Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy
Bananapants: Epilogue

“The lesson is that you can still make mistakes and be forgiven.”

― Robert Downey Jr., Attributed

~Several months later~

“The money has been deposited into your DayTRD account. Done and done.”

“No, no, no. Sue, that’s going to raise a red flag.” Testing a standard blue gym mat with my fingers—just to be certain they were finally dry after the disinfecting treatment—I leaned down to fold one side over the middle panel.

“What am I? An amateur?” she asked around a mouthful of something. It wasn’t crunchy. Her dentist had forbidden all corn chips and popcorn after another crown had cracked a few months ago. Ever since, she’d been saltier than usual. “It looks like a dividend distribution, totes legit.”

“It better look legit.”

“It will, Gramps.” Click-clacking on the keyboard—furious typing—filled my ear.

What she could be typing, I had no idea. We were both now fully retired, with all outstanding contracts fulfilled and clients notified. I’d officially opened my aikido studio at the end of the summer near Ava’s parents’ neighborhood and had been talked into buying a fixer-upper house two blocks from theirs around the same time, having been influenced by her father more than I should’ve been.

But. Whatever. It was done. I needed a hobby now that I was no longer researching jobs and flying all over the world. It was good. Or it would be. Just as soon as Ava stopped being mad about it.

“What are you typing so angrily over there? And when is your flight to Hawaii?” I needed these smaller mats used for adult classes pushed against the wall before my tiny tots class arrived.

Those kids were monsters and required thicker mats even though I had them all in helmets. The parents who stuck around to watch didn’t seem concerned, whereas my blood pressure and adrenaline were on high alert for the whole forty-minute session.

“My flight to Hawaii is none of your business and I’m typing out a note to the overbearing asshole responsible for introducing us,” Sue said, “confirming that I’m finally rid of you and where to contact me in the future.”

“Well, tell Alex I say hi.” I’d just had dinner with Alex, Aunt Sandra, and their kids two days ago. Ava and I saw them all the time since we’d moved into the Grant Park apartment building.

Sue grumbled an entire monologue while I pushed the first mat against the wall, but I only caught “. . . think you’re so fucking smart . . .” and “. . . can’t believe you still haven’t figured it out . . .” and “. . . he hasn’t told you . . .”

I walked to the far side of the second blue mat and bent to finish the trifold but paused when she got to the last part of her rant. “Who hasn’t told me what?”

The click-clacking from her side stopped and she blurted, “Ask your dad.”

I checked the clock on the wall. The monsters would start arriving in fifteen minutes, give or take five. “What?”

“I said, ask your dad.”

“Ask him what?” Using my feet once more, I kicked the first of the thick mats away from the wall and toward the center of the space.

“Ask him whose idea it was to introduce us. Oh, and since I’m now retired and don’t give a flying monkey fuck about keeping his secrets anymore because, whatever! What are you going to do? Fire me? Ask him who put up the seed money for your business so you could buy all the latest gear and tech. ’Cause it wasn’t your uncle Alex.”

That brought me up short. “Wait, what?”

“And tell Ava to send me her new arrival time. I know she said she didn’t want me to pick her up from the airport, but I don’t want her taking a car by herself. She’s too trusting. She’d probably end up in a⁠—”

“Sue. Back up. What—what did you say about my father?” I turned to face the wall so I could think better. The sunlight and movement beyond the glass windows of my studio suddenly felt overwhelming.

“Put two and two together, Raz. It was your father. He is the one who guaranteed my position for ten years. Why do you think I came out of retirement and agreed to work for a newb? Out of the kindness of my heart? Yeah right. He is the one who spread your name around for jobs and vouched for your talents. How do you think you got so many contracts so fast in your first year? And good, high-paying ones where your morals didn’t need to be compromised for a buck. All those courier jobs in the early days? Your pops.”

My head was spinning. I searched for a chair. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Alex Greene is a hacker, a software guy. He doesn’t deal in hardware, he’s got no cred in the ops market when it comes to personal security jobs, like being a secure courier or stealing rich people’s shit for other rich people. That’s all Quinn Sullivan’s area of expertise. That’s how he built his business in the early days. I mean, after the degausser debacle that got his brother killed. Come on, think about it.”

Sitting down heavily, I shook my head to clear it, trying to keep up. I didn’t know what to ask first. Why? And—and—how? And— “Wait. Wait. Have you been reporting to him this whole time?”

