I rest my head back on his chest, listening to the sure, steady rhythm of his heart. In his world of blueprints and microchips, the future is a puzzle he can already see the edges of. In mine, it’s a warmer, softer mystery. But as I close my eyes, I can almost picture it—a slim, impossible little device, beeping in the pocket of his worn-out jeans. A tiny piece of the future, dreamed up in our present, in this quiet, creaking house on a winter night.
He presses a kiss to the side of my head. “I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know if we’ll be living in a world of pocket-computers or if we’ll all be driving robotic cars. But I know I’m glad I get to figure it out with you.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
Outside, a car rolls slowly down the salted street, its headlights painting a brief, sweeping arc across the ceiling before fading. The apartment settles around us, this old, creaking vessel holding our new, quiet life. Leo’s breathing evens out against my hair. My own eyes grow heavy, not with exhaustion, but with a profound, settled fullness.
From the chaos of being a woman who ran away, and ran straight into her own life. From a name that never fit to one called out in a kitchen, in a laugh, in the dark. From being so desperately alone to building this, brick by unglamorous brick—a home made of laundry piles and inside jokes, and this, right here.
The future is a wide, unknown territory. There might be robotic cars or pocket phones or maybe just better popcorn. There will still be scraped knees and parent-teacher conferences and arguments over bills. There will be time, moving fast, always too fast.
But we’ll be facing it head on. Together.
I understand, then, that this is the thing no one tells you about finding your way home. It isn’t a place on a map. It isn’t a name you’re given or a name you choose. It isn’t even the man whose arms are around you, though he is the clearest signpost you’ll ever get.
Home is the moment you stop running. It’s the breath you take when you realize you don’t have to search any longer. It’s the quiet, the solid, the now. It’s the future, not as something to outrun, but as a promise you finally believe you’ll get to keep.
The century is turning soon. The world is speeding up. But here, in the quiet dark, time stretches out, slow and generous. It gives us this. It gives us more.
Leo’s heartbeat under my ear is the only clock I need. The rest of it—the years, the changes, the unknown world rushing in—we will meet together. We have time.
We have all the time in the world.
Epilogue
EMMA
September 4, 2015
I’m standing on the front steps of my parents’ brownstone in Park Slope, juggling a bouquet of peach-colored peonies (Mom’s favorite), a cheese platter from Murray’s that cost more than my first camera, and my phone, which is currently pressed between my ear and shoulder in a move that would make my chiropractor weep.
“Are you there yet?” Dad asks.
“I’m literally at the door.”
“I can see that.”
I look up at the Ring doorbell camera mounted next to the frame and wave. “Then why did you call to ask?”
“Just making sure you made it safely.”
“From the train? Dad, I’m twenty-six. I’ve been taking the subway by myself since I was twelve.”
“That doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”
I smile despite myself. “Can you actually see me through this thing?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Define ‘see.’”
“Dad.”
“I can tell there’s a person at the door. I just can’t make out any specific features. It’s all very…abstract.”
“You mean it’s shot to hell.”
“The image quality could be better, yes.”
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious? That completely defeats the purpose of having a doorbell camera!”
