Epilogue
EMMY
Liam strolls into our shared office inside Lucas Hall just as the sun is starting to set. “Do you have a minute?” he asks.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no. He’s got his first code inspection coming up in two days, and though the opening is still months away, the suppliers for his linens have suddenly decided they want to price gouge him—there is shit to be dealt with, new enemies to vanquish. Not to mention, I have my own job to handle. But he’s got that grin on his face and his eyes are bright, and he’s impossible to turn down when he looks like that.
“What’s up?” I ask, looking up from my laptop as he perches on the edge of my desk.
“I commend you for not saying no outright,” he says, “because I know you were tempted. I want you to come see the lawn. I just finished getting it all marked out.”
I sigh. “I still don’t understand why you insisted on that. We could have put a tennis court there.”
But I rise and let his fingers twine with mine. I’ve learned to cede control on occasion, and even if I rarely hand over the reins, I’ve at least stopped holding them so tightly. I have eggs benedict at least once a week now. I don’t force myself to run five miles if I’ve had a burger. Of course, it’s not without consequence—I’ve put on ten pounds. Liam says he likes me a little curvier, and while I suspect there will never be a time when I don’t hear my mother’s judgment in my head, I’m happy despite it. And it’s a relief to know that the world isn’t going to explode if I have a little cake, if I gain ten pounds, if I run into my mother and she makes a comment. On the rare occasion I do see her, however, she doesn’t say a word, and I’m not sure it would matter if she did. She holds no power over me anymore.
We wind our way through the offices with Snowflake at our feet and head out to the large veranda off the back. He leads me down to his much-loved green space, where the sod is so new that it still looks like quilt pieces poorly sewn together.
“So through here, we can have outdoor games—like croquet and lawn darts,” he says. I open my mouth to speak, and he cuts me off. “No, we have not time traveled back to 1920, if that was your question.”
My mouth closes, but I’m fighting a smile.
“People like having a place where they can be outdoors and away from the chaos of the pool.”
I disagree but fine. No chaos, blah, blah blah. He points out where the benches will go and the fountain, and finally, at the very end of the lawn, the gazebo.
I groan. “Seriously? What the hell does anyone do with a gazebo?”
“Think about it,” he says, taking my hand again. “We can hold outdoor concerts here, weddings…”
I force myself to see his point. I guess it would draw the wedding crowd.
He kneels in the grass and fiddles with an errant sprinkler head.
“Liam, you have guys to do that now, and you pay them a lot of money. If they’re not doing their job, I’m more than happy to have Stella fire them.” A tiger can’t change its stripes.
“I wanted to show you one more use for the gazebo,” he says, and there in his palm rests a black velvet box.
I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. We haven’t really discussed this. I’m not even sure if he’s serious right now. That age-old fear creeps up. Is this a joke? Am I about to look like an asshole?
I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re taking this marketing pitch for the gazebo really far.”
But he’s not laughing. He’s not even smiling. In his face, there’s something I’ve never seen before. Is he…nervous? Liam Doherty, who’s never had a nervous moment in the year I’ve known him, is totally freaking out.
“Emerson, in spite of the fact that you think marriage is, and I quote, ‘a prison conceived of by men who are tired of doing their own laundry and cooking their own meals,’ we both know you can’t do laundry for shit and I’m the better cook.”
My laughter is quietly stunned. I take the box, my hand shaking as I do.
“So you decided to propose,” I say hoarsely, “by listing my flaws and not actually asking a question?”
He laughs, his shoulders settling a bit as he rises to his feet and picks me up in one fluid move. “I want you to marry me. Because I don’t care about your lack of domestic skills. I care about the fact that you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met, and sweeter than you’ll ever admit.”
“I also give really good head.”
“You do,” he says. “I was getting to that.”
I laugh again. It diffuses some of the awkwardness from the moment, but not all of it.
I’m terrified because I think I want this.
I’m terrified because I could easily fuck it up.
I’m terrified because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m going to say yes.
“I realize you hate taking advice,” he says, “but I really think you ought to marry me.”
I press my face to his chest and my tears soak his shirt.
“Okay,” I whisper, my throat tight. “But not because you said I should.”
He laughs. He laughs so that his chest shakes under my head, and then his arms tighten around me. “That’s my girl.”
Want a sneak peek of Harrison and Daisy’s story? Turn the page.