Extended Epilogue

Always and forever.

– Finnegan

Marcella’s foot rests on my shoulder while I rub the other in my lap. Sprawled on the couch in the main living room, which is overburdened with Christmas decorations, she groans and plays with her little corn snake, which I gave her less than thirty days ago.

She already loves it more than me.

“Finnnn?”

“Yes, love?”

Awkwardly flopped, she struggles to lift her head and scowl. “Do you think maybe you could just…I don’t know.” Her eyes narrow. “ Snap my ankle?”

I drop my attention to her perfect little foot. “No, I don’t think that’s something I’m wholly capable of.”

She pokes me in the ear with her toe. “Why not? You weak or something?”

“Compelled, by love, not to hurt you.”

Her sigh pours into the low Christmas music playlist I started an hour ago, despite her protest. “That is very disappointing behavior.”

“You’ll get over it.” I move my attention up her calf, kneading into the muscle. “Probably.”

“Unlikely. Do you even know me?”

I do. Quite intimately. And that knowledge may forever fill my soul with peace.

“It’s Christmas dinner. With your wonderful family. In the beautiful house we bought your parents last Christmas. Why don’t you want to go?”

“Can I say olives in the marinara ?”

“That’s a me problem. You like the olives in the marinara.”

Seemingly upset by this truth, she pets Copper the corn snake’s tiny head. “I don’t want to go because my stupid parents invited my stupid extended family to their stupid new house for this stupid holiday, so they will be bringing stupid gifts.”

“Yes, and so are we…”

“Right. But we have cool gifts because I pay attention to my silly little relatives. They’re going to give me sweaters and candles and garbage that I’ll have to pretend to like while everyone stares at me. Worse, I’m rich now, so not being blissfully overjoyed will make everyone hate me and think I’m a snob.”

“Your family does not strike me as the type to hate you, especially not when you went through the trouble of stalking their social media pages and identifying the best gifts for each person. The attention to detail made me fall in love with you all over again.”

“If you really loved me, you’d snap my ankle so I don’t have to go. Send my most pathetic regards. Bring the pastries we made yesterday as an apology.”

I frown. “No. Those are mine.”

“I can stay here and make you more.”

“With a broken ankle? What kind of husband would I be to abandon you in such distress then demand you make me pastries amidst your pain?”

Her smile brightens her dark eyes until they’re glittering. “A very, very mean one. My biggest dream. The best Christmas gift.”

I tut. “What a shame you forbade me from getting you Christmas gifts.”

“This is an exception. Besides, would it really be a Christmas gift if I’ve been asking for it for so long?”

“If it’s given at Christmas, yes.”

She rolls over, twisting her leg in my hands, and mutters incoherently about social constructs . When she’s finished, she lifts her head and declares, “ Pickles . Get thee hence without me. Apologize on the behalf of your temperamental wife. Say I was livid and started threatening to throw knives at you.”

“They wouldn’t believe me.”

Casting a look over her shoulder, she arches a brow. “Why not? It’s a very believable thing for me to do.”

“Too believable to end with threats. I’d require a stab wound.”

Unpretzeling herself, very careful not to hurt Copper, Marcella scoots closer to me on the couch. “Finn…”

“No.”

Her lip juts. “You don’t love me anymore?”

I pinch her chin. “You may stab me tomorrow if it so pleases you. But never to get out of meeting with your family, who loves you, very much. Also, using the safe word flippantly is not allowed in this household. I’m putting my foot down, on behalf of our son.”

She melts herself into my side, head plopping atop my shoulder. Letting our son curl around her wrist, she mutters, “I don’t know if you deserve it right now, but I got you a gift.”

“I got you one, too.”

“You suck.”

I murmur, “Forehead,” then kiss her there. “I love you.”

Huffing, she stands and marches away. When she returns, she has exchanged Copper for a scrapbook. Unceremoniously, she drops it on my lap, folds her arms, and peers down her nose at me. “I didn’t wrap it, because that’s dumb.”

My lips part as I turn to the first page.

Our First Year Together

Pictures. Notes. Memos.

My throat closes as I take every tediously-placed item in.

Our wedding.

Our honeymoon.

My…mother. A tribute to her, using the photos from the funeral.

“You made this?” I whisper.

Her eyes roll as she bites her lip. “No. I hired someone. Of course I made it.” She stabs her finger to a lipstick mark beside pictures from our New Year’s party. “I kissed the page myself. Right here. With all the love in my wee black, shriveled heart.”

One of these days I’m going to sit my precious wife down and show her all the things she does to care about people and get her to stop talking like this. One of these days, she’ll get a college research paper on the subject, and I’ll quiz her on every bullet point. Starting with exactly how many rocks do you have in a bucket by our bed? And why do you obsessively count them so often?

Mm. Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Wee black, shriveled heart, my foot.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“Completely.” Gently, I keep turning the pages, awestruck. Finally, the last one contains the memos we sent each other the day after our anniversary.

Sincerely, Yours.

Always and forever .

“We’re going to be late,” Marcella mutters while I’m busy tracing the script all over the page around the printed notes. She’s written little unhinged comments like: You’re never getting rid of me and Stuck together, eternallyyy . In one corner, she’s simply doodled an evil face surrounded by chaotic laughter, and I didn’t know it was possible to love her more.

But here I am.

Falling harder each day.

“Finn. We’re going to be late,” she repeats.

Pulling my gaze from the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received, I say, “What about your gift?”

“Won’t I be tortured enough at my parents’ house?”

“Nope.” Moving my scrapbook aside, I pat my lap.

Deeply disgruntled, she plops down.

I wrap her up in my arms and press a hard kiss to her jaw, squeezing her until she relaxes. “What I got you pales in comparison to this.”

“Good. I prefer to be underwhelmed.”

“I commissioned Penny.”

She twists, looking at me. “Penny still works for you. Is it really a commission if you ask her to do something on salary?”

“I paid her extra. And nitpicked the piece to death. She hated me by the end of it.”

Marcella’s arms fold. “Hating you is my job. No one else is allowed.”

I nestle in. “Unfortunately, you’ve left a vacancy for many months now.”

“Can’t be right. Sometimes, you click your pens in earshot, and I allot a special time to hate you for it on the weekends. Where’s my picture?”

“Under the couch. I didn’t wrap it either.”

She moves to look, finds the canvas, and gasps as she pulls the large portrait out into the Christmas lights. “Butterfly fairy princess,” she whispers.

“With her butterfly fairy prince,” I note.

A wide smile overtakes her. “You know, butterflies don’t mate for life. Even though their lives are so short. Isn’t that sad?” She traces my likeness on the portrait with a delicate fingertip. “I’m glad we’re not butterflies. I want to spend so much longer with you.”

“To think when we first started dating you were counting down the days.” I stare at the back of the canvas, where a suspicious comic of Marcella stabbing me with a dirty knife rests. “I’m so glad you changed your mind.”

Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve told you before. People don’t change; they grow. You gave me the space I needed to thrive. You taught me I wasn’t hard to love. Loving you after that was easy. I kind of just…grew into it.”

Warmth spreads throughout my entire body. “And I’m so glad you did…but…pumpkin.”

She wiggles, looking at her picture. “Yeah?”

I grin, knowing we are going to be so late. “Turn that around, love.”