Epilogue
"Wait, what? You used to think marriage was patriarchal bullshit, and now you want to marry two people?" I tease Lucy through the phone while dodging a man with a coffee who doesn't even bark an apology. Typical.
"I'm feeling a little brave lately," Lu practically shrugs through the line. "Speaking of marriages, did Richard finally drop dead?"
I snort. "No. But the divorce should be finalized soon, despite his every attempt to drag it through purgatory. The court already granted my petition for dissolution of marriage. Even though he tried a few interesting tricks in there, too."
"Good, I was going to pin his voodoo doll. You saved my karma. What's that asshole even doing now? Did you speak to him?"
"No, and I don't think we'll ever speak again. He's back in Seattle based on his photos. Enjoying his yacht with a twenty-six-year-old model that used to date DiCaprio."
"Oh. So he's not such a bad guy after all. Recycling's good for the planet."
I sputter a laugh. "He seems happier than when he was with me. He's even got some serious abs now. Good for him."
"Please. You know he's miserable. You don't post your abs and a DiCaprio trainee unless you're dying inside. Trust me, that's heartbreak in linen pants."
"I don't know. There's even a whole carousel of them just kissing. Like he forgot his propriety," I joke.
Lu clicks her mouth. "That only proves my point. Don't know if he loved you—if he's even capable of it—but I do know you got under his skin. You still are."
"Doesn't matter. How are Micah and Sophia?"
"Wait, I'll put you on speaker. Guys—" Lu shouts so loudly it nearly pierces the receiver. Kills my ear. "Em's asking about you two."
From the background, Micah's voice floats in: "You looked smoking on the cover of Vanity Fair. Didn't know you had it in you."
"Are you flirting with me, Micah?" I say, grinning. "In front of your two soon-to-be brides?"
"Our hearts are big," he shouts. "Plus, I'm appreciating art—that's a different thing. For the record, that cover was too tasteful. Next time, more chiaroscuro, more skin, Jean Paul Gauilter. Full heartbreak couture."
"Don't listen to him. You were stunning, Emma," Sophia cuts in with her tiny, sweet voice. "I think every guy who lost you is choking right now."
"Thanks, beautiful," I say, smiling tightly.
"When are you coming back?" Soph asks.
"I don't know. New York's my last stop and then I'm free. Thought I'd go to London. Maybe Paris, to finally learn French."
"I still can't believe you're on every morning show," Lu says, voice crackling with pride. "Enjoy every second of it, baby."
"I'm planning to," I say, checking my watch. "Okay, I'll talk to you soon, guys. Gotta go!"
"All the best tonight!" they all yell, voices tripping over each other, not quite in sync but full of heart.
"Thanks!" I send them an audible kiss, then slip the phone into the pocket of my wrap coat and let the world creep back in.
I never pay much attention when I'm on the phone. Probably should.
Especially this magical time of the year when fall in Central Park rustles with golden, tragic grace.
Once, I hated fall—how everything dies, no matter how elegantly—but now I see the poetry in decay. Things have to fall apart before they can bloom again.
Crossing 66th Street, I walk toward Columbus Circle, pretending that's where I need to go—not because I want to glimpse the building that once held our laughter, our bodega sandwiches, and chase the ghost of a man who showed me the beauty of New York.
I'm good at pretending.
Well, the good thing about heartbreak is that you can spill it on the page.
My book has been number one for three weeks.
Every time I check, it feels surreal, like success happened to someone else and I'm just living inside her skin. There's even a billboard at Times Square with my title This Time Around, and people actually stop to read it.
Sometimes they ask me small things, like what I listened to while writing this or that scene, and I tell them to the sound of my own crying, and they laugh, and I laugh too because I'm good at pretending, so I pretend it's just a joke, not the truth.
The diner on the corner looks like it got stuck in some '90s movie—red booths, checkered floor, posters of jazz legends.
The bell above the door announces me as I walk in.
"Here!" The loud cheerful travels all the way to me right away.
"Ah!" There she is.
Sitting by the window, she's as radiant as ever. Soft sunlight catches the pistachio-green silk of her dress with spaghetti straps, asymmetrical hem—the kind of effortless glamour that you expect from Mara, no matter what situation it is. Her hair's longer, to her shoulders, honey-blonde now.
She's already flagged down the waitress by the time I get to the table.
"Decaf, babe, right?" she smiles at me.
"No. Actually. Americano, please," I tell the waitress, and shrug out of the endless rolls of my scarf.
Mara's brows shoot up. "We're living dangerously today."
