“Nico, it’s perfect.” I squeeze him gently. “I love this for you so much.”
He pulls back to look up at me. “Yeah? You think I could do it?”
“Iknowyou can,” I tell him, and I bend down and kiss his lips softly. When we part, I rest my forehead against his. “I believe in you, Nico. I always have.”
I feel him nod, and after a few moments, he straightens up, glancing back at the computer screen. There are tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away and smiles. “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
He sits there for a few seconds, still staring at the computer screen. When he turns to me, his entire expression is lit up with excitement. “Okay, then. I’ll call Greta tomorrow and let her know. And then I’ll talk to Vera.”
I nod and lean toward him, and he meets me halfway in another short, sweet kiss.
“I love you,” I whisper, and then I kiss him again, his lips silky and soft.
When he pulls back after a few seconds, he’s grinning, his eyes dancing like they were earlier, and my heart skips a beat at the sight. His smile is so warm, so full and bright. It’s that smile of his I just love—the one that disappeared for so long after all that awful stuff happened back in Nebraska.
He’s changed a lot since then, and I see that smile more and more now. But it’s still special every single time.
And I don’t think he knows just how much it gives me strength.
“What?” I ask, grinning back at him.
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Just... I’m happy,” he says quietly. “I’m happy and excited about this and about our future.”
“I am, too.” I set my hand palm up on his thigh, and he lowers his eyes to watch as our fingers intertwine.
Then he looks back up, and his smile softens. “You’ve always been there for me,” he says. “You’ve always supported me, even when things were hard. You’re my best friend, and I love you. And god, this sounds corny as fuck, but I... I want it to be like this, you and me, forever. Can you... can you promise me that?”
My chest tightens at the tiny bit of uncertainty in his voice, and I nod without hesitation. “Yes.” I reach up to touch his cheek with my free hand. “My heart belongs to you, Nico. It always will. I promise.”
He gifts me that beautiful smile again, and I feel all his hope and love and the depth of the promises we just made to each other.
It feels like the beginning of something incredible. And god, I’m all in.
Extended Epilogue
Two years later
Chapter One
Nico
Flakesofold,brittlebacking paper crumble, lifting off the back of a 1902 Stanislaw Maslowski watercolor as I gently scrape the thick wove paper with a small metal spatula. The painting doesn’t look like much now—it’s covered in dark red and brown splotches known as foxing, which I’ve learned commonly occurs due to ageing and humidity—but after I’m finished removing the backing paper, our senior paper conservator, Susan, will start the careful process of washing the paper to eliminate the spots.
It’s a slow, tedious job, and the success of the entire restoration depends on me being thorough. So I am.
The studio is quiet now, like it usually is on Saturdays. My boss, Greta, who owns the studio, is sitting at the workbench behind me, retouching surface cracks on an oil painting from the 1860s, and her wife, Sabine, is finishing up filing their taxes at the computer on the other side of the room. Most of Greta’s other employees are only in on weekdays unless they’ve got a project that’s time-sensitive, but I’m usually working at least one weekend day since I have to fit in as many hours as I can outside of regular business hours.
It’s an exhausting schedule—working thirty-five to forty hours a week for Vera in San Jose and then another fifteen or so for my apprenticeship here at Greta’s Menlo Park studio. I love the work,though, just like Vera thought I would. The long, quiet hours of careful attention to detail are ridiculously rewarding when each job is finished, an old painting slowly brought back to life.
The morning passes, and by the time Greta and her wife disappear around noon to go to lunch, I’ve finished removing about a third of the old backing paper on this painting. The goal is to have it finished by Monday, so Susan can get started on the next steps, but I need a break, too. So I set my tools down, stand up, and stretch, and then I head out of the main studio to the employee lounge, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check on my boyfriend.
I’m not surprised to see a slew of missed text messages, all from Alex. He’s been panicking for the last week or so about a presentation he’s giving to the entire physics department later today,andhis mom just flew in from Nebraska last night so she can attend. When I left our apartment at eight this morning to catch the train to Menlo Park, he’d already been up for hours, going over his notes and fixing little things here and there in his slides. He’s been nervous before, especially the first time he had to present at one of the department’s smaller meetings last year. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite as nervous as he was this morning.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and then collapse onto the couch along the far wall and click to open the string of texts.
Alex (9:15 a.m.):dude have u seen my nice sweater?
