Epilogue

“One thing I’ve learned is no one sticks by you like your friends. Especially here.”

–Overheard at Comic-Con


Five months later . . .


“I want to do the polar bear plunge.” Grace bounces around us on her toes, feet thudding against the wooden planks beneath our feet. Her cheeks are pink from the wind, blonde hair smothered under a bright pink beanie Fred bought her this morning.

“You want to jump in that freezing cold water?” Fred asks.

“Sure.”

“The plunge is on the first.” Fred’s hand squeezes mine, the motion intimate even through our gloves. “And you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Have you ever done it?” Grace asks, tone challenging.

“Uh, no, I avoid frostbite.”

Grace rolls her eyes and skips ahead of us on the nearly empty boardwalk. “Maybe it will snow!” she calls over her shoulder.

“I wish it would,” Fred tells me. “Then she could see her first snow and maybe her flight would get cancelled and she could stay a couple more days.”

I squint up into the bright sunshine. It’s cold, the breeze biting, but there are no clouds in sight. To our left, the Atlantic Ocean crashes onto an expanse of sand.

Grace has never seen the snow. We hoped she’d get her chance during this first trip to the city, but so far it’s been nothing but sun. Cold, but no weather. She arrived a day after Christmas, and we had our own little holiday celebration. Snow aside, we’ve packed in as much as we could into the three-day visit, and now we’ve only got one more night.

“We should get some blintzes from Gourmanoff while we’re here,” Fred says.

What about dinner? I sign.

Fred lifts her brows at me with a grimace. “You really want to eat my mom’s food?”

I grin and lean down to kiss the corner of her frowning mouth, turning the grimace into a smile. “She might surprise you.” Talking is easier than it was six months ago. But not effortless.

“You’re an optimist. And braver than I will ever be. I guess we should head back to the B train anyway if we’re going to get to Park Slope on time.”

She calls out for Grace, who is hanging on to a railing up ahead, looking out at the beach and water. She skips back and we walk together to the subway, Grace and Fred chatting about various tricks to make it look like you’re eating when you’re really just pushing your food around your plate.

The train ride is about forty minutes, Grace sitting between us, chattering the whole way about the New York Hall of Science—a science and technology museum in Queens we took her to yesterday.

Fred’s mother, who insists I call her Helen, greets us in the entry of the brownstone.

“Let me take your coats.” She hangs all of our outerwear on an antique coat rack in the corner and gives us all hugs in turn, gripping me tight and wrapping me in her lemony-basil scent. Crisp and clean and homey, like a mother should smell.

“Thank you for having us for dinner,” Grace says meekly.

Fred and I exchange a glance. Grace is not herself around Fred’s parents—not in a bad way, just in a non-Grace way. She’s extra polite and doesn’t talk much, like she’s suddenly some foreign, shy creature and not the menace we know and love.

“Oh, honey, I’m the one who is happy you could make it. Come into the kitchen. I found something for you at the store.” She takes Grace’s arm and leads her away, hollering down the hall. “Larry, the kids are all here.”

Indistinct muttering emerges from the depths of the house.

“Another present?” Fred calls after her Mom. “Where’s my present?”

Helen and Larry bought Grace the coat and gloves she’s been wearing as a Christmas present, knowing she wouldn’t have anything like it and figuring she could keep it at Fred’s for when she visits in the winter. I’m pretty sure Helen coordinated the surprise with Granny. They dropped the elegantly wrapped package off at Fred’s apartment when Grace first arrived. Grace was so shocked by the gesture she didn’t speak for five full minutes.

I’m not sure Grace knows how to react to the couple, not used to people being so open and affectionate. They welcomed both of us into the family without question. It’s like being on a TV show or something.

Fred gives my arm a squeeze. “I’ll make sure Grace isn’t a pod person, intent on infecting Mom. You go and check on Dad. He probably needs to be ‘encouraged’ ”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“to come eat whatever questionable casserole we’re having tonight.”

“I’m not threatening your dad,” I whisper.

“I never said anything about threats. Just make it happen.”

I knock on the open office door before entering, and Fred’s dad is up and out of his chair, clapping me on the back.

“Beast. Come on in, son, I want your opinion.” He guides me over to the corner. “Helen bought me this stool for my office. What do you think?”

He points out the spindly piece of furniture—if it could be called that. It’s a bright purple cushion, set upon twisty thin black legs.

Instead of giving my opinion, I ask, “What is it for?”

Larry shrugs. “To torture me? Why don’t you sit on it so we can test it out?” His eyes are gleaming.

You want me to break it, I sign.

“I didn’t say that.” He rubs his chin. “Maybe I want to test its strength.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can’t do that. It might hurt Helen’s feelings.

Fred’s parents were beyond excited to learn ASL. Like it was no big deal. And like I was doing them a favor, prompting them to gain some new knowledge. They’ve decided to learn British Sign Language next just for kicks.

He nods, rubbing his chin. “Maybe I can convince you after dinner. That will be the torture portion of the evening. Come on, time to face the music.” We head into the dining room.

Fred and Grace are already at the table, Helen in the kitchen.

“I tried something new this week,” Helen calls out. “It’s about ready.”

“Ready for imminent death,” Fred mutters.

Grace presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

I pull out my seat at the table next to Grace and across from Fred.

“Look what Helen gave me.” Grace holds up a little snow globe and shakes it. It’s got the New York skyline in the center, glittery flakes tumbling around. “Since I missed the snow this time.”

Did you tell them thank you? I sign.

She releases a beleaguered sigh. “Of course.” She places it gently beside her plate.

“Here we are.” Helen brings out a casserole dish and lays it on a trivet in the center of the table. “Everyone, dig in. Who wants a drink?” She goes back into the kitchen to grab a soda for Grace and some water for the rest of us.

Fred and her dad exchange a glance. “You first,” she says.

I smile and pick up the serving spoon, putting a heaping portion onto my plate.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Fred stage-whispers.

“I heard that.” Helen comes back into the room with the drinks and sits at the head of the table, opposite Larry.

Everyone dishes food onto their plates.

Helen asks Grace about when school is starting while Larry talks to Fred about how engineers are designing toilets to analyze excrement for pre-diagnosing health issues.

“No poop talk at the table,” Helen tells him.

I wait patiently for Fred to take a bite of her food and when she does, I’m not disappointed.

She chews for a second and then her brows hit her hairline. “Mom, what is this? This is actually . . .” Her expression is mystified, staring down at the dish like it’s sprouted wings. “Good.” She takes another bite. “This is good.”

“Eggplant parmesan baked with homemade vegan mozzarella. I might have had some tips from Beast.”

Fred’s mouth pops open. “You listened to him? You never listen to me!” Her eyes flick to mine. “You gave her cooking advice?”

I sign, I did it for you.

Larry puts a hand on my arm. “It’s better to remain silent when they get like this.”

Grace is giggling so hard, she leans into me, shoulders shaking.

Fred is half laughing, half arguing with Helen, and Larry leans toward me, elbow on the table, sending my fork clattering to the floor.

The table is chaos, but joy is a squeeze in my chest. Happiness is the laughter of the people I love most. Happiness is chasing after my dreams. Happiness is . . . her.

Across the table, my eyes lock with Fred’s and her smile lights up the entire room, brighter than any star.