Epilogue
FOUR MONTHS LATER
“When the country’s leading cardiothoracic surgeon said bed rest, I’m fairly certain he didn’t mean work with a MacBook glued to your lap.”
“I’m on the bed and I’m resting from my teaching duties.
Bed . . . rest. I don’t see what the problem is.
” Lorelai huffs a little as she says it, which means she’s probably pushing herself too much, but what else can I do?
I’ve bought her the largest four-poster hand-carved oak bed I can find, made her sleep on the highest-rated mattress, and have had professional decorators toiling for weeks to perfect the details of not only our bedroom, but the entire eight-thousand-square-foot compound we’re calling our maybe-forever home.
The entire space is professionally designed to be restful.
And yet, my girl has just never been able to rest. She squints at me now with the expression I mentally label Argumentative Pout. “I don’t know that you really needed to hire the country’s leading cardiothoracic surgeon to perform what everyone considers a fairly routine procedure.”
“What else is money for?”
She sighs dramatically, her attention back on her laptop.
“UCLA has ended, you’ve graduated. Thus, you have no teaching duties to rest from.”
“I did wonder why I was suddenly caught up with my grading.”
“Now that you’ve published your paper on the sentiment analysis program—and released all of the associated code—that project should also be complete.”
“It should be, shouldn’t it?” She grins at me, that old sparkle in her eyes.
“You’ve started something new, haven’t you? Because you have absolutely no understanding of the concept of rest and relaxation.”
“Be honest, would you really want me to be… less me?”
I try not to smile, which is almost always a losing proposition these days.
Because no, I wouldn’t ever want Lorelai to be a lesser version of herself.
Still, considering how insistent her doctors were about bed rest, and because when Lorelai’s in coding mode she can forget about everything else, up to and including taking care of basic necessities, I suggest, “You could help me interview chefs.”
“Or, and here’s a thought, we could not hire a full-time chef.”
At least her attention’s on me now, engaged enough to allow me to close her laptop and take it away.
I rearrange the blankets around her more comfortably and wonder whether she’ll notice if I text the doctor a couple of quick follow-up questions.
When I check out the side table, I see that she’s at least eaten a little of the granola my mother keeps making and sending over religiously.
It’s not the balanced meals she ought to be consuming, but it’s better than nothing.
To carry on the argument, because I know she enjoys it, I say, “A full-time cook will be more careful than either of us ever could be about your diet.”
“I’m not giving up garlic.”
“And that’s the perfect example of something to take up with a trained chef. Debbie’s found several who specialize in diets that reduce inflammation.”
“Is that really a good use of your executive assistant’s time?”
“If it makes your life easier, of course.”
She shakes her head dramatically, and then, because it’s only technically been a week since her pericarditis surgery, she winces. “Money has really changed you, Lucas.”
It hasn’t, really. But it has changed how others view me.
Because I’m wealthy now, when I’m quiet, people explain away the silence for me. They tell themselves I’m taking my time, preparing to impart wisdom. These days, when I’m awkward, people label it eccentricity, as if it’s something to aspire to.
“Tell me how I can bribe you to keep still.”
“Your bargaining powers are terrible.” She reaches out a hand to me, to soften the supposed insult.
“Only with you.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, obviously tired but unwilling to admit it. “You could read to me.”
“I’d love to.” Over the years, I’ve slowly collected every book that reminded me of her—the shelves of our Pasadena craftsman library, the house that was only deemed acceptable because of both the library and its close proximity to the middle and high schools we’ve picked for Wren and Harper—are filled with multiple copies of her favorites.
There’s a first edition East of Eden, but also used copies of the same, because it’s one of her favorites.
There are the Barnes and Noble special editions of her favorite Toni Morrisons, Margaret Atwoods, and probably a few too many iterations of Anne of Green Gables.
Every time I passed a bookstore, I would go in.
Every time I saw a book that even slightly reminded me of Lorelai, I’d buy a copy.