“What? Pshaw! No.” She cleared her throat. “Not the whole time.”

“Susan.”

“Just for the first two years, while you were still making a name for yourself. He wanted to make sure you were safe. He has no idea what you’re up to now. Come on, I have some ethics, the operative word here being some.”

“That mo—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t call him a motherfucker. It felt wrong. Partially because he was, in fact, fucking my mother. And partially because I didn’t want to be reminded that my parents did . . . that.

Ever.

“Saint? Father of the year? Dad of the decade?” Sue chuckled. “He’s a real stinker.”

I had to place my elbows on my knees and lean forward while I gripped my forehead. “I can’t believe he did that,” I ground out. “Why would he do that?”

“I dunno. Maybe because, if you were going to rebel anyway and do illegal shit, he wanted to keep you safe the only way he knew how? Just a wild guess.”

What had Alex and Aunt Sandra always told me about my father? He’s an acts of service person.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” For that matter, why had Alex always taken the credit?

“Mr. Sullivan said he’d stop paying me if I told you. And don’t blame Alex. He did what he thought was right. Of course he understands both your side and your father’s side. He’s a dad too. And he was once a delinquent like you. Both he and your father wanted you safe. But don’t worry, even though he still pays me, your dad has no idea about how you went all soft Robin Hood instead of badass Catwoman. Your secret and street cred are safe with me.”

I still couldn’t wrap my head around this. “But I pay you, Sue.”

“And he pays me.”

“You’ve been taking money from both of us?”

“Uh, yeah.” I heard her chair squeak. “So? You want your money back? Fat chance. Like I said, I have some ethics. Some.”

Snorting a short laugh, I straightened and shook my head. Sue was something else. But I already knew that, didn’t I?

“You want my advice, Raz? Say nothing to your father. You two are finally in a good place. Didn’t you have lunch with him last week? Didn’t he offer you a job and you turned it down? So what if he invested in you early on to keep you safe? So what if he never knows you turned into a do-gooder? Does that change anything now?”

“Did he—” I swallowed, afraid to ask the question.

“What? What is it? I’m feeling honest and you know how rare that is, so just ask.”

“Did he believe in me? Back then. Did he think I’d be good at it?”

“He did. He really did, even though it super pissed him off. He knew you were talented at being sneaky. I remember he said, when he and Alex were trying to convince me to take the job, that you were like a ghost and could get in and out of anywhere you wanted. I believed them after our first month working together. Seriously, Raz. I’ve never seen anyone as good as you.”

That made me smile for a few reasons. As twisted as it might seem, it made a big difference that my father believed in me back then. It made a difference that, even if he hated the idea of my job, he thought I was good at something, he thought I had talent.

“What father wants their kid to be a criminal, Raz? Look at it from his perspective. He knew you were good at it, so he was supportive the only way he knew how.” Sue sighed. “It’s just a shame you’re giving it all up for a woman.”

That made me laugh for real. She was pulling my leg. Between the two of us, I wasn’t sure who adored Ava more.

Me. Definitely me.

“Speaking of which. Have fun in Hawaii with Ava.” This was their second trip together since Ava and I had started dating. Sue had guilted Ava into the first one—a river cruise in France—and now Ava was addicted to overseas travel. I’d taken her on weekend trips to Dublin and Rome, and we had a two-week vacation planned after the first of the year to Seoul, South Korea.

Ava had expressed excitement about visiting some pier or beach where a TV show called Goblin had been filmed. Apparently, I was supposed to give her flowers there and she would wear a big red scarf. I was happy with whatever, as long as we went together.

“I will. We’re getting our nails done on Wednesday. I can’t wait. I want mine to look like little sunsets.”

“And she said you two are taking surfing lessons?” Ava had bought a surfing game for her VR headset. She kept falling on the first day, and I hadn’t minded being there to catch her. Unfortunately, her technique had improved, which meant less time spent with my arms around her body while she wore a swimsuit.

“Yes,” Sue confirmed. “My idea. And don’t worry, I won’t let her talk herself out of it.”

“Thanks,” I said. But I knew Ava wouldn’t. Both of us were getting better at saying yes to new experiences, albeit slowly. Ava hadn’t completely overcome her ingrained habit of talking herself out of good times, but she was getting there.

