Epilogue
I hate January. I always have. And January in the city is no exception. Everything is so sad after the Christmas decorations start to come down, and the ones that are still up are all kind of sagging in a way that makes me feel depressed.
Which is the one emotion I absolutely should not feel right now as I rush down the busy city sidewalk. Today is a big day and I want to savor it.
I woke up this morning to an empty bed—not totally unusual given Anders’ crazy sleep habits, but I was hoping he’d get some rest after a late night full of final preparations.
Right after we moved into our tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment, most mornings were spent tangled up in each other. We were both busy with our jobs and usually on opposite schedules, but mornings have always been just for us.
This morning, I walked out of our bedroom to find Anders pacing the living room floor in nothing but low slung sweatpants and noise canceling headphones. The smattering of dark auburn hair across his chest paired with the curve of his ass in those pants, topped off by the trim style his beard has to be in—all of it sent me spiraling into a lust-filled haze. One that he helped me sate after he caught my obvious ogling.
We’ve been married about two and a half years now—Anders popped the question at Christmastime the year after we graduated, and we were married by May of the next year. We were definitely young, and it hasn’t all been sunshine and rainbows, but as cliche as it sounds, I fall more in love with him every day.
I did, however, find out pretty quickly that trying to have an acting career, much less a successful acting career, in New York was not for the faint of heart. There were days that were really hard on Anders. Rejections that seemed to come out of nowhere. Industry professionals that used him as a stepping stone to help themselves succeed. It took him a while to find his footing, but he kept his eyes forward and it has paid off.
Currently, I’m waiting outside of the Shubert Theatre because tonight is opening night for Lin Manuel Miranda’s newest musical, his rendition of Hercules, starring Anders Olsson in his Broadway debut.
Bouncing up and down on my toes nervously, I pull my hot pink puffy parka tighter around my body—a colorful wardrobe is one thing New York will never take from me. Anders likes this jacket because he always knows where I am when I’m wearing it. One time, I got lost while wandering around The Strand bookstore and Anders said he only knew where to find me because he kept seeing flashes of pink between bookshelves.
I glance down at my watch. The rest of our family and friends are already inside, but Gabriel is late.
And—my heart skips a beat—so am I. Confirmed it this morning after Anders left, and I spent the rest of the morning with my head hovering over the toilet bowl—three minutes and two little blue lines later, I found out I’m pregnant. It wouldn’t be a Bardot-Olsson baby if it wasn’t unexpected, just like most things in our lives.
Unexpected, yes, but oh so desired. I think a part of me is also a little bit feral when I think about Anders becoming a dad. He’s going to be so fucking good at it. And I’m somehow exponentially more attracted to him because of that. I should get him one of those DILF T-shirts I see all over Instagram.
I’m brought back to reality when I spot a familiar face rounding the corner and heading toward the theater.
Gabe simply holds his hands up as he approaches me. “I know, I know! I’m late—I’m sorry. I had to change and drop my stuff at the hotel.” He leans down and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Is she here?” he asks.
“Yes, but I put you both on opposite sides of the row, and tonight is not about you!” I remind him, poking him forcefully in the chest. A chest that I now realize has a very familiar face on it. “What the hell are you wearing?!”
He steps back and opens his suit jacket like he’s selling contraband watches. Staring back at me is a picture of my husband’s face with the words “Anders Olsson! I know him!” written underneath.
“Really?” I ask. “You went with an Elf reference?!”
“I’ve always thought Anders looked like a hotter, red-headed Will Farrell,” he retorts.
Groaning, I reply, “Great, I’ll never be able to get that particular visual out of my head. Come on!” I grab him by the arm and drag him into the theater.
I wave as we pass Carl, the usher that I’ve gotten to know during previews, and find our seats at the end of the row that’s filled with my entire family. Further down are Professor Callahan, Riz and Luci, Louie, and Alice. We haven’t completely mended our relationship with Anders’ mom, but I am glad to see her here tonight. Though, I’m sure I’ll get an earful about not reserving box seats for her.
Ben leans over to antagonize our older brother. “Nice of you to join us,” he teases. Before Gabe can squawk back, Jules’ hand comes around from Ben’s other side and smacks him on the back of the head.
“Behave like civilized adults—all of you!” I admonish. “And also, shut up! It’s about to start!”
Just then, the lights go down and the overture begins.
The curtain rises and there he is, looking like a dream, front and center on stage.
Only this isn’t a dream, it’s our life.
And it’s a pretty damn good one.