Epilogue
SORA
VALENTINE’S DAY, THE FOLLOWING YEAR
The snow just begins to fall on the windshield as Jack kicks the windshield wipers on and keeps driving down Ridge Avenue, headed north from the city. Traffic on the narrow road feels light, but it is a Sunday afternoon, and all the meteorologists forecast snow beginning now and continuing through the night.
“Are you sure you’re not telling me where we’re going?” I ask him, a smidgen worried. I love surprises, usually—just not on Valentine’s Day. Jack grabs my hand and squeezes it. Instantly, I feel my blood pressure go down. Those lovey-dovey endorphins begin flowing again through my veins. That’s Jack’s effect on me.
“Trust me,” he says, and I find that I do.
The last year has been amazing. More than amazing. Better than I’d ever imagined life could be. I kicked the Slick gig, and started writing for a few nonprofit websites. Now I spend my time encouraging women to run for political office or to dream big, and, well, now I can say, without any irony at all, that I am doing my part for feminism.
“Not even a little bit of a hint?” We’ve been driving north … awhile. Then I start recognizing the quaint suburb just north of Chicago. The leafy-lined streets with vintage condos and old farmhouses, right near a lively downtown of boutiques and restaurants. “Wait. We’re in Evanston. What are we doing here?”
Before I can question further, Jack pulls up to our neighborhood grade school, Dewey Elementary.
He parks on the street in front of the familiar blue and white sign. It’s changed a bit since the nineties. Are those new swings? Still, I’d recognize that one-story, redbrick building anywhere. He parks the car against the curb by the playground and grins at me.
“Jack Mann. What are we doing here?”
It’s a Sunday, so there’s no school, and we’ve had little snow so far this winter, so very small clumps of white stick on the ground. He gets out of the car, and heads around to my side, opening my door and offering his hand.
“My lady,” he says, and tilts his head downward. I laugh a little and take his hand, and he helps me out of the car. I zip up my parka and shiver a bit in the cold. Snowflakes swirl in the air, and my breath comes out in white clouds. Jack reaches behind my seat and produces a brown paper grocery sack.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he tells me, and his brown eyes sparkle with mischief.
I tug on my gloves. He offers one of his hands and I take it.
“Should we race to the swings?” I ask.
“I’ll let you win, like always.” He grins.
“Excuse me, you’ll let me? I’m just fast.” Then again, I do have an old memory that floats to the surface. The little boy with the dark hair, little bit heavy, who might have pulled up at the last minute, shyly smiling at me from behind the anchor pole as I took the last free seat.
Now, Jack leads me to the swings. He dusts off one, sweeping the thin layer of snow that’s already beginning to form on the black rubber seat, and then cleans one off for himself. We sit together, on this playground I knew so well from kindergarten all the way to fifth grade. I kick out and swing just a little bit. He watches me, a smile growing on his face.
Jack holds the mystery bag with the paper handles with one hand, and the chain of the swing with the other. “So, I brought you here, because I know this school. This is where Valentine’s Day all went wrong for you. So…” I dig my toes into the snow-covered woodchips, slowing my swing. He reaches into his big brown bag with the paper handles and pulls out a shoebox covered in red construction paper and painted with all manner of pink glitter, all shades: from pearl pink to hot fuchsia. It’s covered in puffy hearts, and stickers of Cupid, and has big blocky sticker letters that read “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Allie helped me with it,” Jack admits.
“I can tell,” I say, and laugh, thinking about Allie, and her new pink and silver light-up sneakers and the fact that she’s a kindergartner now.
I’m still not sure what all this means, but then Jack puts the box on my lap, and I open the lid. Inside, there are stacks of tiny little envelopes. And boxes of message hearts and red heart-shaped lollipops and Valentine’s chocolate.
“What the…” And then, glancing at the names written on the tiny little envelopes, it hits me: kindergarten. Valentine’s Day.
“Someone—not me—stole all your valentines, and now, I’m returning them.”
I paw through the envelopes, and sure enough, everyone’s represented: Casey, my best friend at the time, Maya, Miya, and Myra (the names that sometimes drove the teacher crazy).
I tear open the first one. It’s Tiny Toon Adventures. Then the next … Rugrats. And the Magic School Bus … and Powerpuff Girls?
“How did you…?”
“Found them on eBay,” he says, and grins. “Vintage valentines.”
“I can’t believe you did this.” I rip into all of them, laughing at each new familiar cartoon face.
“Now they’re not actually signed by our classmates, since … it’s nearly impossible to track them all down.”
“You tried?”
