Epilogue #2
She lifts a brow, unconvinced. "You didn't even kiss the guy?"
"No, Mara," I say with a frustrated sigh. I also want to run at this point, because there's that once almost time, but that was a mistake, and we were drunk, and it will never happen again, so it doesn't matter.
"Okay," she says, smirking behind her cup.
I give her a dry look but remain silent.
I mean, okay, do I know that Julian likes me a bit too much, and I'm still friends with him despite that? Yeah. When you feel lonely and grey, you hang on to the nearest lighthouse.
He isn't the guy I thought he was, apart from the very brooding part. He's actually very caring.
But I told him from the beginning that, despite his gentleness, I can't open the door for him that he wants me to.
If you're curious about where I met him, it wasn't at Carl's New Year's party.
There was no way I could have shown up there without Ben.
Especially not when someone else's eyes might linger on me.
But Carl, being Carl, engineered this perfectly professional overlap, so while I was called to consult on my next book at his place, Julian happened to be there, curled up on the couch with a movie playing.
And then Carl apparently had to take a very private call in his office that lasted almost two hours, during which Julian, very unbothered, offered me a glass of wine and asked if I liked the movie Blue Velvet.
I said, "I don't trust anyone who does," and he laughed that deep, unhurried kind of laugh that doesn't care to impress you—it just is.
That was the first thing I noticed about him, that quiet steadiness that makes you feel at peace.
And then we started talking about everything that didn't have a place in ordinary conversation, about philosophy, about life as a series of half-spoken truths and our childhoods, the fact that we're both half-French and our parents failed miserably, and when Carl finally came back, pretending not to notice how close we were sitting on the massive couch, Julian turned to me and said, "I think you understand people the same way I do, through what they don't say. "
That's how it started—with a simple conversation and that recognition that someone else lives in the same kind of silence you do.
Mara pretends to check her manicure. "So, there's no one?"
"No. Not interested in dating." I shake my head. "I'm in a committed relationship with my pillow right now. It's going really well, very low drama."
She snorts, then gives me a sly look. "Well, there's only one romance of the decade anyway, right?"
The words hit like a tap on a bruise because I know who she means.
I shouldn't allow my thoughts to wander there for long, when I mapped my whole life around him. SoMa, Zuckerberg Hospital and other places I now avoid, just to prevent seeing him with his child because it would break me. And still, I care—as I always will.
"Mara. Ben must be a dad by now. Is it... a boy or a girl?" I ask, voice thin.
She blinks, for once unsettled, her eyes darting behind me.
"Did you seriously just check for the exit?" I look at her, breaking into a laugh. "Don't worry, I can handle it. It is already yelling Papà, more pasta?"
She gives me a crooked smile, but doesn't say anything.
"Come on, Mara. I'm not prying, but begging," I say, then sigh. "Ben locked his socials, and I'm not going to knock. Lisa went dark four months ago, so I have no chance of knowing. It still hurts me, but it might give me some closure."
She hesitates, then nods. "Okay. It's a boy."
I guess I wasn't that ready after all because my throat goes dry.
"A boy," I repeat, almost no sound and picture the baby. "I hope he takes after Ben. That he's all him, nothing of Lisa."
"Tell me about it. I pray for it daily. But it's... damn it," she hisses, her fingers tensing into an annoyed little gesture. "It's just so freaking complicated, don't even get me started."
"Is Ben good? Can you tell me at least that?" I push.
"Depends," she says, measuring her words.
"He's stuffing himself with Mamma's cooking, works out like a maniac, and of course, he's drowning himself in work.
He got a better position and better pay.
Not that it matters. He made a killing on the stock market last month, too.
Got Paul and me a new SUV 'for the kids.
' Just showed up with it last week like it was nothing. He's insane."
A small smile breaks on my lips. All of that's sweet and doesn't surprise me—except one part.
The words rush out before I can swallow them. "Wait. Did you say he's stuffing himself with Carmela's cooking? He's here? In New York?"
"Yeah. Thank God," she says and finally cracks a smile. "He moved back. About six months ago. Maybe seven. Kind of shortly after you guys—" She gives me a heavy look, but doesn't finish.
I frown, more questions firing out. "I thought Lisa wanted to stay in San Francisco? Are they here together? Where do they live?"
Mara purses her lips into an apologetic grimace. "I really can't, babe. I'm sorry. He literally made me swear not to tell you a single thing about that situation. You'd have to ask him yourself."
The moment she says that, I lean back, and cross my arms. "No. I won't. I was just curious."
She rolls her eyes, then takes a big breath and smiles. "You must let me know when you're back, so you can see our new house."
I bite back the sigh and smile as I nod. "I'd love to."
We say goodbye after an hour, and for the rest of the day, New York starts to feel like a trick mirror. Everything looks the same, but nothing is.
He's here, somewhere, breathing the same air, brushing against the same strangers, maybe standing at the same crosswalk I'm waiting at now.
The thought doesn't comfort me—it empties me.
Mara's words loop in my head. It's a boy.
Ben has a beautiful boy. They live in New York now.
I wonder how many falls I could have lived with him if I'd been braver? If love didn't demand the kind of virtue that leaves you alone in the end?