I smirk and peek into the baby stroller. "Oh my god, so these are the angels."
Yup, it's a double stroller, for a boy and a girl. Blue eyes after Paul, soft cheeks after Mara, they're small cuties wrapped in beige blankets.
"They're so perfect, Jesus. How are they this beautiful already?" I say, making dumb faces until they almost smile, even though they're a month old and I'm sure they can't see me.
I give her an impressed look. "Also, your genes should be studied. They're magical."
She laughs, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, the labor was magical too. Even though eventually we had to do a C-section. Twelve hours of me yelling. Imagine—me, yelling," she mocks herself.
"Oh, god. That sounds terrible," I say, pained. "The labor, I mean."
"The doctor was exasperated. I was in so much pain, I kept crushing Paul's hand, and I think he's been more traumatized than me." She smiles devilishly. "But I'm still milking it."
I snort a laugh and pout. "Sweet Paul. I'm sure he's been atoning ever since."
"Every day. He's a great dad," she says, smiling widely, and bends to fix the baby's pacifier.
"What are their names?"
"We wanted something that started with P for the girl, after Paul, and M for the boy, after me. Spent a week arguing over it with my family." Her face drops to exhaustion, like it was yesterday.
"I can imagine," I say, amused, as the coffee arrives.
"Uncle Dino suggested Prosciutto e Mozzarella," she says with an accent, fingers pinched in that unmistakably Italian gesture.
I laugh into my mug. "Doesn't surprise me one bit."
"Yeah. You can imagine, Paul wasn't very fond of that," she says with brows up. "Ben had a better idea, Mafioso and Principessa."
And just like that, my chest caves a little.
Ben. His name.
Even now, I don't think there'll ever be a day when I hear it, even if it's not attached to him and don't flinch.
Mara catches my blank stare and leans into the stroller, pretending she's fixing the boy's shirt.
I manage something like a smile, but my voice sounds too low. "And of course Ben would pick those names."
"Yeah," she says softly, "well, in the end we went with Milo and Pia."
"Ah. Very cute. Good choice." My voice sounds too bright.
Mara studies me for a beat with heaviness in her eyes, then blinks it away and sips her tea. "Well, your life is something else now. Saw your face on a magazine cover the other day! The critics are calling it the romance of the decade."
"Yeah. Pretty wild. I've got the biggest book signing of my career tonight, close to a thousand people."
"Wow."
"Yeah, I'm reading in front of them. Had to ask my assistant for a horse tranquilizer just to survive," I say, the panic in my voice evident.
Mara folds her hand over mine, and her voice comes out warm and steady. "Don't worry. You'll be incredible. I saw you on the morning show, with all the people behind the windows. You're a professional. I would crumble."
"Thank god for the people around me because I was dying inside."
She pauses, curiosity flickering beneath her lashes. Then she leans back and juts her chin. "So, dating that guy? The psychosexual romance author?"
I wrap my fingers around my cup tighter, caught off guard. "You mean Julian?"
She nods, too slow to be casual. "Julian Vexley."
"No. Not really," I say, and roll my eyes for good measure, though I'm not sure why. Julian's good. A reliable friend all these months.
"Not really? Sounds like a maybe?" she echoes, raising her cup, lashes fluttering like she's not prying now. "He's a hottie. There's something very magnetic about him."
"Well, you're not wrong there," I say, lifting a brow. "He is very handsome."
Her stare sharpens, and she taps her nails against her cheek in that I-smell-secrets way she's perfected over the years.
"Stop it," I say pointedly. "He just has that presence women fall for. I've seen it a thousand times—and it doesn't work on me."
"Uh-huh." She nods twice, to the rhythm of her words. "I saw the video. You two on that morning show."
"Of course you did," I say flatly, smiling despite myself. "That one was chaos. There was a mob of women outside the studio, practically climbing each other for him, begging him to sign their boobs so they could tattoo it later."
"All I saw was that he didn't sign a single one. His hand was on your back, steering you into the car, and his eyes were glued to you the entire time."
I twist my mouth. "Yeah, I told him not to do that. I don't need to end up murdered at home with my sleeping mask on by one of his fans. He was just asking if I was okay with the humbug because of my anxiety. Sweet, right? Thoughtful."
Why are my cheeks going red? I didn't do anything.
"So you're saying if you were dating him, you'd tell me?" she asks, assessing.
"Yeah, I would," I say, way too fast. Nod too much to make it sound believable. "People connect us because Carl thought it'd be great PR to link us together, and it instantly became viral. Before I could even blink."