”
Georgina takes a deep breath. “I’ve decided to take the job. They said I could work part-time the first year, and start when Leo turns one, so that’s what I’ve decided to do.”
“That’s wonderful, Georgie. Congratulations.”
“You think this is a good decision?”
“I think it’s a spectacular decision.”
She sighs with relief. “Amalia said she’ll come out of retirement to take care of Leo when I go back to work.”
“Oh my God. That’s amazing.”
“I know.”
“Did she say she’d think about doing that, or she’s fully on board?”
“She’s fully on board. She said she’d never forgive us if we hired another nanny. So, of course, I told her we’d love it. But I made it clear she won’t be Leo’s nanny. I said, ‘You’ll be his grandma who just so happens to get a paycheck.’ And she loved that.”
“Good. I’m glad you said that. I’m sure she was touched.”
Georgina smiles. “I told her we’re going to teach Leo to call her ‘Gramalia,’ and she laughed with glee.”
“That’s perfect. I love it.” I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For preserving ‘Grandma’ for my mom. It means a lot to me.”
Her features soften. “Oh, love. Of course. Your mom will always be Grandma. Mine will always be Nonna. CeeCee will always be CeeCee.” She smiles. “And, now, Amalia will always be Gramalia. Every one of Leo’s grandmas will have her own name.”
We share a smile.
Georgina bites her lip and touches my thigh. “Do you think it would be okay if we put him down in his crib for a bit?” Her eyes flash with heat. And I know she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
Georgie scoops Leo up and gently lays him down. She checks his diaper. Determines he’s good. She turns on a white-noise machine. Double-checks the baby monitor. Adjusts the nightlight and thermostat. And, while she does all that, I take Leo’s temperature again, just for good measure.
When we leave the nursery, we do it hand in hand. And as we walk the length of the hallway, the air between us becomes charged with three days’ worth of pent-up desire.
We reach our moonlit bedroom, where I guide Georgina onto our bed, peel off her pajamas, and my clothes, and proceed to worship every inch of my wife.
I kiss and lick and caress and taste, reveling in her curves and newfound softness, my body vibrating with each sultry sound that escapes her throat.
When she comes, I crawl over her writhing torso and plunge myself deep inside her, and then push myself deep, deep, deep, over and over again, as deep as a man can go.
As I make love to my wife, I whisper words of adoration.
If I were a bottle of wine, I’d be pouring every drop of me into Georgina’s goblet.
I’m giving her all of me. No holding back.
When we’re done, and our bodies are quiet and still, I creep into Leo’s room to find him sleeping soundly—butts up coconut—in his crib.
I take his temperature again and sigh with relief at the reading.
I change his diaper, through which he sleeps like a rock.
And, finally, I return to my room, to the bed I share with my wife, and crawl in.
“His fever went down again,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around Georgina and pulling her body into mine.
“Thank you for coming home.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be.”
The moonlight is wrapping the room in a serene, blue haze. Georgina’s skin is warm against mine. My son is safe and sound and fast asleep, and the baby monitor is turned to high. And so, I close my eyes and give myself permission to drift off to sleep.
As my mind begins to float, a feeling of gratitude and serenity—pure love—washes over me.
Many moons ago, this fireball in my arms saw something inside me I didn’t see in myself.
She saw something I didn’t even know was there.
And now, thanks to her, the one and only Georgina Ricci Rivers, I’ve become the husband and father—the man—I was always meant to be.
THE END