Jack shakes his head. “No. You took the time you needed to be sure. I can’t blame you for that.”
“You were always so sure, though!”
“That’s because I’ve been a little in love with you since kindergarten.” He laughs and rubs his neck sheepishly.
“Yes, but…” I take a step closer to him. “I love you right now, Jack Mann.”
He looks shocked. “You do?”
I nod fast because my throat feels thick with tears. Of relief, and love, andall the feels.Love pours through my heart, like a tsunami, and tears rush to my eyes. I cannot speak. But I will.
“Yes, I love you.”
“Well, it’s about time, Sora Reid.” He flashes a grin. “I love you, too.”
Then I throw my arms around him and kiss him.
Epilogue
SORA
VALENTINE’S DAY, THE FOLLOWING YEAR
The snow just begins to fall on the windshield as Jack kicks the windshield wipers on and keeps driving down Ridge Avenue, headed north from the city. Traffic on the narrow road feels light, but it is a Sunday afternoon, and all the meteorologists forecast snow beginning now and continuing through the night.
“Are you sure you’re not telling me where we’re going?” I ask him, a smidgen worried. I love surprises, usually—just not on Valentine’s Day. Jack grabs my hand and squeezes it. Instantly, I feel my blood pressure go down. Those lovey-dovey endorphins begin flowing again through my veins. That’s Jack’s effect on me.
“Trust me,” he says, and I find that I do.
The last year has been amazing. More than amazing. Better than I’d ever imagined life could be. I kicked theSlickgig,and started writing for a few nonprofit websites. Now I spend my time encouraging women to run for political office or to dream big, and, well, now I can say, without any irony at all, that I am doing my part for feminism.
“Not even a little bit of a hint?” We’ve been driving north… awhile. Then I start recognizing the quaint suburb just north of Chicago. The leafy-lined streets with vintage condos and old farmhouses, right near a lively downtown of boutiques and restaurants. “Wait. We’re in Evanston. What are we doing here?”
Before I can question further, Jack pulls up toourneighborhood grade school, Dewey Elementary.
He parks on the street in front of the familiar blue and white sign. It’s changed a bit since the nineties. Are those new swings? Still, I’d recognize that one-story, redbrick building anywhere. He parks the car against the curb by the playground and grins at me.
“Jack Mann. What are wedoinghere?”
It’s a Sunday, so there’s no school, and we’ve had little snow so far this winter, so very small clumps of white stick on the ground. He gets out of the car, and heads around to my side, opening my door and offering his hand.
“My lady,” he says, and tilts his head downward. I laugh a little and take his hand, and he helps me out of the car. I zip up my parka and shiver a bit in the cold. Snowflakes swirl in the air, and my breath comes out in white clouds. Jack reaches behind my seat and produces a brown paper grocery sack.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he tells me, and his brown eyes sparkle with mischief.
I tug on my gloves. He offers one of his hands and I take it.
“Should we race to the swings?” I ask.
“I’ll let you win, like always.” He grins.
“Excuse me, you’llletme? I’m just fast.” Then again, I do have an old memory that floats to the surface. The little boy with the dark hair, little bit heavy, who might have pulled up at the last minute, shyly smiling at me from behind the anchor pole as I took the last free seat.
Now, Jack leads me to the swings. He dusts off one, sweeping the thin layer of snow that’s already beginning to form on the black rubber seat, and then cleans one off for himself. We sit together, on this playground I knew so well from kindergarten all the way to fifth grade. I kick out and swing just a little bit. He watches me, a smile growing on his face.
Jack holds the mystery bag with the paper handles with one hand, and the chain of the swing with the other. “So, I brought you here, because I knowthisschool. This is where Valentine’s Day all went wrong for you. So…” I dig my toes into the snow-covered woodchips, slowing my swing. He reaches into his big brown bag with the paper handles and pulls out a shoebox covered in red construction paper and painted with all manner of pink glitter, all shades: from pearl pink to hot fuchsia. It’s covered in puffy hearts, and stickers of Cupid, and has big blocky sticker letters that read “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