“Hey, Raz,” Sue said.

I stood, not knowing what to do about this new information about my dad. “What now? Any more family secrets you want to spill for me? Am I adopted?”

“Love ya.”

Despite the truth bomb she’d just dropped, I felt myself smile. “Love ya too, Sue.”

“Bye, Gramps.”

“Bye, Susan.” I hung up.

Not twenty seconds later, the first tiny tot class member knocked on the door, holding a melting popsicle, smearing red juice on the glass, and grinning like Animal from The Muppets. Huffing a laugh, because the little monster was too fucking cute, I walked to the door and opened it.

“Hey, Bradley. What flavor is that? Strawberry?”

Time for class. I’d have to think about my father and what to do about him later. I’d ask Ava. Talking to Ava always helped.

“But the community garden is right there. And—it’s close to my work.”

“If you move out here, I’m staying in the city.” Ava set down the container of cooked rice with more force than necessary, causing a few grains to hop out of the bowl and onto the tablecloth.

She’d met me at the studio after all my classes were over and helped me clean up. I’d talked her into checking out the house—which was where we were now—explaining that butter chicken, rice, mango chutney, and garlic naan were all waiting for us upon our arrival. I’d made the meal before my classes, setting a timer for the butter chicken in the Crock-Pot and for the rice cooker.

“This house is in the city. Show me a brownstone like this in a rural area.”

She glared at me. “You know what I mean.”

“We don’t have to live here. Like I’ve been saying, it’s a hobby. And I need a hobby.” I’d been restless after my last job. I had all this energy, wanting to research something and having no outlet. Ava’s dad had called me and we’d met at the house. He told me we could renovate it together, and that sounded awesome.

That night, I’d stayed up way too late watching videos on how to lay tile.

“But that’s what you want, right? You want us to move in here?” She gestured to the small kitchen with her hand. It needed a wall knocked down to open up the space. I’d been studying structural engineering texts and had a good idea of load-bearing versus non-load-bearing walls.

“Not necessarily,” I hedged. “Not anytime soon.”

“But some day?”

Caught, I shrugged. “Maybe.”

She made a face and crossed her arms.

I rushed to add, “I’m just not opposed to the idea of a house. I never got to live in one, and I’m curious. And—you know—it gives me a project. In order to stay out of trouble, I need to stay busy and have something, a hobby, to spend money on. If you think about it, it’s actually a really good idea. My hobby can be fixing up old houses, which should yield a return on the investment.”

Her frown turned thoughtful as she finally sat, taking the chair across from mine. “That’s a good point. And, as a tax shelter, it’s actually⁠—”

“Yes! Exactly. Tax shelter. A tax-free hobby. I’m saving money. One that will yield a good return on investment, so I’m making money. It will keep me busy and keep me from spending on a hobby that has no yield. And . . . that’s . . . exactly why I bought it.” My voice pitched high as I finished my explanation, only two-fifths of which was true.

Inwardly rolling my eyes at the technical truth, I called myself out for the three-fifths lie and added, “Okay, I did buy it partially because of your dad.”

“He’s hoping we’ll move out here and give him grandchildren.” She sighed tiredly, but she also smiled, her gaze moving over me. “Fine, fine. Fixing up the house will be your hobby. Then you’ll sell it?”

“Yes. Absolutely. When it’s finished being remodeled to my satisfaction, I will sell it.” I nodded firmly and reached for her bowl, spooning a layer of rice on the bottom.

“Meaning, it’ll never be finished. Right?” She snorted.

“What?” I placed my hand on my chest, set her bowl in front of her, and widened my eyes. “Ava. I’m offended.”

“No, you’re not.” She ladled a serving of butter chicken on top of her rice. “You’re just impressed that I know you so well.”

“Okay. I’m not offended.” I served myself rice, then handed my bowl to her for the butter chicken. “But I am concerned about you knowing me too well. How will I keep the mystery in our relationship alive if you keep calling me out?” Apparently, I still had some work to do on being completely honest instead of just technically honest—even with myself.

Ignoring this, she glanced around the small kitchen. “It is a good hobby. It’ll keep you active and focused and spending money on something that will pay you back.”

She handed me my bowl and I accepted it, lifting my fork. “And it’s a good tax shelter.”

Her grin widened and she shook her head. “Hey, you know what I love about us?”

