Page 28

Sunny, three years later

“Get out of my closet, Anders,” I say half-heartedly as I walk into my childhood bedroom.

I know he’s in there, and whatever he’s doing can’t be good. I hear him rustling around while I dig through my dresser in search of a pair of comfy sweats. We’re back in Utah and every pair of stretchy pants I own is either in a box or at our place in California. Major packing oversight.

Jackpot! There’s a pair of paint-splattered gray sweatpants in the bottom drawer. Why is paint-splattered clothing always the comfiest kind? Come to Mama .

I lock the bedroom door, then slide the sweats up under my skirt and pull the skirt off over the sweats. Tada! Instant mood improvement.

Our flight from the little airport in California to the even smaller one in Utah was a bumpy ride. I shudder as I dig around my drawers looking for an equally comfortable t-shirt, preferably with holes and even more paint.

What a day. We’ve made the trip dozens of times as I’ve worked remotely, but today’s flight was the first one where I had to use the airsick bag. Joe had to ease me into the idea of working from my home with Anders in Brentwood, and it was hard to be away at first. But I love being in California with Anders and Immy—and sometimes even Hairy—while still being involved at Nizhóní. It’s been the perfect amount of adventure for me.

But after a flight like the one today I’m ready to be a permanent Utah resident. Luckily, that’s precisely why we’re here. The movers arrived at our new house yesterday and Imogen has been talking about it constantly. We’re spending tonight at my mom’s house and officially moving in tomorrow.

After Anders finished the “Indiana Jones Project,” as he calls it, he scaled way back at work. The ironic thing was, that film made him an instant hot commodity. America discovered his range and fell in love with him all over again. He accepted fewer, more meaningful roles, which only created demand by lowering supply. He’s being offered bigger paychecks and working less. We’re all winners here, especially Imogen who is thriving with two parents and loves having her dad around more. She’s even taking dance classes.

I find an extra scuzzy t-shirt and change out of my button down shirt. There’s more rattling around in my closet and now that my mission is accomplished I’m nervous to see what my husband is up to in there.

When I tiptoe in, he shoves some hangers together and hurries to wad up a huge sheet of paper with those sexy, veiny hands of his. Wait. That’s not paper. It’s my poster of Micah Watson.

“Excuse me, sir. You are destroying private property.” I try to yank the wrinkled remains of my embarrassing childhood crush out of his hands.

“Don’t you think it’s a little uncouth for a married woman to have a poster of Micah Watson in her closet, Mrs. Abrahamson?” He tugs the drawstring of my sweats. I think his intention is to pull me closer, but all it does is cut my abdomen in half, making me squeak .

“Oh… sorry,” he grins and slides his big arm around my waist, drawing me to him.

I fall into him, more than willing. Nothing beats a hug from Anders. “Let me guess. You found an old poster on eBay. Something from the early days of your career before you started losing your hair.”

My husband is not losing his hair, but he’s paranoid about it and I love to rub it in. I have no doubt there’s an early-twenties, shirtless Anders poster hanging in my closet where Micah Watson used to be. I would not complain. I gave up Micah cold turkey and never looked back. I’m addicted to his co-star, though.

“Don’t start, woman.” Anders tickles and pinches my sides, making me squeal. His fingers are strong and perfectly adept at making me crazy. After a few years of this he knows exactly where I’m sensitive and he’s relentless in the best way.

I dart away, shoving apart my dresses to get a peek at the wall where my poster used to be. As suspected, there’s a new poster in its place—a huge one—but it’s not of my husband. I glare in disgust at the bare midriff that replaced Micah Watson. It’s Mariah Carey, at the pinnacle of her oiled up, late-90s Butterfly era. I try to reach around him in an effort to rip the thing down.

“Aw, you don’t like it?” Anders murmurs against my earlobe.

“Nope! No way. It’s bad enough I have to live like this when we visit your parents. I won’t be able to sleep with this in here.”

“Luckily you’ll be sleeping in our brand new, custom home twelve miles away, surrounded by a tall wall and locked gates. You’ll be far, far away from Mimi.”

I fake a gag. “I hate when you call her that.”

