Epilogue
jett
Two years later…
“Will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask, fiddling with the edges of the blindfold tied around my eyes, a perfect bow pressed against the headrest of the car.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sofía grumbles, the statement ending in a squeak.
I’d fear for my life, but being blindfolded, shoved into the passenger seat of the car, and driven to an undisclosed location is pretty normal for our relationship.
A surprise is spoiled once—over two years ago now, but Sofía’s memory is long—and she takes every precaution to ensure I have no idea where we’re going.
I’m confident she drove us in a square ten minutes ago to try to discombobulate me.
My brain is still foggy from a late night of editing film from our latest project—shining light on every national park in the United States.
Doug, Mateo, and I spent the last two weeks hiking and camping in the Grand Tetons. The mountains were stunning in the early fall, the air crisp, the leaves morphing from greens to golds and reds and oranges.
The invitation was extended to Sofía, but I was turned down with a kiss and a quiet, mumbled “I am never camping again.”
She waved from our front porch with a gleam in her eye as we drove away.
The first email from the renovators hit my inbox six hours into our drive.
When she moved in last year, I told her it was our home.
She could decorate and rearrange as she pleased as long as the surfer painting stayed.
So far, the only difference in the decor is the tiny pieces of Sofía.
A bathroom sink covered in skincare.
Glass of water beside a red-light mask.
Bulk quantity of mac and cheese.
Shoes left beside the front door that I trip over every day.
Seems like the building bug finally hit her. The anticipation was overwhelming by the time I returned, and the memory of her joy and excitement to reveal the home office she had designed in the spare guest bedroom in the basement still sits in my top ten surprises.
Two desks, one for each of us.
We broke one of them twenty minutes later after she cried out my name. Ulysses.
“Can I have a hint?” I press. “Or turn the music on? It’s too quiet.”
Her fingers find my thigh, squeezing the muscle. “No. I don’t want the GPS to call out our location.”
“If you give me a clue, I’ll let you have your way with me.”
Sofía cackles, the lovely sound filling the cab. Three pats hit my leg, the next stronger than the last. I wrap her hand between mine, lifting it to my lips and kissing her palm.
“That’s just a taste of what you could have if you tell me.”
“You are ridiculous,” she declares, the statement dripping with amusement. “We’re still in California. There’s your hint.”
I flop back in my seat. “Have your way with me, then. I’m yours for the taking.”
She does not ravage me, instead choosing the boring option of laughing at me. When I’m confident her eyes are on the road, I lift the corner of the blindfold. I don’t care about where we’re going; I want to look at her.
Her hair is plaited back in tight braids, and the strap of her favorite pink swimsuit sticks out from beneath her shirt. It’s a beach day, I know it. She woke us up pretty damn early to go to the beach.
I retreat beneath the fabric again until the engine slows and the car jerks to a stop.
Her fingers are cool against my skin, and when the sunlight hits my eyes, I make a dramatic show of the light blinding me, flailing my limbs around. She gives me an unamused look.
The ferry terminal for Catalina Island sits in front of us, and she ushers me from the car, demanding I stay put while she collects something from the trunk.
A teal strap flicks in and out of view. Why is she fiddling with scuba gear?
With a grunt, she hauls my dive gear and another duffel out of the trunk, dropping them on the ground.
Her cheeks flush a coral hue, and with a nervous smile, she says, “I’ve been keeping a secret from you.”
“Oh?”
My eyebrows snap up on my forehead. She’s not the best at secrets, hence her precautions.
She pokes the second dive bag with her foot. “While you were in Seattle a few months ago, I got dive certified.”
Words fizzle from my tongue.
“You—What?”
An awkward pause elapses between us. I stare at the bag, then her. Down at the ground, up to her shy smile. Sofía shifts on her feet, fiddling with the strap of her bag.
“I know I told you I would never scuba dive because I value my life—”
“You made a PowerPoint outlining every freak accident you could find on the internet,” I remind her.
It was so thorough, even Doug and Molly—both of whom were required to listen after Sofía watched a cave-diving documentary—found her presentation mildly disturbing.