“Tell me.” I shoveled a bite in my mouth. For once I was actually hungry.

“Sometimes you’re the kid and I’m the adult.” She pointed her fork at me, then herself. “And sometimes I’m the kid and you’re the adult. I like that we give each other the space to be naive and kid-like. As long as it’s not destructive and we keep each other in the loop, I think it’s a really good thing.”

I thought about that, nodding while I chewed. “It’s probably because we’re best friends.”

“Yeah. That’s probably it.” She also nodded, like this idea had merit, and dipped a piece of garlic naan into her sauce while her gaze moved over me. “So, on that note, you’ve been stable for a while, right? I mean, your bipolar hasn’t been causing problems, no depressive episodes, no mania. Right?”

I lifted an eyebrow, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth. “Yeah. Why?” She hadn’t mentioned my illness in a long time. We didn’t usually talk about it unless there was a reason to do so. Ava had been great, encouraging my good habits, even pushing me sometimes when I felt lazy or wanted to spend a whole day in bed with her. I both hated and loved how good she was for me.

“I’ve been thinking.” She shrugged, grabbing the spoon in the mango chutney and placing some on her plate. “As you know, I’ve been reading a lot of books about mood disorders and such. I feel like I have some good context now, enough that I can ask informed questions.”

“Oookay?”

Staring at me while chewing on her lip, she finally said, “Here’s the thing. I want to understand what your bipolar feels like to you. Specifically to you.”

“What my bipolar feels like to me?” I set my fork down. No one had ever asked me this question before.

“Yes. Let’s name it. Let’s call it, um, Davis.”

This made me smile. “You want to name my bipolar?”

“Yes. One of the books I read suggested that the disorder be named, so that it’s clear that your bipolar—both the ups and downs—isn’t you. Like, you know how some people name their cancer diagnosis in order to separate themselves as an individual from the cancer? So, with that in mind, what does it feel like when Davis is manic?”

I didn’t even have to think about my answer. “Scary.”

“Scary? Then why do some people describe it as euphoric?”

“Oh. You mean hypomania. That’s different than mania.” I wiped my hands off on my napkin and leaned back in my seat.

She snapped. “Oh! That’s right. Mania. What is mania like for you?”

“Mania is like . . . it’s like energy. Being super wired, but it can be aggressive energy, or angry, or paranoid, or happy for some people—but rarely for me is it happy. It’s usually angry and aggressive with a sprinkling of paranoia. I usually can’t remember everything that happens when I’m manic. It’s blurry at best or completely blacked out.”

Ava also leaned back in her seat, her expression absorbed. “Then hypomania? That’s happiness, right?”

“Hypomania for me feels like—have you ever been really excited about something? Like, so excited, maybe even hopeful, that you can’t sleep? The day leading up to your favorite artist’s concert, one you’ve been anticipating for months. Or sometimes it’s not necessarily positive, just nerve-racking, like the night before the first day of school. Your thoughts are tripping all over each other and the flow of feelings is like a geyser.”

“Yes. I can relate.” Ava picked up her water and took a sip.

“That’s what it feels like most of the time when I’m—when Davis is hypomanic. And it can last for several days. Usually, with me, it’s days, not weeks, like some people.”

She tapped her nails against the glass. “So for both mania and hypomania, it depends on the person.”

I tilted my head back and forth, considering. “Yeah. It’s funny, because when I’m really happy, I always pause and ask myself if I’m actually happy or if there’s a possibility I’m having a hypomanic episode.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

I nodded, wondering if she was reviewing all the times I’d been happy over the last several months, which had been a lot. I didn’t want her thinking my—our—happiness was a by-product of my bipolar.

“But it’s also sorta sad. What do you do, usually, when Davis is hypomanic?”

“I don’t have breakthrough episodes often. For me, it’s usually when I stop taking care of myself.” Wanting to ensure she knew our happy times belonged to us, I added, “Take these last few years. I’ve been more or less completely stable. Maybe some high- or low-energy days, but no breakthroughs at all except the depressive one a few months back. But when a hypomanic breakthrough episode did happen in the past, I learned to try to channel it. I paint and draw—you know that—so I’d try to use the creative energy for creating things, art. Swimming was also good, better than running, because you have to use your whole body and concentrate on many things at once: form, breathing, consistency of strokes, and so forth.”

“I see.”

