Merry Little Hate Notes

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

HOLLY

CARMEN AND I TRUDGED UP the stairs to our apartment, carrying shopping bags full of Christmas gifts. Admittedly, a few of them were not from bargain stores. Our building’s elevator had broken down again. I supposed it was all part of the living like Monica and Rachel experience. I tried to remember that as I huffed and puffed my way up to the sixth floor, wishing I weren’t wearing my coat or heavy winter boots.

It had been a brutal winter already, which had made walking around on campus the past month not so fun. But I was having the time of my life. As hard as my first semester of law school had been, between juggling classes and clerking, it was all I’d ever hoped it would be. It had even given me the opportunity to talk to my mom a few times when I needed her advice for a paper, or for the research I was doing for the attorney I worked for. We were slowly repairing our relationship, but it was taking time.

I was just glad all my apocalyptic charts hadn’t come to fruition in the past year as I’d left my dad to his own devices. He was actually flourishing on his own. Dad was dating an adjunct professor he’d met through work. Her name was Stephanie, and she was only ten years older than me. They were cute together. Dad even received an invitation to be a guest speaker at an anthropology conference back East earlier this year. He was currently peddling his latest manuscript around.

“Be careful not to mess up your manicure,” Carmen warned as we wound our way up the never-ending stairs.

“Why? You’re the one who insisted we stop and get manis and pedis for your date tonight with Patrick.” Patrick was an upstanding citizen with a well-paying job as a physician’s assistant. The Garcias were in heaven, and Carmen’s abuelas were regular visitors to our apartment, giving us both tips on how to seal the deal with our men. I even got a hand-woven bra out of it.

“It wasn’t just for that—it was your birthday gift from me. Happy birthday. Again.”

“Thank you. Again.” She’d been acting a little weird all day, making me shop until I almost dropped.

“You’re welcome. Again,” she sang.

When we finally made it to our floor, I breathed in deeply, relieved. “Hey, I need to drop this bag of dried mangoes off to Brandon.” He’d asked me to stop at Costco while we were out and get him some. Braving Costco a few days before Christmas was a sign of true love. And I did love him. So much. I especially loved him when he rented the apartment two doors down from us. The one right across from us wasn’t available. But it was close enough, and he was my perfect Chandler.

“You can’t,” Carmen said, panicked. “I need you to help me pick out an outfit for tonight.”

“I promise I’ll be quick, and then I’ll help you pick out something to wear.”

“No. Nope. No way. I know how you and Brandon are. I won’t see you until tomorrow if you drop off those mangoes.”

I grinned, knowing she spoke the truth. “Okay. I’ll drop them off later. Let’s go get you ready for your date.”

“You’re the best.” She sprinted ahead of me, her bags flying wildly around like she was late for something. She was acting odder and odder.

I moseyed down the hall toward our door, breathing in the smell of curry from our neighbor, who was training to be a chef. Stevie was always bringing us food and was a lot nicer than Mrs. Larson, who lived across the hall from us. She’d designated herself the noise police. If she heard even a peep out of you, she’d call the apartment manager. Honestly, I was surprised she hadn’t stuck her head out the door to scold us for talking. She truly had a case of resting Grinch face.

Once I reached our door, decked out with a pink Christmas wreath, compliments of her abuelas, Carmen refused to let me in. She stood in front of it, blocking it with her tiny body.

“What are you doing?” I had to ask.

She smiled, a sheen of tears filling her eyes. “I just want you to know that I love you and you’re the best friend a girl could ask for. Thanks for being my Monica.”

That was beautiful, and I felt the same way about her, but she was scaring me. The charts reared their ugly heads. “Did someone die?”

“No,” she spat out a laugh. “I just needed to stall you for one more minute.”

I scrunched my nose. “Why?”

“Open the door and find out.”

I hoped it wasn’t another surprise birthday party. I just wanted a quiet night with Brandon. Work and school had exhausted me, and I needed a break. But I dropped my bags and steeled myself to open the door, plastering on a smile, just in case. However, I found that no fake smile was required.

“Marry You” by Bruno Mars was playing, and there stood Brandon in the middle of our apartment, wearing a dark suit and tie, surrounded by hundreds of sticky notes in an array of colors—except bright blue. They were all my colors. Our furniture and even the Christmas tree had all been moved to the side to make way for all the notes.

“Have fun.” Carmen pushed me in and shut the door.

“Brandon,” I whispered, feeling so overcome by him. He still took my breath away after all this time.

He motioned with his finger for me to come closer.

I shed my coat and boots and left them by the door, careful not to mess up the manicure. I had a feeling I wanted my fingers to look pretty tonight. When I got closer, I realized the notes were all from me. There were hateful notes from years ago when I’d held him in contempt of court, down to the love note I’d left on his door yesterday that said, I love you more than words can wield the matter, dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty. I was still in my Shakespeare era.

“You kept all my notes,” I cried. I could hardly believe it.

“Every single one. I thought they might be all I would ever have of you. How lucky I am that’s not the case.”

I had no words, just love. So much love swelled within me, making my heart beat erratically and the butterflies in my stomach swirl frantically.

“I have one more note for you.” Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out a bright-blue sticky note. He jumped easily over the notes on the floor and landed in front of me.

Dang. That was sexy.

He got down on one knee and handed me the note.

I carefully took the note and silently read it to myself. The ability to speak had escaped me. Please be my wife, Holly-Pops. I nodded vigorously through the tears streaming down my face.

“Is that a yes?” Brandon was eager for confirmation.

“Yes,” I said as emphatically as possible. “Yes, I’ll be your wife.”

Brandon opened his hand to reveal the prettiest primrose diamond ring in his palm.

“I love it. But I love you more.”

Brandon placed the ring on my finger before tugging me toward him. I was so excited, I pulled him down with me, and we landed among the notes. It was perfect. The notes had been our beginning, and proof that sometimes all love needs is a little hate.

THE END