Perhaps that’s why there’s an entire section devoted to the type of romances.
Seeing the way she’d hide the spicier novels between her copy of Introduction to Algorithms and Lectures in Topology had been one of my favorite quirks about her.
“I had a lunch meeting near Vroman’s and got you a new book.”
Lorelai shakes her head slightly; at least this time she doesn’t wince. “Actually, I don’t know if I feel capable of following complicated plots right now.”
“Then how about we watch a superhero movie? The Cutting Edge?”
“Or something similarly entertaining without being too cognitively . . . demanding.”
I smile, thinking I finally know how I can distract her. “So you’re saying I should not ask you any taxing or important questions right now.”
Lorelai is justifiably, immediately suspicious. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head to the left.
“Did you find another cat for us to adopt?”
I shake my head, because I don’t want her to get too excited.
Because Pasadena has a coyote problem (and also a traffic and car and human problem), we weren’t able to let the cats be as free range as she’d originally envisioned.
But we’d found contractors who specialized in building overly elaborate, borderline ostentatious “catios,” large outdoor enclosures with climbing areas that our current three (Godel, Escher, and Bach, another book reference, because of course that’s how Lorelai rolls) senior cats roam.
“Better than another cat.”
“Very little is better than another cat.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Aurora you said so.
” I open the puzzle box, one of several from a specially ordered set, that’s been on top of the armoire, hiding in plain sight for weeks.
Though she’s clever about solving them when engaged, Lorelai always claims to hate purposeless riddles, meaning it was the safest hiding space in the house.
I unclick the mechanisms quickly and withdraw an intricately folded origami lotus.
It took me six attempts before I perfected the first one. I’d had to special-order paper, so it could all be done in one piece. It’s not a detail Lorelai is ever likely to notice, but it had felt important, to me.
“It’s beautiful,” Lorelai says, holding the flower gently between her hands, examining the individual petals.
Maybe later I’ll tell her why I chose a lotus, explain that the Chinese tutors I’d hired over the years didn’t just teach me the basics of the Mandarin language and grammar but also, quite often, the etymology behind common proverbs and superstitions.
One day, I’ll explain to her that I folded a lotus because within ancient Chinese culture, the lotus is a symbol of nobility and integrity.
The flower represents strength in the face of adversity.
Lotuses are born and then rise out of mud, all the while remaining untainted and pure. It is the perfect metaphor for my girl.
But there’s no time for explanations now that Lorelai’s found the ring.
She’s quiet, eyes wide, for so long that I finally understand why she’s always complaining about my loading time.
“I should have waited?” At Lorelai’s continuing silence, I repeat myself. “Should I have waited?”
She places the lotus carefully to one side so she can focus on the pink solitaire that matches her current hair.
Because Lorelai’s expanding personal projects in all sorts of different directions, I’d hired a separate assistant to handle many of the more personal tasks.
For example, researching every salon within three neighboring counties to find Lorelai a place that specializes in treating thinning hair.
If I’m allowed to be honest—which, according to Brody, is never, and according to Lorelai is .
. . it depends—I don’t truly care whether Lorelai has thick, thinning, or no hair.
That said, given how often Lorelai fidgets with it, and how much she seemed to mind when Vi spoke disparagingly of it, helping her feel as though it was fixed had felt like a priority.
Now that Lorelai’s hair is thicker (at least she’s told me it’s thicker) and styled in something called a balayage, she seems happier.
And really, that’s all that matters.
After an interminably long silence, Lorelai finally declares, with a faint wobble in her voice, “You’re not buying me a different ring each time I change my hair.”
I think of the diamond, emerald, blue sapphire, and purple amethyst backups I’ve already purchased.
Each is a completely different cut because had been that difficult to pick out one ring that’s supposed to rule them all.
Maybe if I hadn’t read The Lord of the Rings so many times, or maybe if I could have consulted Lorelai about it, things would have been smoother.