“What I have to look out for even now are things that might seem—uh, let’s see, I’m going to use the word quirky, or maybe eccentric? Yeah, things that seem eccentric to most people but not necessarily crazy. Like spending too much money all at once on something that’s ridiculous. Making a big bet. Or cracking a series of super-fast jokes that leave everyone in stitches. Or even telling a funny story. Fighting. Driving fast. Basically, anything that builds on itself or relates to impulse control and momentum. I have to resist the urge to start because I inevitably take things too far.”

Her features seemed to fall slightly.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s just, I don’t know. I like our back-and-forth jokes. I like how easy it is to be around you, how much fun it is. Should I not—should I⁠—”

“You don’t need to do anything. I’m allowed to have fun. I’m not a robot, I’ve learned how to manage it.”

She leaned forward, setting her glass back on the table. “But what if I inadvertently⁠—”

“Here. Think of it this way: Davis is a house I inherited, okay? An old house. It needs constant maintenance. I need to keep a close eye on it. Some people think it’s charming and has a weird but cool personality. Some people replace it ugly and don’t like how much custom millwork it has. Like wood carvings of angels engaging in fornication with clouds, sheep farmers posing naked and seductively with farm tools, super odd shit you don’t see anywhere else that leaves you questioning what the hell the carpenter was thinking. Or smoking.”

Ava laughed, and I was happy to see her smile.

Returning her grin, I continued. “It doesn’t matter what I think, because I can’t sell it. I try not to have an opinion about Davis because it can make me feel depressed and overwhelmed. Nothing I can do, the house is mine for life. I just have to accept my fate and do my best to keep Davis from falling apart. But I also must take one day at a time. Sometimes, I have to take one minute at a time, avoid thinking about the future and the fact that Davis will never stop requiring my time and energy. If I think about the future too much, things get scary.”

“Scary?”

“Like, I feel hopeless. Helpless. And I start wondering if living is worth it if living means I have to keep taking care of Davis every day because Davis is a never-ending, soul-sucking money pit. Tiles keep blowing off the roof, doesn’t matter if I fixed the roof last week. The pipes are problematic and sometimes leak. Don’t get me started on the electricity. It’s all knob and tube, Edison switches.” I rolled my eyes, wanting to keep the analogy and mood light. “Nothing is labeled and it keeps catching on fire.”

Her smile turned affectionate and she tried to lean closer, but the table was in the way. Abruptly, she stood, walked around the table, bent down and gave me a quick kiss. I caught her hand before she could withdraw, using my leverage to bring her to my lap while I brought her hand to my lips, kissing her palm and keeping it there. I loved the feel of her skin.

Turning her fingers, I kept the back of her hand near my mouth, peppering it with brushing kisses and feeling her softness with my lips as I spoke. “The thing is, there’s good news. I’ve found contractors who come and help talk me through how to fix the problem spots. But they actually can’t touch the house, only I can. I have to fix it because I inherited the house. Meanwhile, they can point out where I’m being inefficient or if strategies that previously fixed Davis aren’t working anymore. Makes sense?”

“Makes sense.” She nodded, still grinning fondly, then her gaze turned thoughtful. “But, Des, we’re together. We’re partners. If you’ve inherited this house, doesn’t that mean I have partial ownership? Just like this house—” She gestured to the small kitchen again with her free hand. “I can help you with this house, right? Friends help friends with their houses.”

I felt my features sober, but I was careful not to frown. As much as I wanted to protect Ava from the impact of my ownership of Davis, I knew it was impossible. She would be affected, eventually.

I had to swallow before answering the only way I could. “We’ll have to give that some more thought. Together. We’ll have to decide, together, how much you should be involved moving forward. We’ll build a fence around Davis though. And you, ultimately, get to decide how much interaction and responsibility you’ll have regarding the house. I will do my best—I promise—to maintain that boundary.”

“And don’t I have my own house? Don’t we all have our own house?”

I’m sure my face did something strange at her questions. I mean, suuure. She had a house, but it had been built in this decade by expert craftspeople and artisans. She might have normal wear and tear, but her walls weren’t made of particleboard and paste. There was really no comparing my house to her house.

“Uh. I⁠—”

“Please understand, I’m not saying my house is anything like your house,” she rushed to explain, and I felt immediate and immeasurable relief.

