Because one day she will.
EPILOGUE - NEXT VALENTINE’S DAY
Lety
Valentine’s Day still sucks, but I guess this year it’s tolerable. I had wanted to do business as usual, but as I was getting ready to work this morning—using the spare bathroom because our primary bathroom is undergoing renovations—César popped his head in, buttoning up his shirt. He had told me not to go into work, treating Valentine’s Day like it’s freaking Christmas and not some overly priced commercial holiday.
“And miss hearing about Melanie’s fake boyfriend? Not a chance, buddy,” I had said, adding a few curls to my hair.
“They broke up,” he said casually, like he didn’t just drop a steaming cup of piping hot tea.
I had slammed the curling wand on the counter, whirling on him. “When? How the hell do you know?”
César just shrugged, and for all his strengths, he is, unfortunately, still a man, so naturally he gave me little information other than she was crying in his office one morning and he had to send her home.
Reluctantly, I agreed to stay home, promising not to leave the house—ourhouse. It’s still feels so strange to say that. I’m living with my boyfriend. More surprisingly, I love it. I had thought moving in with César would steal away some of my independence, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s not only strengthened our relationship, but strengthened me as a person. If someone would have said that to me last Valentine’s Day, I would have called them delusional.
It still feels like a fantasy. One I never have to wake up from.
Even though I agreed to stay home, César still claimed he needed to leave. He didn’t say he had to go into work, but he also didn’t tell me what he was scheming. And he’s definitely scheming something. It’s my man’s favorite day of the year. Despite my shitty attitude toward Valentine’s Day, I have to admit, even I’m a little excited for what he’s planning.
Just a little.
With nothing else pressing this morning, I’m considering batching some content for DesireDen. The idea both excites and unsettles me. Even though César said he was okay with me keeping the account, a part of me still doesn’t believe him. He’s a possessive man—fiercely so—and I’ve been waiting for the moment that possessiveness would spill over into jealousy.
It never made sense to me that he’d be fine with me undressing for the camera, touching myself for an audience of faceless subscribers. The thought alone used to make my heart race—not with desire, but with dread. I kept expecting the other shoe to drop. For him to slam the door shut on this part of my life. For the fights to start. For the inevitable choice: give up the thing that makes me feel powerful and in control of my body or give up the man who makes me feel seen and wanted in a completely different way.
And yet, that moment never came. No angry ultimatums. No icy silence. Just his word and the terrifying possibility that he might actually mean it. Even when I tried to guilt trip myself into deleting my account, César would adamantly refuse, knowing it wasn’t what I truly wanted.
I loved this man. Body and soul. I think he knows it; I just haven’t told him that yet. But I will. Today. It seems like a fitting day to make proclamations of love. Consider me in the spirit.
The doorbell rings, pulling me from my thoughts. I frown as I realize I’m not expecting anyone and pull my phone out to check the camera—something César insisted we need for surveillance. I actually sort of love it.
My screen fills with an array of colorful flowers, and a short, skinny man struggling to hold the arrangement nearly half his size. Not wanting him to keel over and ruin what I suspect to be mine, I hurry to answer the door. The relief in his eyes is almost comical when he sees me.
“Are you Ms. Zavala?” the man asks, before promptly sneezing into his arm. “Sorry, flowers give me the worst allergies.”
“Seems to me you’re in the wrong business then.”
The man just shrugs. “So, are you Ms. Zavala? These are getting heavy.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s me.” I go to take the arrangement from him, and he hands it over, along with a pink card. He doesn’t bother saying bye before taking off toward his white van with “Flowers For All Occasions” in bright, bubbly letters on the side.
Using my hip to close the front door, I take the giant assortment inside and head for the kitchen. I still stand by what I said the first time I ever saw this house; it’s so damn big. But we have somehow managed to fill the space, exchanging the model house it once looked like for a homier space.
I place the vase in the center of our dining room table, turning it until it’s just right. I adjust the flowers slightly—spreading the petals, fluffing a few stems—until the bouquet looks full and inviting.
He got my favorite flowers, peonies and hydrangeas. I didn’t even know I had favorite flowers until I started dating him. Who knew?
The card is still in my hand. The outside is pink with “mi reina” printed in cursive on the front. My heart swells as I open the note, racing to read every word. There’s not much to it.
Be ready in an hour. Wear that red dress I like.
An hour? This man will be the death of me with his bizarre deadlines and cryptic messages. Though I can’t deny the thrill spreading through my body.
Oh, he’s definitely up to something.
Not wanting to waste any more precious time, I rush to our bedroom on the second floor. Luckily, my hair and makeup are mostly done from this morning. The red dress in question hangs in the back of my closet. I strip down to my panties and bra before gently taking the dress off the hanger and sliding it on my body. It’s a tight fit, more so than usual. It’s true what they say about gaining weight in a happy relationship. It would be more if not for the amazing—and sweaty—sex we have almost nightly.