“I might have. The only one I had any success with was Casey.”
“My old best friend!” I cry. I grab her envelope. It says, “Piggy Jack is damn fine now. When did this happen?” I have to laugh at that. Then I flip over the card and see she’s written a postscript. “Also: This one is a keeper. Seriously. You don’t need a cootie catcher to tell you that.”
She’s right.
I open one more. From Stella.
“She wasn’t in our class!”
“Yes, but when I told her what I was doing, she insisted.”
I read her card. “This is just another part of self-care. Choosing a partner right for you. Now, go on and be happy. You deserve this.”
I glance up at Jack. I do, I think. I do deserve this.
Jack reaches back into the grocery bag. “I have our yearbook, too.” He pulls the small, paperback photo book out of the grocery bag. I grab it from his lap. I flip to my page. I’m smiling too big, my eyes like tiny, thin slits. In grade school, I never quite figured out how to smile without looking like the sunlight wasn’t blinding me.
“I look like such a dork! I’ve got pigtails.”
“You’re adorable,” he says, and then I flip to his page. He’s cute, even though a little chubby. He doesn’t deserve the nickname “Piggy Jack.” Not at all. He looks a little pensive as he stares at the camera.
“I hated having my picture taken,” he explains. “I hated everything about grade school.” He looks at me. “Except you.”
My heart is going to burst. I lean across the swing set and kiss him. I want to kiss all that hurt away, now and forever. “I love you,” I say.
“Oh … you’re all right,” Jack teases.
I punch his arm.
“Ow! I’m kidding. I love you, too.” I turn my attention back to the box. I dig into my box and open the last valentine, but soon realize there’s one missing.
“Jack?” I dig around in the candy hearts, chocolate kisses, and the lollipops, worried that I’d missed it. “Where’s the one from you?”
That’s when Jack reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small white envelope. He hands it to me, a smile on his face.
“Go on, then. Open it.”
I peel back the small flap and pull out a beautiful, glittery, homemade valentine, with Jack’s mangled bee, only it’s decked out in glitter. I burst out laughing.
“No!”
“Yes.” Jack nods.
Then I open the glitter bee card.
Inside, it says, “I love you so much. Please, bee my … wife?” But inside the question mark, there’s a single solitaire diamond ring taped there.
My heart stops.
For a full second. I can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare.
A ring…?
But Jack plucks the ring off the valentine and kneels before me.
“Sora Reid, you’ve changed my life in ways I never imagined possible. This last year has shown me how amazing it is to share my life with someone who really gets me, who’s a wonderful partner in all ways, and my best friend.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Also, I might faint. Seriously, I might. Jack is proposing.
Jack.
Is.
Proposing.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
Everything.
“In kindergarten, you had a bad Valentine’s Day, and you’ve had a few more since. We’re here now because I think you need a do-over,” he says. I notice he, too, is starting to get emotional, his puppy-dog eyes wet with emotion. “In fact, Sora Reid, if you’ll let me, I’d like to make this Valentine’s Day, and every other Valentine’s Day in your life, the very best it can be. Will you be mine? Today and every day?”
He offers up the impressive diamond, and it sparkles like fire beneath the snowflakes falling gently around us. I suck in a breath, my brain buzzing with a million thoughts: Is this what I want? I thought I’d never get married again. Thought I’d never even consider going through all this. Not after Marley. Not after having my heart broken so often.
Do I have the courage to take this ring? To risk heartache one more time?
I look into Jack’s eyes, and I see sincerity. I see honesty. I see trust. He’s putting himself out there. He’s risking it all. To gain it all. He’s brave. I can be brave, too.
And I’m filled with a serenity, a certainty, I’ve never felt before.
Jack is my person. And I am his.
And who knows what life has in store for us, but whatever it is, we should face it together.
“Yes!” I cry, when I can finally find my voice. “Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!”
I tug off my glove, and he slips the ring on my finger, and it fits. Perfectly. And then I pull him to me, and kiss his beautiful lips, sealing that promise. I’ll be his. And he’ll be mine. I break this kiss, staring into his dark brown eyes.
“Does this mean I have to give up bacon as my valentine?” I tease.
“Hell no,” he says, a chuckle low in his throat. “After all, you’re marrying Piggy Jack.”
I laugh. There’s absolutely nothing “piggy” about the kindest, most loving, most amazing man I’ve ever met. “I think you’re more like Hot As Hell Ham-hock Jack.”
“I think that has a nicer ring to it,” he agrees.
And this, I have to say, is the best damn Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.
Take that, commercial love machine.