I can’t see his expression, but his body stiffens suddenly. “Oh, God… I’m afraid to ask—”

“What?”

He leans back from me and tries to look down, but the room is dark. “Am I still pants?”

I flip on the light and can’t help but laugh. There are creases on his forehead that look a lot like an elastic waistband, but he’s no longer variegated gray. “Well, you might have to grow your hair out a little, but I think you’re mostly back to normal.”

I get up and grab a hand mirror from the bathroom. He takes it from me and examines his forehead, his fingers trailing along the lines. “Do you think anyone will know?”

“That you were pants?”

He laughs. “That I’m not from this time?”

I shrug. “People aren’t really fond of Baby Boomers, but I think they’ll make an exception for you.”

He looks at me quizzically, but I just smile and pat his knee.

“Oh, my polyester friend, this is going to be an adventure.”

7

Epilogue

There should really be a “what happened next” for fairy tales, because that’s what I feel like I’m in for our very first week together. I saved the lost prince from the evil witch and now we’re supposed to ride off on his white horse, but it’s 2025. There are bills to pay, a cat to feed, and jobs to go to.

It’s terribly romantic, in theory, to dramatically save someone from a horrible witch of a “boy mom” mother, but I’d be lying if the words of the woman from Thrift Store Thrift Store didn’t haunt me. It’s not like he had a choice in who showed up to save him, and I’m just a woman with two jobs and a cat, barely making it on my own. But of course I don’t bring it up, and Matthew is busy trying to get his life together.

After a couple of trips to Thrift Store Thrift Store for some clothes and shoes, he disappears the next morning and comes back that night, having found a job loading stuff “off the books” until he can figure out things like IDs and social security numbers. It’s a completely different environment from the onehe left behind in 1987. He had been working on tenure at a university, but he takes it in stride, saying it’s good to use his body. They pay him daily, and I start to find cash in my purse every morning. On his third day, he has enough saved up for a cheap cell phone, and I introduce him to the wonder that is the Internet. He is a fan of memes and immediately starts sending them to me every chance he gets—even the ones there’s no way he could understand.

We fall into routines.

He scoops Stanley’s box for me and does the dishes every night.

I wash his clothes with mine.

We sleep in the same bed every night.

I wake up every morning to him wrapped around me, his cock hard against my back. But there’s no more waking up to sex, which is polite, but weird. Is he just buying his time until he can leave? Does he feel an obligation to me because I saved him? Both of those ideas feel icky, but trying to broach the subject feels equally icky. I don’t mind him being there. He’s paying his way and helping out. I don’t want to back him into a corner when he can’t stand on his own.

Our routines quickly become very domestic—whoever is home first makes dinner. We sit and talk about our day, then I introduce him to all the shows and movies he’s missed. At night, we fall asleep talking about our lives, about what he’s missed, but we never, ever talk the future.

Valentine’s Day rolls around, and with it, thankfully, comes Dale’s show—a distraction from the awkwardness that’s surely going to surround the day as we continue to tiptoe around our situationship. I take a few hours of PTO so I can get ready for it without holding up Matthew—there’s nothing that makes me feel frumpier than going to a drag show and not having on a fullface of make-up. It’s only four when I hear the key in the door, and Matthew walks in with a huge bouquet of red roses.

“Oh hey, I didn’t think you’d be home yet,” he says with a smile.

“Those are beautiful. Who are they for?” I ask, leaning over to sniff the bouquet in his arms.

He laughs, “Seriously?”

When I say nothing, he raises an eyebrow. “I bought them for you. It’s Valentine’s Day. That’s still what people do, right? For someone they like?”

“Yeah, but. Wait. You like me?”

He huffs a laugh. “That might be a tame word for it.”

His words take all the wind out of me for a moment. I can’t say anything, but I can’t break eye contact either.

He sets the vase down on the table and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Look, I don’t want you to feel obligated to me. You already saved me once. And I really wanted to be on more equal footing when I brought this up, but it’s Valentine’s Day and I won’t be an ass just because I’m afraid.”