Epilogue Cass

Yet another six months later

Perplexed, I stirred the pot on the stovetop, frowning as I stared into it. Steam wafted out of it, obscuring the chicken inside. I waved a potholder over the top, hoping to get a good look at the dish.

My chicken was purple.

"Does this look right?" I asked, even though I knew the answer would be a resounding no.

Marcus placed a hand on my waist and peered over my shoulder. "This is coq a vin?"

"The fact that you have to ask is so troubling to me," I responded. "I ruined it, didn't I?"

"It's purely out of love and undying devotion that I'm going to back away slowly," he replied.

"Damn it," I muttered. I attempted, in vain, to salvage it by stirring some more—but that really only seemed to make it angrier.

Just then, Alex popped into the kitchen and looked over my other shoulder. "You know you fucked that up, right?" he asked.

"Oh fuck you, Alex," Marcus immediately snapped, jumping to my defense. "What the hell have you ever cooked?"

"I made that salad," he reminded him, gesturing over at the metal bowl on the counter.

"Made a salad?" Marcus questioned, eyes narrowed. "You ‘made a salad?' You bought a bag of spring mix at Trader Joe's and poured store-bought vinaigrette on top. Should we bow down to you, chef?"

"First of all, I call it Joseph's, not Trader Joe's—you damn plebeian. Secondly, I also threw some croutons on top, so screw you, Marcus," Alex shot back.

"Can you both shut up? Our families are going to be here any minute and my dad gets hangry," I said. "God. Okay, decision time: Do I order food, or do we just serve them this?"

"Why order food?" Marcus asked. He was leaning against the refrigerator with his arms folded over his chest and he was still glaring at Alex. "We have Alex's bitchin' salad over there."

"Get fucked, Fitz," Alex snapped back, advancing towards Marcus.

"Stop!" I insisted. I held up my hand to stop Alex in his tracks. "Here, Marcus. Take my phone. Can you please order something? And Alex, clean this up."

"And what are you going to do?" Alex questioned as he picked up a dishtowel.

I was halfway to the living room. "I'm going to open a bottle of wine and contemplate why I was so stupid as to go into business with you clowns."

Alex chuckled as he heaved the Dutch oven off the burner. "Look, Cass, as a former CEO, I have to tell you—those jokes are going to go to your head one day."

"Who said I was joking?" I deadpanned.

***

An hour later, my parents (so rich, so boring) were chatting in my kitchen with Marcus and Alex, as well as Alex's parents (Bob and Janet—so Midwest, so cute). I was sitting on the couch with Marcus's mothers (Sharon and Kelly—so Northeast, so hilarious). It was a bizarre scenario—one I truly never thought I would see. But there we were.

Our three sets of parents had exactly three things in common.

Number one: Eleven years ago, they all traveled to Princeton, New Jersey to drop their teenagers off at college.

Number two: Exactly a year ago, all of them participated in highly dramatic phone calls from their children.

Alex had called Bob and Janet to tell them he was probably going to federal prison (luckily, that didn't happen).

Marcus had called Sharon and Kelly to tell them Alex was probably going to federal prison (again, that luckily didn't happen).

And I had spoken to my mother to let her know I was unemployed, but madly in love (and later on I told them Alex was probably going to federal prison—which I honestly would have been fine with at the time).

And number three: Six months ago, they all participated in yet another series of highly dramatic phone calls from their children, where they informed them they were starting a company.

Alex told Bob and Janet he was going to go back to his first love, coding, and would be creating an algorithm for a new startup.

Marcus told Sharon and Kelly he was going to take on the role of Chief Operating Officer for his girlfriend's (yes, his girlfriend's) new startup.

And I told my parents I was going to be the Founder and CEO of Trove: a mental health startup that would ease the stressful act of finding a therapist.

If any of our parents were apprehensive, they never said a word. They simply stood back and watched as we forged out into a world that was not terribly unfamiliar to Marcus and Alex, but was new for me. The last six months had been hectic and confusing and sometimes discouraging, but we finally found ourselves on stable footing—with ten million dollars in funding secured.

As we sat on the couch, Sharon hugged me again. "Sweetie, we've never seen Marcus like this. If we had known you were all he needed to come into his own, we would have tracked you down decades ago."

I looked over at Marcus, who was nodding seriously while my father droned on about—hand to god— index funds .

"Oh, I had nothing to do with it," I responded. "If anything, he was the one who brought me into my own. Working with him has been a dream. He's just so good at what he does."

Kelly was nodding. "The minute we met him and saw he color-coded his drawers, we just knew—that was our kid."

Ever since Marcus had introduced me to his mothers, I had picked up so many gems about his childhood. Some were hard to stomach, sure. There were stories about the eight years of his life he spent moving from one foster home to another that left me speechless and teary. But sweet stories like this filled me with a selfless joy I had never experienced before.

I loved him—and all I wanted to do was love him and make sure that for every bad year he'd had in his childhood, he would have ten great ones with me.

Later, when we sat down to eat dinner, nine of us seated with plates of delivery Thai food on our laps, I found myself seated between Marcus and my mother. He settled into an easy conversation with her, chatting over me while I took in the absurdity of the situation. I had never told her he was the reason I even considered forgiving them—that he was the one who reminded me they loved me. My mother had already started referring to him as "her son Marcus." She surely didn't need more reasons to like him more than she liked me.

"Well, I have to make a toast," my father announced as he stood.

"Please, no," I murmured—but not softly enough to be inaudible. That made Sharon snort and turn her face towards her shoulder, while my own mother politely brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle as she rested her other hand on top of Sharon's.