I tell myself I could just ask him how he is, like his friend, but who am I kidding? There's no way we could ever go back to being friends.
So I shake my head, forcing my steps forward. I shouldn't want to know. Knowing would unmake the small peace I've been pretending to have.
Keep moving, Emma. That's what you promised yourself: forward motion, clean breaks, no ghosts. Life's been treating you pretty well lately.
?
The night is here, and I'm on stage, squinting. The lights swallow the audience, but I see a sea of faces, every seat full, every hand holding my book. My book. Even Isabella, the host, wears a tee with the cover printed across the front. My heart is thudding. Thudding. Heavy in my chest.
"We know it's fiction," she asks, leaning closer. "But was it perhaps inspired by your life?"
And there it is—the landmine question.
For a flash, I see Richard: the fight, the divorce, the threats, the nine months of having my lawyer on the line, all of it like a knife, and my stomach twists.
But then—
Ben.
Ben's face in my palms while he was sleeping, Ben's hair falling over his face before kissing me, Ben's eyes that lit up like fire when the sun hit them right.
"Wait, that came out wrong," Isabella jumps in, saving me from my memories. "All we want to know is—Damien. Is he real?"
I breathe out an aching laugh. "Oh yeah. He's real. Very real. He's stuck in my head, though. Sorry, ladies."
Grin. Wink. Half the room lets out a tiny theatrical sigh, just like I hoped.
"Damn it. That's not what we wanted to hear," Isabella says, pretending to be upset.
Someone in the back clears their throat loudly and my eyes shoot there for a second, even though I can't see anyone. My fingers start fidgeting with the book in my lap.
Isabella clocks it and spares me the misery, her voice soft. "Well, would you be kind enough to read us an excerpt from your book?"
Nerves punch me in the gut.
"Sure," I manage and adjust myself in the chair, the kind that's really just me trying to anchor myself. Open the cover, take a deep breath that smells of apocalypse and triumph all at once, and start.
"Once, there was a very special person in my life. Dangerous, too. Not because he'd intentionally hurt anyone, but because the world was always a little dimmer next to him..."
I'm reading on autopilot, the room holding its breath as I keep breaking and collecting myself over and over, and when I finish with a definitive thud, there's an enormous applause I wasn't really expecting, swelling like a wave carrying me.
It hits me square in the chest and I clap too because that's what you do when something ends.
"Thank you," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "Really. Thank you so much. Thank you for caring about their story."
"We thank you," Isabella says, standing up next to me, turning into the crowd. "For those who got the golden pass, Emma is ready to sign your book tonight!"
People start lining up along the aisles, faces blurring into a dizzy carousel of kindness, quick stories, and handshakes. I'm high a on fourth coffee and my hand throbs, but I push through because this once used to be my dream.
And then my brain pauses.
Everything does.
The chatter dulls, the flash of cameras fades into a slow strobe. The girl in front of me is still talking, lips moving, but I can't hear a word.
My pulse finds its echo in the room.
I feel him. Ben is here.
I keep my head down, my hand signing another name, then another, and another.
Then that unmistakable hand slides his book across the table.
He opens the cover, and inside is a white envelope.
For a second, I wonder if this is a dream. It can't be... But if it is, I hope I never wake up.
"Usually it's the author who writes inside the book," I say, aiming for casual, and failing spectacularly because my voice shakes.
My thumb traces the corner of the envelope, but his hand lands over mine. Just a touch, but enough for my body to remember what it once felt to be someone's everything.
His fingers brush the diamond bracelet he once fastened around my wrist—the infinity charm trembling between us.
"The note's for later," he says softly. "I would love your signature, though."
"Oh. Okay," I whisper and make the mistake of looking up.
It's him... it's really him...
He’s a bit broader now, and he looks older—not by years, but by something else.
Still, he carries the same bronze skin that never needed sunlight to glow.
A boy I once knew and a man I still love. My beautiful contradiction, standing right in front of me.
Somehow, my hand keeps moving, pen to paper, though my gaze refuses to leave him.
"You weren't in the front row," I tell him.
A broken smile ghosts across his mouth. "I didn't want to distract you."
Someone behind him clears their throat, but I don't care.
"Congratulations, Emma," Ben says proudly, and closes the book. "Can't believe you once drooled on my pillow."
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the dark outside.
"Emma?" Alex, my assistant, speaks behind me.
When I turn to her, she looks puzzled.
"Should we give you a minute? Do you want me to get you water or something?"
I shake my head, back to the room, to the faces still smiling at me, all of them suddenly curious.
"No, I'm good, Alex. Thank you. Let's continue."
?
An hour later, the last book is signed, and I'm back in the backstage room, ready to pack up and head to my hotel.
But I can't shake him—the way he looked at me. But mostly, I can't shake how I feel about it.
I let out a loud sigh and search for my phone in my purse to call a cab—and then my fingers snag on the note.
The note...
I pull it out, folded in the middle, and hold it between my fingers.
I stare until I realize I'm afraid—afraid of what it might undo in me. Then, slowly, I open it.
Eight words.
That's all.
Meet me at midnight where our stars align.
My heart skips a beat.
I glance at the clock in the corner.
11:05