“A woman can change her mind,” she continues, lifting a brow and daring me to argue with her. “I decided my desire to experience diving with you outweighed my fear. Plus, I can always swim to the surface after a three-minute safety stop, of course.”
I suppress a laugh, affection for her warming my skin.
She’s on my mind daily, but the dreams of our life, our future together, grow stronger by the day.
Her mom, sisters, and Mateo’s abuela have helped me practice my Spanish so I can propose. It’s all planned.
A romantic, quiet dinner at home of our favorite foods in matching pajamas. The ring is hidden on the top shelf of the highest cupboard in the kitchen, where I know she won’t find it.
I’ll get down on one knee and offer my practiced speech—the one I’ve mumbled in the shower one hundred times.
I always imagined if I proposed to someone again, it would be accompanied by fear and uncertainty.
Instead, nothing has felt so right in my life.
She speaks of what our wedding will look like: massive floral arrangements of peonies and soft lighting, only our friends and family, married on the back deck overlooking the ocean at sunset.
She imagines the wedding, and I imagine her. White dress, hair in soft curls, that timid smile she gets when she’s excited and overwhelmed.
I’d throw that plan away and propose right now in this parking lot if I had the ring.
“Of course.” Seagulls caw, surveying our bags, and I drop a kiss to the crown of Sofía’s head, holding back the full strength of my excitement. “This was a wonderful surprise.”
Her cheeks flame red, and she hikes her purse over her shoulder. A glance at the time, and she ushers us onto the ferry. The boat ride to Catalina Island is filled with pockets of uncomfortable silence between my questions about her dive courses.
Sofía’s knee bounces up and down, and she fiddles with the loose stitch on the hem of her top. I lay my palm on her thigh in what I assume is a comforting gesture. The motion only worsens, and by the time we arrive at the dive shop, she’s a mess.
“We don’t have to dive if you’re nervous,” I assure her.
I’m proud she took the courses and was certified, even though I know she’s not the ocean’s biggest fan. Over the last few years—since our trip to Australia—she’s grown more comfortable with the wildlife residing beneath the waves.
More comfortable does not translate to trusting.
“I’m not nervous,” she snaps.
The blood drains from her face as my eyebrows rise in surprise. She only snaps at me when she’s nervous, overwhelmed, or I forgot to turn my socks the right way before she does the laundry.
I raise my hands in submission.
Few things calm my mind like editing, but diving has a similar effect. It’s loud in a different way beneath the surface, only the sound of the planet and your breathing. Diving on Catalina Island is spectacular, with massive kelp forests stretching from the seabed toward the sky.
The guide, Cathy, and Sofía exchange hushed whispers.
Whatever they’re talking about is not business I need to stick my nose in, not if I ever want to get into the water.
I ignore them, yanking the thick wetsuit on and checking my gear before I hike the vest and tank over my shoulders. A signature cherry scent wafts beside me. My throat dries at the sight of Sofía in her pink wetsuit—the one I bought for her in Australia when we snorkeled together.
Once her gear is on, she methodically works through the safety check, ensuring my buckles are secure and my tank is on and oxygen flows to my respirator.
Her arms fly up to make a T-shape. “Okay, now check me.”
“Am I searching for ticks?” I tease, flying through the same steps. At her unamused look, I add, “All good.”
Excitement threatens to overtake me on the short walk to the dive spot right off the shore. Cathy chatters about the wildlife we can expect to see, the difficulty of the dive, and the visibility, and explains we may see other dive groups while we’re underwater.
Sofía absorbs the information in silence, holding the shoulder straps of her vest with a white-knuckle grip. One by one, we descend the stairs and enter the ocean, slipping on our fins.
Frigid water seeps past the neoprene, and Sofía hisses, ramming into me for body warmth. A pink mask frames her wide brown eyes.
I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s acting weird, flustered like the first time we ever “shenaniganed” together.
Checking escape routes. Establishing backup plans.
I’ve learned over the last two years that her threshold for breaking the rules is sneaking candy into the movie theater.
Anything more, and the guilt eats her alive.
“We’re gonna start at the deepest point of the dive site and then work our way around the kelp forest before a safety stop,” Cathy says. “I’ll check in about your air, and we’ll readjust if you are low.”
