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“Oh, like the utterly groundbreaking mirror on your bedroom ceiling?”
“You got me there.” I kiss her forehead.
“You get me,” I add.
“Hey, it goes both ways. You get me, too.” Lyndsey says.
EPILOGUE
Lyndsey
Fall
One Year Later
“Hey, Lynds?” Vince calls from the attic.
I could see his legs sticking out from the entrance as he teetered around on the ladder, looking for his box of trusted Halloween decorations.
It’s early October in California, and though we don’t have changing seasons, that doesn’t stop Vince from buying every plastic pumpkin he sees at the drugstore.
He’s turned the front yard of his house into a graveyard with Styrofoam tombstones inscribed with terrible puns and plastic zombie arms sticking out of the lawn.
He bought pounds of fake cobwebs and strung them across the entrance, pressed decals that look like bloody handprints in the windows and propped a life-size Frankenstein in the foyer that gives me a heart attack every time I walk into the room at night.
Now, for some reason, a dozen fake bloody limbs aren’t enough, and he insists on grabbing another box, though we’re both on a schedule.
The Imposters are in the throes of recording their eighth studio album, and I’m still booking shows for The Gateway Club. To my delight, the club’s grown exponentially since I started working there in January, and we’re starting to attract bigger-name bands.
But that’s all about to change since The Imposters are about to start touring again, I’m letting my assistant take over booking for the month. I sweetened the deal by securing an “exclusive acoustic set” with The Imposters next Wednesday, the night before we leave for tour.
While my boss knows that Vince and I are together, she’s still impressed that we managed to book them, with Vince slowly becoming a fixture himself at the club. He likes to watch the shows and says it’s refreshing to be another face in the crowd instead of the person onstage.
On nights when I’m sprinting around trying to check mics and contracts, he’ll slip into the greenroom and kiss my forehead, wrenching whatever pile of paper I’m white knuckling out of my hands.
Even with his anxieties, he keeps me feeling grounded and steady. I never knew that love could be like that; and though I grit my teeth every time a rogue paparazzi snaps a photo ofme leaving the club and labels it “Vince Exter’s girlfriend,” I’m proud to be with him.
I hear the sound of cardboard scooting across the wooden floor. Vince huffs as he grabs the box. I walk over to the ladder and hold out my arms, grabbing the box and setting it on the ground.
“Thanks, love,” Vince says as he dismounts from the ladder and wraps his arms around my waist.
He starts to kiss my neck as I start to dig through the box of zombie limbs.
“What was so important in here anyway? You’ve got twenty minutes to get to the studio, and I need to be at work in an hour.
“I uh, just really needed that box.”
“Enough that you’re gonna be late to record? You know you won’t get there in twenty with traffic.”
I pull out a handful of dusty fake cobwebs and wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Well, you never know,” Vince quips.
“The way you were talking about it made me think you were hiding a family heirloom or literal body parts. Is there something you want to tell me?” I joke.
Suddenly, something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. A small, intricate silver band that looks like ivy twining together, sitting on the ring finger of a plastic skeleton.
I pull the arm out and look closer, realizing it’s a ring. My heart drops, and when I turn around Vince is down on one knee.
