Page 23 of Space Crush
She moans as Frank begins the last line.
Together we sing, “I love you.”
Holding my eyes—as well as my heart—Kaley smiles at my out of tune declaration. “I love you, too.”
Then, to the soundtrack of Frank Sinatra, we proceed to show each other how much.
I may or may not owe her more silk pajamas at the end.
Worth it.
EPILOGUE: PRODUCT LIFESTYLE MANAGEMENT
Christmas Day
Kaley
I’m wrist deep in Christmas cookies when my phone beeps.
Thinking it’s my mother giving me an ETA on when she and Kathy are heading over to our house for brunch, I leave my phone lying on kitchen table alone and finish up plating the cookies the girls and I baked yesterday.
Rose, Trish, and their friends Jackie, Jules and Rebeca—who have thankfully become my friends too—came over for a Christmas Eve cookie baking party.
Which turned into a Christmas Evepartywhen Evan decided to rent a bouncy house.
I thought he would’ve had PTSD from the last bouncy house he entered, but apparently not. And while the bouncy house is gingerbread themed and smaller in scale that the one at NASA had been—it still features a ball pit.
The kids loved it. At least that’s what the ones baking concluded from the squeals of laughter we heard from inside the house. That and none of the kids came in asking to lick the bowls or spoons but rather kept playing with their exhausted fathers—and Jules, who isnota baker—until we called them in to taste test.
Holt, Jules’ husband, whoisa baker and a fantastic one at that, baked the chocolate eggnog sugar cookies that won the adult vote.
Whereas Rose’s kitchen sink chocolate cookies—that had nothing to do with Christmas but were jammed full of every candy imaginable—won the kid vote.
Then Evan surprised me with a birthday cake, and everyone sang me an early happy birthday. It was lemon chiffon. A flavor that Evan said reminded him of me, and a cake that I will never look at the same way since we used the leftovers in a very creative, very messy way later that night.
It was a chaotic, happy, sticky day.
I loved it.
But it also cost me a good night’s sleep as I lay in bed replaying it over and over. Right before I finally dropped off to sleep—on clean sheets and Evan beside me—I came to the conclusion that being happy makes me greedy.
Because I want it every year, but more.
I want the kids super manning Evan in the ball pit to be our own. I want the matching mother and daughter outfits to be the ones I wear with my daughter—but maybe not bedazzled. And I want to fall asleep next to Evan—like I have every night this past year—but for the rest of my life.
I want to get married.
However.
Going by the second rule of our relationship—if you need something, ask for it—then that meansIhave askEvan.
Brushing cookie crumbs off my hands, I take out the French toast casserole I made last night for Christmas bunch, set it on the counter, and pout.
Call me old-fashioned, unfeminist, or whatever else, but the truth is I don’t want to ask Evan to marry me. I wanthimto askme.
I had a small blip of hope this morning when Evan and I exchanged presents under the tree while the Rat Pack Christmas album played. But while I loved the lingerie sets and birthstone earrings he gave me, there hadn’t been a ring.
My phone beeps again.