With a plan in place, I deflate the air from the back of my BCD and drop beneath the waves, equalizing as I go. Cathy and I linger at the bottom as Sofía takes a cautious approach, a glacial descent.
Her buoyancy is awful—common with new divers—and she drops like a rock to the seafloor.
A plume of sand stirs in the water, and I stay back, enamored with her as she works through the problem.
There’s a frustrated gleam in her eye, so I lend a hand, adding some air into her BCD for her until she’s hovering beside me.
I wink, and she squeezes my hand in thanks.
Cathy signs to ask if we’re all good, then gestures to start the dive. Following behind our guide, Sofía refuses to loosen her grip, and the memory of our time snorkeling together smacks me in the chest.
Fuck, I love her.
At least here, there’s little chance I’m going to be bitten by a triggerfish.
Massive kelp leaves sway in the current, and we weave through the underwater forest, schools of sea bass scurrying away. Rocks cover the ground, creating a plethora of hiding holes for lobsters and eels.
I drop to the bottom, hovering over a pile of rocks coated in algae and seaweed, to search for nudibranchs. An abalone, still alive and striped in green and brown, sits on an outcrop. Sofía follows along, identifying the creatures and pointing at her species ID sheet, which appears from thin air.
The current is mellow here, and I gesture for her to remove her respirator. Her eyes widen in panic, head shaking, but after I pucker my lips, she understands my meaning and quickly removes the mouthpiece, kisses me, and shoves it back in, inhaling a deep, dramatic breath.
Another dive group wanders past us, and we spend fifteen minutes floating above the sandy bottom, pointing out halibut disguised beneath the substrate, all but their two eyes.
One minute into our safety stop, I spot a beard I would know anywhere. Long, salt and pepper, becoming more like Gandalf the Gray by the day. What on earth is Doug doing here?
Another diver appears beside him and hands him his camera, protected in waterproof housing.
Molly winks at me, wiggling her fingers and then pointing to something behind me.
Confusion rips through me, and I spin, finding Sofía hovering behind me, a dive slate in her hand.
On the board, it reads: Will you marry me?
Followed by two checkboxes, one for “yes” and another for “no.”
Under the denial box, in tiny letters, she wrote, “This is not an actual option. I found the ring.”
Air bubbles out of my respirator as I laugh. Tears spring to my eyes, fogging up my mask, making it difficult to see anything but her. She extends the slate and the underwater pen, and with shaky hands, I check one of the boxes as if there was even a choice.
Sofía is the end of my road.
Every path I take leads to her. When I’m away, she’s the beacon guiding me home.
Doug circles around us, capturing the moment, and Molly bangs against her tank, the metal clang a joyous sound. Cathy offers a thumbs-up, indicating we can surface, and once our heads break the water, I’m on Sofía.
Our masks clash awkwardly as I rip her mouthpiece out and kiss her. She squeaks but returns it with equal frenzy. Laughter and cheers mingle with the beating in my ears.
“Best surprise ever,” I tell her between kisses, savoring the feeling of her smile against my lips. “Marry me?”
“Ask me again later with the ring.” Pink tinges her cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”
“Your sisters helped me design it. They found your inspiration board.” I raise a brow. “How did you find it?”
“I, uh, well…sometimes Mateo can be a blabbermouth when he’s drunk, and at our last girls’ night, he was four dirty Shirleys in, and he mentioned cupboards are good hiding spots. I went exploring. I had to climb on the counter, but I found it.”
Her expression is both triumphant and bashful, and the joy she’s trying to hide makes me think of the hopes and dreams she poured into the wedding dream board she made. Gorgeous gowns and massive floral arrangements. Bachelorette locations and stunning venues.
While I don’t think she’d ever admit it out loud, she imagines a magical, intimate wedding. With her sisters’ help and Charlie and Amy’s input, it was easy to find the perfect ring. It’s the start to everything she’s conjured in her fantasies.
Tears stream down her cheeks, and she removes her dive mask, swiping them away. Her gloved hand cups my jaw, a tender expression overtaking her face.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, voice cracking. “For showing me what real love should feel like.”
“For the rest of our lives,” I tell her.
I plan on showing her for the rest of our lives.
The End