“Snowflake?”
“I love everything too.”
Epilogue
Krystal
3 Months Later
“Iknow it’s technically still winter, but why is it so cold outside?” I ask, wedging my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I walk up the stairs from the subway. The faint smell of urine and the empty wrappers littering the entrance don’t bother me as much now that I’m about to move. A small part of me already misses it.
“It’s sixty-five in Crescent Bay today,” Nick says, bringing a smile to my face.
“Where are you right now?” I chuckle, my cheeks flushing at the idea that he checked the weather there.
“I’m just sitting outside in my car,” he states.
I exhale a wistful sigh. “I’m so excited.”
“Remind me again how Gayle convinced you to move there instead of to D.C. with me?” He asks. I scrunch my nose, stifle my laughter as I switch my phone from one ear to the other.
“What happened to only being a flight or train ride away?” I quip.
“I would much rather be a thirty-minute drive away, but a few more hours doesn’t hurt,” he says.
I hum. “You know,” I say, turning the street corner where my apartment is, myoldapartment. “If you have to focus on this documentary, I understand. I don’t want to add any stress to your plate. I don’t want you to feel like you always have to drive back and forth.”
“You aren’t my stress; you relieve my stress. You know that,” he responds.
I’ve heard him say it before, but I smile to myself nonetheless.
The stale smell of my apartment building hits me like a ton of bricks once I push the heavy, glass door open.Won’t miss that.
Taking the steps two at a time, I listen to Nick tell me about the beginning of his project. “I’m meant to DP, but sometimes it feels like I’m just directing. I might have to start drawing some boundaries or ask for a raise,” he explains.
There’s an unmarked package outside my door. As he goes on, I shake it to try to figure out what’s inside. “You’re home,” he says, interrupting his last thought with this one.
“Yeah, how did you…it’s from you,” I smile.
“Hurry up and open it.”
I rush inside, weaving around the stacks of packed boxes until I get to the tiny kitchen island. I use my keys to rip throughthe tape and lift the top of the package open. It’s heavy, wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. When I rip through the protective layers, I suck in a gust of air at the beautiful print. It’s the picture he took of me while I was skating.
“Nick,” I whisper. “It’s beautiful.”
“I wanted you to have something for your new place. Something that’s a little bit of me so you remember I’m on my way,” he explains.
I stare at myself, admire the richness of the print. “The quality is insane,” I say, running my finger over the thick glass of the silver frame.
“Of course it is,” he huffs. “Would you expect anything less?”
“Okay, Santa,” I chuckle. “Wait,” I pause, inspecting the box to confirm that there’s no shipping label. “How did this get here? Where are you?” I spin, my heart racing.
“I told you,” he says, “I was outside in my car.”
“And now?” I ask, staring at the back of my front door.
A rhythmic knock echoes through the empty space. He told me he was coming to help me with the U-Haul, but he’s not supposed to get here until tomorrow evening. A wide grin overwhelms my face as I run to the door, swinging it open and jumping into his arms when I see him.
