Epilogue
Not quite two years later
We’re at the lake, sitting on our rock. I’m leaning back against his chest, and he’s got his arms around me, his tanned forearms resting on his upraised knees.
“You’re going to ruin that expensive cap and gown, wearing them up here.” I’ve been teasing him about them since he put them on for his graduation this morning. The rental cost an arm and a leg, but they feel like they might have been made from a disposable tablecloth and one side of a cardboard box.
He’s not listening. His nose is in my hair, and he’s been teasing me too—about him and the kids being “graduation triplets” at their party, which is due to start in a few minutes—but now his voice gets quiet. “I’m full with you,” he says. “All my empty places fill up when I’m with you.”
And I don’t ask. Because I know just what he means.