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“Cohen,” I say softly. “Thank you. And I’m sure she’d love that the skirt was fixed.”
He waves me off, pulling a black styrofoam tray of steaks from the fridge. “Anyway, I hope pink is okay.”
“Pink is perfect.”
I leave him cooking, and give him the moment I’m sure he needs after talking about her, and head into our room. I’m anxious to peel out of my clothes and into something like sweats or nothing at all, but now that I know he’s worked on the music box, my heart pulls me toward it.
With a flip, I send the gold latch to the top of the box, and pull the lid open. Centering the pink velvet is the ballerina, the brown paint of her hair wearing, but her painted unitard is as crisp as when it was made years back. Her dress is pink tulle, and sewn perfectly to reflect a real ballet dress. I think he’s even fed some wire through the bottom, to get it to hold its shape.
I run a finger along the edge, and twist her once, to see how she looks. Bringing it off the dresser, the box shifts weight in my hand as I make the dancer come alive. But when I do, something in the tiny drawer toddles around inside. I set it down and slide the drawer open.
Inside is a diamond ring, and in the doorway is Cohen.
“We don’t have to go in order, but the sooner you’re Scarlett Steele, the better.” He closes the gap between us as the air in my lungs rushes out, and my heart literally stops beating as the world locks into place around me. Oh my god. He’s proposing.
He falls to a knee at my feet, and I exhale thick and heavy, shaking me from the inside out. He’s so handsome at my feet, and he’s so good to me. “I love you so much,” I manage, before the waterworks starts.
“Marry me, Scar. I don’t care when and I don’t care where. All I care about is making you my wife, and having you forever.”
I pull the ring from the box and pass it to him with a wet laugh, running my wrist under my nose. Women in movies who get proposed to are gorgeous and full of life.
My mascara is running and I have a total snotty nose.
But it's real, and it’s perfect.
He slides the ring up my finger and drops his hands to my feet. He lowers his head between his shoulders, looking down as he says, “I promise to take care of you, to worship and love every bit of you forever. My beautiful girlfriend, my future wife, my queen.”
epilogue
cohen
“But,”he continues, sucking in a very deep breath that tells me he isn’t even close to wrapping this up. “If I add the molding and we decide to cut shots, it’s all for naught. And it’s a decent part of my wall budget and without the molding, I could do wainscoting, which essentially gives the same vibe, but is more time consuming. I mean, it would be on camera more unlike the molding, which could, in theory, be rough cut.”
I clap a hand to his shoulder because it’s 4:55 on Friday and I’m just about out of sagely, mentor advice.
Two years ago, we had a film school student assigned to Aug as a protege for her last semester. It was at that time, Aug decided he didn’t want to be alone in having a puppy trail his heels, because misery loves company, I guess. He gotmea protege named Sam, and Sam is… a golden retriever.
High energy, excited for everything. The only place he differs is that he overthinks everything. Like now. He’s creating his first set all alone, without my guidance (read: he asks me so many fucking questions that I’ve essentially, by proxy, made all of the choices for this set) and we still have four days until shooting.
“I’d say go safe, because details don’t do much if the scene is cut or the angle changes. Wainscoting will be in the shot unless they change locations, in which case you’re making a new set anyway.” I hold his eyes, because if I look away too soon, he’ll trail after me, asking if I’m sure. “I’m sure,” I add, “go safe.”
He nods, mumbling his next steps under his breath as he heads toward the computer in his office. My old office, and sometimes I poke my head in there and simultaneously bask in the history of memories painted invisibly on the walls. So much loneliness, so much swallowed grief. But happiness, and understanding, too. Her hands moving through my hair, her words of praise in my ear.
I have a new office now, and it’s even better.
Scarlett and I share it. And at some point during year one, Aug had a sign made. STEELE OFFICE. I still get a halfie when I see Steele after Scarlett’s name.
She’s my wife.
Wife seems limiting at this point, because she’s more than the parameters of that title. She’s my life partner and lover, yes, but she’s my savior, she’s the reason I laugh, the reason I live and breathe, the reason for it all.
I’m about to head back into our office and see her when Tucker sidles up to me. “What’s up?” I like Tuck, but I’m ready to get out of here with my wife and get… home.
“Do you watch the SF Seagate on channel 6?” he asks, invading my space by coming a foot too close. But his voice is private, and my interest is fully piqued.
“The news show?” I ask, scratching under my chin, finding my face itchy. Back in November, Aug, Otis, and a couple of other guys and myself started a no-shave month. Scarlett is enjoying the burn between her legs and at the back of her neck, so I now have a beard. So does Aug, who passes by at that moment, digging at his cheek with a pen. Bearded men don’t tell you how fuckin’ long it takes to get used to it.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Do you?”
