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I lost track of how long we stood there in the living room, holding each other. My mind spun. Maybe he’d been right about me all this time. Perhaps if I believed in myself even half as much as he believed in me, I wouldn’t need a living situation with strings attached for much longer.
But that wouldn’t change how I felt.
Or the fact that I would want to stay with him even if paychecks eventually became a more regular part of my life.
“I don’t dare hope that someone like you would choose to stay with someone like me,” he eventually continued. “But that doesn’t change how badly I want you to stay with me here, all the same.”
I swallowed. “Are you sure about that? I’m going to get old one day. I won’t look like this forever.”
“I don’t care,” he said, flatly. And then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Besides—I will always be older than you.”
I laughed in spite of myself, then put my fingers beneath his chin so he’d have to look me in the eyes. His expression was full of such painful vulnerability it stole the breath from my lungs.
I nodded. “I want to stay.”
When he kissed me again, I decided that knowing exactly what came next could wait.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
I was just packing up my bag to go home at the end of the day when my phone buzzed several times, letting me know I had new texts.
It took me a minute to find my purse in my art bag. Now that I was teaching full time and needed to bring supplies with me on the El every day, the bag I carried around with me was the biggest one I’d ever had. It seemed like the thing had at least a dozen interior pockets—pockets my keys and my cell phone were constantly disappearing into.
By the time I managed to locate my phone, Frederick had sent nearly a dozen texts.
I am waiting for you outside the entrance to the Fine Arts building.
I am wearing an outfit I selected myself this afternoon.
That green Henley you like, paired with black trousers.
I think you would approve.
Or I hope you will approve, anyway.
But I suppose only time will tell.
I miss you.
A laugh bubbled up inside of me.
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, age three hundred and fifty-one, was texting using emojis.
It was nearly impossible to believe.
I have to put a few things away before I’m ready to leave
We’ve been working on plastics this week
So my room’s a mess
Give me 15 minutes
I miss you too
I found him where he said he’d be, in a shady spot right outside Harmony Academy’s fine arts building. He was leaning against the brick wall of the building, legs crossed at the ankle, engrossed with something on his phone.
