Page 62 of Falling

“Part of it. As much as I want to barricade us inside, we’ll have to leave eventually to interact with the general public. We’ll need to go on the occasional date night too. But I think we established our couple routine years ago. We just didn’t realize we were a couple,” he says.

“Hmm,” I hum. “In that case, I think this ‘us’ thing is going to work out pretty satisfactory.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He pulls me tighter to him. “I’m glad sex is a part of it now though.”

“Well, that goes without saying.” We grin at each other. Then I’m pulled off the couch and tossed over his shoulder. He carries me to his bedroom and tosses me on the bed. He’s on me before I’m done laughing.

Yeah, I think this relationship thing is going to work out just fine.

epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

GENEVA

I sitin Peter’s apartment, staring out the window as the sun starts to set over Lake Austin. Calling it Peter’s apartment is a bit of a formality since I spend as much time here as he does. In my defense, the view is much better than from my apartment. He also has a king-size bed.

Brontë sits at the other end of the couch while Keats bounces between us. He’s two now, so this is as calm as he ever gets. The kid even moves in his sleep.

“You know what?” I say, and Brontë turns to look at me. The men are at the kitchen bar, trying to pretend it’s possible to hold a conversation without a toddler busting in every few seconds. “I just realized that it’s an anniversary for Peter and I. Hey,” I say toward the bar. “Did you know it’s our anniversary?”

“Which one?” he asks. “You keep expecting me to keep up with like four. First kiss, first adult kiss, the list goes on,” he complains to Rand.

“Our official first normal couple day anniversary,” I answer. You’d think he could at least remember that one. “As opposed to our first non-official couple anniversary.” Okay, I’m starting to see what he means.

“Now, now, if y’all would just get married, you’d just have to remember one,” Brontë points out.

“I figured Geneva would let me know when she’s ready to get married,” Peter replies.

“I’m supposed to tell you when we should get married?” I swear, I love him to the end of the earth and back, but sometimes he can be such a typical man. “Why am I responsible for that decision?”

“What would you do if I had proposed on some jumbotron six months ago?”

“I would have said no and dumped my beer on your head.”

“And if I put your ring in a piece of cake and asked you while I was down on one knee in a fancy restaurant?”

“I’d probably choke on the ring and pour champagne over your head.”

“Why does this always end with pouring a drink over his head?” Rand asks.

“It’s better than having the ring extracted from my lower intestine after I swallow it in a piece of cake.”

“Point taken.”

“You know I don’t like stupid public displays anyway,” I continue.

“Exactly,” Peter says. “So I figured when you’re ready, you’ll tell me how you want proposed to.”

“Huh,” I huff. My gaze settles back on the display over the river. Peter knows me so well. I don’t remember us even discussing marriage. Do I want to get married? We have such a good thing going right now. Do I want to take a chance on messing it up? But if we’re great together now, how would a piece of paper change that?

“Wait, I have a question.” Brontë turns to look over the back of the couch at Peter. “If you’re waiting for Geneva to tell you when to propose, how will you have a ring ready in time?”

“I have a ring already,” he says.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah, I bought it about six months ago.”

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