"Just a quick one," my father assured me.

"Please, Mr. Pierson," Marcus said, nodding politely. "I would love to hear your toast."

"Traitor," I whispered.

Marcus simply grinned and brought my hand up to his lips to kiss it.

"Thank you, Marcus," my father said. He faced the group again. "I just want to propose a toast to my brilliant daughter Cass, her equally brilliant boyfriend Marcus, and their brilliant friend Alex in recognition of all the hard work they've done to create Trove and to secure ten million dollars in seed funding."

When my father mentioned the seed funding amount, all three sets of parents began clapping lightly and cheering, which I couldn't even pretend to be embarrassed about. Next to me, Marcus squeezed my hand so tightly I didn't know where his hand ended and mine began. And that was just fine with me.

"But more importantly," my father went on, "I wanted to highlight just how important this work is, and what a difference this app is going to make for people everywhere. Easier access to mental health services is far overdue. I'm just honored these three have brought us along on the journey. Only great things to come. To Trove."

"To Trove," we toasted, raising our glasses together.

***

After the wine had long run out and our parents had dispersed to their different hotels for the night (with plans to go on a group trip to the freaking Statue of Liberty—of all places—the next morning), Alex was the last one to leave. He and Marcus had somehow gotten into a rousing game of darts on the dartboard in our living room. When I really couldn't handle them tipsily shouting profanities at each other anymore, I got up, took a dart from Alex, and immediately threw a bullseye.

"What the fuck?" Alex questioned, frowning at the dartboard. "Was that luck?"

"Please," I responded. "While you and Marcus were spending money on bottle service at rooftop hotels, I was absolutely crushing it in dive bars."

"That's the hottest thing I've ever seen you do," Marcus muttered from his spot a few feet away. His eyes looked me up and down once. "Can you do it again?"

"And that's my cue to leave," Alex declared briskly. He grabbed his coat and headed towards the door. "Hey, boss, I'm going to have another demo ready on Monday. Do you want to come over to my place to do it, or should I come over here?"

"You come here. I've told you plenty of times—we're not working at your place until you buy a coffee maker," I said.

"Pay me more," was his cheeky response. "Alright, bye lovebirds. I'll see you two on Monday."

Once Alex was gone, Marcus let me put on Rosemary's Baby while he cleaned up the kitchen. When he was done, he joined me in our bedroom, where Frank and Sammy were napping by me.

He climbed into the bed behind me and wrapped his arm over me. As he settled in, I paused the movie and I turned to face him. "Did you have fun tonight?" I asked.

"I did," he said. "All our parents in one room, celebrating our first round of funding. Last time this happened, it was just Alex and me and his parents took us to the Red Lobster on the New Jersey Turnpike."

"That's so funny," I murmured. "Makes me kind of wish we had ordered Red Lobster."

"Next round," he promised. "Because there will be more rounds. I swear it. I'm going to make your company unstoppable, Cass."

"I know." I leaned forward to give him a slow, appreciative kiss. "Of course I know."

He smiled as he rested his cheek on the pillow. "Do you love me?"

"Honestly, I probably love you a little too much," I responded. I reached out and fisted his t-shirt so I could pull him closer to me. "It's probably all going to your head."

"How could it not?" he responded. He lowered his hand to my ass. "I love you too, Cass."

We kissed for a few minutes, staying comfortable in that position instead of taking it any further. Sometimes we did that. Sometimes we just kissed each other and showered each other with affection instead of fucking like rabbits (although that was also a fairly common occurrence for us).

"Guess what today is," he murmured when we came up for air.

"Friday?"

"Close," he responded. "Actually, no. You're not even remotely close."

"Ass."

He chuckled. "Today is the eleven-year anniversary of the time we got into that fight in college, and you insulted me to my very core, and then I insulted you back, so you threw a beer in my face."

He delivered this update so quickly and casually, I couldn't help but laugh.

"It is?"

He nodded. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

Of course I did. "Do you forgive me?"

"Only if you forgive me," he responded. "And for the record, I know you've forgiven me. Either that, or you've taken the concept of hate sex to a whole new level."

"I never hated you," I said. "I never could. Even when I tried, even when I said I did, I was trying to cover how I really felt. I always liked you, Marcus. From the first moment I saw you, I liked you. Obviously I had a weird way of showing it…"

"It was kind of hot," he said.

I smiled. "We both know you're joking, but I kind of like this version of events. Let's go with that. Let's go with the version where eleven years ago we were so young and so in love that we pushed each other away because we knew we weren't ready to be together for the long haul."

He shook his head. "I love our history though. We couldn't love each other this much if we hadn't been through a few bumps along the way."

I put my hand on his cheek and looked into those beautiful green eyes. Eleven years ago, I looked into those eyes, and I chose to hurt this person. The thought of hurting Marcus pained me now.

To my relief, he stared at me with full adoration—just like he did every day.

My mind was still a swirl of colors and noise and memories, and I knew there was no changing that. No matter what, I would have to live with the fact that I hurt him once, and no amount of time or therapy could ever stop me from remembering that in vivid detail. But he had forgiven me—and I had forgiven myself.

It all came down to expectations.

I set an expectation for myself: I would be good to him because he deserved it—and because I deserved it as well. I would meet that expectation; I would exceed it if I could.

And I swore to myself I would make better memories. I would make wonderful, vivid memories to drown out the noise for each of the bad memories I had of Marcus.

That was an expectation I had to meet. For once, it was an expectation I wanted to meet.

Luckily, he made that so, so easy.

The end