I didn’t want to be the one to point out the differences. It always caused me frustration, like I was looking for pity or feeling sorry for myself. I absolutely wasn’t. But it was important to understand and accept the differences, otherwise we’d have a situation like the one I used to have with my dad.

He hadn’t understood why my pipes kept leaking when his had worked fine, and he refused to acknowledge that mine were two-hundred-year-old lead poured on site by a day worker, and his were three-year-old copper installed by a master plumber.

“My house is, quite frankly, completely different. It doesn’t require anywhere as much emergency maintenance nor as much constant vigilance,” she said reasonably, and I think I fell in love with her all over again. “But that means I can get lazy with my maintenance. In fact, in some ways, Davis is probably in better shape than my house because you’re paying attention all the time, unlike me. Also, it means you’re really good at home repair, whereas I’m just meh.”

“Wait. Hold up.” I turned my head away from her slightly and inspected Ava through the corners of narrowed eyes, infusing my tone with mock-judgment. “Are you an irresponsible homeowner?”

She laughed and then shrugged. “I mean, probably. There’s probably a lot of things in my house that need fixing, but I ignore them because I’ve developed a work-around. I’ve put duct tape on the plumbing a few times, if I’m honest. And it’s not until there’s a flood that I actually do something and call a contractor for help.”

I made a tsking sound and then huffed, making my eyes extremely wide. “Well. Okay. I’m going to need to rethink this relationship if⁠—”

Ava smacked my shoulder lightly. “You know you like it when my house floods.”

“I don’t.” I shook my head, pursing my lips. “I don’t need a woman with a moldy basement.”

She threw her head back and laughed, grabbing my shoulders for balance.

“I guess I should also tell you, my millwork isn’t to everyone’s taste either,” she said through her laughter.

“It can’t be worse than angels fornicating with clouds.”

“I don’t know,” she singsonged. “I guess you’ll just have to replace out.”

“Wait, what? I tell you about my millwork and you don’t tell me about yours?”

“And doesn’t your family also have some ownership?” she went on conversationally, like I hadn’t spoken. She wanted to avoid talking about her millwork, and I’d let her. For now.

Ava’s gaze moved over my shoulder as she apparently contemplated the matter of house ownership. “Really, anyone who loves you has a stake in the house. Right? For example, my sister will tell me if she thinks my roof is in danger of collapsing, especially if I’m ignoring the problem.”

“It’s more complicated with Davis.”

“How so?”

“I’m always fixing Davis, I can’t ignore Davis. And since I’m fixing him all the time, it might seem to other people like everything with Davis is under control when it’s absolutely not and I’m really struggling, but I’m good at making it look easy. They’ll tell me how great Davis looks, or think I must be doing just fine since Davis hasn’t caused problems they can see. On the other hand, I might think the pipes are fine for now and I should focus on the roof. But they might think the pipes are the priority and need to be replaced before the roof. I might be right, they might be right, but we won’t know who is right about the priority until it’s too late and we’re looking back in hindsight.”

Ava squeezed my hand before dropping it and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Okay. I think I get it.”

“What? What do you get?”

“It’s a situation where there is no perfect answer. Everyone does the best they can and there’s no right answer, no easy solution, and sometimes everyone is various shades of wrong in retrospect. It’s just a bunch of people loving each other, trying their hardest, and hoping for the best.”

“Exactly.” I was impressed by her summary and of the fact that my voice didn’t crack when I spoke.

And it occurred to me that Sue had been right. I would take her advice. I wouldn’t confront my dad about how he’d invested in my business and kept it from me. Because this—doing his best, with no right answer, no easy solution, and being various shades of wrong in retrospect but ultimately trying his hardest and hoping for the best—had been what he and I had been doing for years.

We were finally in a good place, a place worth protecting. Letting go of the past to focus on the now? I could do that.

“I am capable of all those things, Des,” she said, pressing her forehead to mine and whispering like it was a secret.

My grin was immense. “I know.”

She leaned forward again and kissed my nose. “And you are capable too,” she said, her beautiful face just inches from mine.

I lifted my hands to her bare arms, slowly sliding them upward. “I know.”

“So this is what we’ll do.” She lightly rubbed our noses together, still whispering as she said, “Des, we’ll love each other, and try our hardest, and hope for the best.”

I had to swallow before I could respond. Even so, my voice betrayed me and cracked as I whispered, “That sounds perfect.”