“I hate that I found you with Micah the day I was going to beg you to spend your life with me, but here we are. ”

I smack his shoulder. “Oh my gosh, are you ever going to let that go?” I hear about this at least weekly. When he’s busy he has Oliver email a reminder.

“No.” He leans in and presses a warm kiss to my forehead. “Now let’s go put Immy to bed so I can put you to bed.”

The next morning, we drive the Jeep to our new house. The Jeep never did make it back to California. She’s a Utah girl. Same here, Jeeping Beauty .

The wind is whipping around us and I’m glad Immy and I both braided our hair today. I breathe in the spring desert scents and smile, dragging my fingers through the rush of dry air. It’s so good to be here. A few years ago Immy told me that she liked it here because it’s easy. I couldn't agree more. We have a lot of privacy in this small town. It’s like being in a beautiful bubble with all of my favorite people.

When we pull up to our gates, a crowd is gathered. At first my stomach drops, thinking we’ve already been found, until I see a familiar green van, front and center. Indigo’s newly refurbished Volkswagen is partially obscured by Mercer’s car and a huge bouquet of helium balloons. I get a better look at the crowd and realize with a shock that my in-laws are chatting with my mom and Joe. Liam and Josh are talking to Sage and Willow, and Goldie is sitting on the hood of her car, buried in a thick book. Everyone is here.

“What’s going on, Anders?”

He doesn’t answer. We pull up to the gate and Anders presses the button on the remote. “Who invited you clowns?” he mocks, passing everyone onto the property. The line of cars follows us and when they unload I see that they’ve brought a party—trays of food, drinks, and Hairy running circles around all of it. She was supposed to stay with my mom today. Dang it.

“Anders? What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He smirks.

“I call B.S. There are too many balloons for this to be nothing.”

My husband just shrugs and kisses my cheek.

Immy and I make our way to the entrance of our new home while Anders carries one end of a six foot sandwich. Yum . I love a big sandwich. Then I spot the balloons—two specific balloons, shaped like a three and a zero. Oh geez. He promised me he wouldn't do this.

When we finally make it inside, the members of my family who beat us here shout, “Surprise!” and begin a discordant version of “Happy Birthday!” so loud that Hairy whines and dives under the table.

Unfortunately, it’s the same table holding a cake that’s meant for me. Every person in the room hollers, “Hairy, no!” The table tips and the cake slides, crashing partially on the dog, partially on the floor, and all in slow motion. Hairy’s tail wags, wiping frosting in a seashell pattern on our new wood floors. She’s just happy the singing stopped.

Anders’ eyes are wide, darting from the mess on my hand-selected hardwood to me, and back to the dog. “I love you, Sunflower?” He says it like a question because he knows those words usually get him out of a mountain of trouble.

I throw my arms around Anders’ neck, standing on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I love you, too.” I kiss his cheek. “But she’s your dog, Mr. Beck.”

While my family scrambles to deal with the mess that Hairy created—they’re old hands at this by now—my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I check the notification on autopilot, fully expecting an automated “Happy birthday!” message from my dentist .

My heart pounds in my ears. I don’t believe the email I’m seeing. I reread it three times to be sure. We’ve been waiting for this message for months—for so long that I started to lose hope. Anders and I have had so many late night, teary-eyed conversations about this that I’ve lost count.

I hold the phone out for my husband to see and he snatches it from my hand in disbelief. When he looks up from the phone his eyes are watery and crinkled at the corners.

I can’t believe this, his icy blue eyes say.

Me neither, I grin back.

He pulls me into a hug that lifts my feet off the ground. I squeal when he spins me in a circle. I thought the birthday when I played Seven Minutes in Heaven with Anders was my best birthday. I was wrong. This is it, always and forever.

“What’s going on?” my mom asks when I’m back on my feet.

My family is distracted, serving up segments of the giant sandwich that survived Hairy. I can’t wait to tell them. Once they’re all settled I’ll have Anders make the announcement—he enjoys a big, dramatic reveal.

For now, I lean closer to my mom and whisper, “I finally got an email from the adoption agency. You’re going to be a grandma again.”

THE END