But in the end, I’d asked my mother (diamond, because she believed the traditional route was best), Aurora (emerald, because Lorelai was the green-haired Jezebel when we reconnected), and also Harper (sapphire, because it’s Harper’s favorite color), Wren (pink, because .
. . really, I shouldn’t have been asking the ten-year-old), as well as Daisy and Gwendy (who both said purple amethyst, since Lorelai’s favorite color is often, though not always, purple).
I didn’t want to screw up, and so of course I bought all five.
“It might be too late for that.”
Lorelai laughs, because she thinks I’m joking and I swear I feel my chest expanding with pride. It happens each time I can make her smile, each time she laughs or breathes a little more easily, without the anger or guilt or responsibilities that used to weigh her down.
She’s not looking at me when she asks, a bit archly, “Are you going to ask me to marry you?”
“I know that proposing to you in our bedroom, post-surgery, is probably only a half step up from where and how I first asked you out, but . . . I just couldn’t wait.”
“Then don’t wait.”
“Will you?”
Her mouth twists a little, because yes, I can tell I’m not doing a particularly good job. In truth, I had planned on saying more. I have a few versions I’ve written, somewhere, but none of the words ever seemed quite right, and she so clearly needed a distraction now.
“Will you isn’t really a full sentence.”
I try to remember even a portion of a draft that wasn’t instantly consigned to the trash.
“Please promise to be mine and allow me to be yours?” I lean forward and press a gentle kiss on her nose.
She smiles, and I’m fairly certain of her answer, have been more or less positive since she introduced me to her (now former) roommates, and then let me move her, Wren and Harper into this house.
But still.
“When I said you were my Sagittarius A*, I didn’t mean it like gravity.”
I nod. “You meant it as a black hole, as the thing that rips us apart.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “My personal gravity, but also, an inescapable force, the event horizon I had already crossed.” She licks her lips, nervous after all this time.
Absurd.
As if she could ever have anything to feel anxious about with me.
As if I won’t spend the rest of my life proving my devotion to her.
Except also not absurd, because I understand. I feel simultaneously content and stupefyingly terrified every moment I’m with her. Because it’s always too good, and too perfect, in a way that cannot last, right?
“You know this might not be the only operation you’ll have to cosset me through.”
“Get to. Not have to.” I wait to let that sink in. “And you should know by now that spoiling you is my favorite hobby.”
“It’s your only hobby,” she admonishes.
And this is true, but also, “Sometimes I teach Wren and Harper.”
“Your new favorites.”
I shrug at this. “Aurora’s going through a hedgehog phase.”
She’s quiet again, her voice achingly small and low, a reminder of her old self, the one who’d been so battered and emotionally bruised by the utter filth that had been her parents.
The mud that was the Abe Kleinbergs and Arjuns of the world, who had tried to keep her down, who now know (at least in part) the error of their ways.
My lotus, I think, because I really should explain it to her at some point.
“What if you get tired of how much effort I am?”
And I could give her the serious answer, but she always responds better when I aim for levity. “You’ve always been high effort, Red.”
“But what if?”
A stupid question. From my too-brilliant-for-words girl.
“A plant can’t survive without its sun.” I pick up the hand that’s closest to mine and interlace our fingers, because until she recovers, this is as much action as I’m going to get. “You are the foundational necessity that drives my life. Meaning it’s not a question. Not even a choice.”
Her eyes tear up and she looks away.
She still thinks crying is a sign of weakness, even though I know it’s something she and her therapist are working on, even though I’ve seen the way she encourages her younger sisters to be open and honest about their feelings.
Then she leans forward to kiss me, and I almost forget the other things I meant to tell her: The lotus thing. That there are more rings. That it is possible I have overdone the ring thing.
Those are all details that can be saved for another day.
For now, our life together is already as perfect as it can possibly be.
Can’t get enough of Lucas and Lorelai?