New year. Same me. Better choices.
Starting right now with this one.
Epilogue
A FEW HOURS LATER
I’m in a relationship. So what?
It’s not a perfect relationship. It’s only been, like, six hours.
The guy is tall and solid and a little gruff, but underneath, he’s intelligent and caring, and he sees mypotential. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who believed in myfull potential, so I asked him to be my boyfriend on the flight over, and he couldn’t have said yes faster.
So here I sit in the back of a RideShare as our driver speeds up Route 121 North from the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport to the very nearby suburb where myboyfriendis from.
Before we arrive, I check my social media. It shouldn’t matter, but the way people are shouting about our airport reunion makes my heart beat faster. For once, the world gets to see the unfiltered me beside the person who makes me feel the mostmeI’ve ever been. Satisfied, I log out and delete the apps. I don’t need a forced detox this time to trick me into living in the present.
To break up the silence, I ask, “Will I finally get to try some of this storied coquito?”
“Absolutely.” Hector smiles. “Oh, and I forgot to ask. Do you like grapes?”
“What a highly specific getting-to-know-you question.” We spent most of the flight over running down one of those internet lists—“200 Questions to Deepen Your Relationship” or something—to help pass the time.
“No, it’s not that. I ask because my grandmawillforce you to eat twelve grapes at midnight to attract fortune and prosperity for the year ahead and if you don’t participate youwillbe given the silent treatment by the entire family.” He gives me worry-eyes.
“I will eat a million grapes if it will make your family like me. Promise.”
Shortly after, we come to a stop at a vacant curb.
On a quiet tree-lined street sits a single-story house of brown and red brick. Expertly trimmed shrubbery lines the front exterior, adding softness to the sharp lines of the geometric home.
I hesitate before slipping out of the car, suddenly nervous. “You know what? I just remembered that I was cursed by a witch as a baby and now if grapes even come close to my lips I’ll fall into a seven-year slumber.”
“How do you explain all that wine you drink, then?” Hector rolls his eyes. “It’ll be great. They’ll love you.” He offers me a hand as he hunches in the open car door, wearing a reassuring smile. “Come on.”
I ride the wave of my emotions, letting the anxiety register and then roll away.
Hand in hand, we walk the worn path to the maroon front door. Hector knocks a unique rhythm, one the family must know by heart, and one my own heart saves away for later.
I take a breath—inhaling gratitude—and prepare myself for what lies beyond the threshold.
ONE YEAR LATER
I’m in the kitchen of the Cornelia Street apartment Hector and I are renting. Greenwich Village glows at night with a vibrant community and more sweet treats than my metabolism can take. I’m happy to be back in the city that raised me, in a new neighborhood that accepts me, living with someone who loves me.
I pour a glass of red wine to celebrate another successful event fully planned and on its way to completion—a holiday charity fundraiser for a mental health organization I’m affiliated with. I close my laptop. I’ll start up again in January for Oksana and Maxim’s wedding. Tonight, I’ll bask in the pleasant uncertainty of an impending event blended with the cheerful certainty of helping others.
With Nan’s backing, I finally opened Prince Charming Events, an upscale, boutique event-planning service catering to all walks of life and all budgets. I sometimes work pro bono, like I did for this evening’s affair, but my usual rates have helped me manage my own bank account, independent of my parents’ now equal-and-separate wealth.
Hector had been right: hard work feeds the soul.
Right on time, the key jangles in the lock. Hector slips inside. His hair is short now, tapered at the sides and trimmed at the top. He looks as handsome as ever as he slings his Herschel bag near the shoe rack and hangs up his coat. He’s just come from his final class in his first semester as a graduate student in the department of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University.
“Congratulations!” I call from my perch. I pour a second glass of wine and hand it to him as he greets me with a kiss on the crown of my head. “How does it feel to be free for at least a few weeks?”
“A student never stops learning,” he says. He takes his first sip andmmmsat the crisp, oaky notes. The bottle was an expensive gift from one of the celebrities whose vow-renewal ceremony I worked on a few months back.
“Well, you’re going to have to keep your books in the bookshelf for this evening. I’m leaving in five and you should leave in, like, an hour just to be safe,” I say.
