I laugh and yank him down to sit next to me, but he remains standing. I look up at him. He picks up a bottle of wine and pours a glass for me and a glass for him. Then he grabs his glass and clinks a fork over it.
“Is there a speech?” Brad asks, midbite into the complimentary baguette.
“There must be a speech.” Gemma wrenches the rest of the bread from between her husband’s fingers.
“Please tell me it’s going to be short. I’m starving.” Renn slumps in his seat. “My body’s still on the Pacific time zone. I think I missed, like, two meals.”
“Patience, kiddo.” Joe points at Renn with his wineglass. “And there is no speech. Just a realization I would like to share with you a minute before this book comes out and I officially become a national embarrassment.”
We all wait to hear what he has to say. For Ever is dedicated to Dominic. It was Joe’s idea. Once the anger and disappointment had made their way through our systems, acceptance and forgiveness came next. Not that Dom had a chance to ask for any of those things. But see, forgiving people who hurt us is not about those people at all. It is about choosing to move on with our lives. Letting go of the grudges. Healing without depending on someone else’s journey.
“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Pippa points out with a sweet fake smile, raising her cocktail in a toast. “Give us the deets, Joe.”
Joe looks down at me and smiles. My heart expands in my chest. I’m so proud of us. Of the road less traveled we have both taken to get here. We still haven’t reached our final destination, but wherever we go—we’re going together.
He opens his mouth, his eyes zeroing in on mine.
“The past two decades have been a crazy ride from start to finish. A lot has happened. But one thing stayed through it all. It made it possible, even when things seemed impossible. And that thing is called hope. Hope made me realize something important. The one thing that makes a person rich is not their money, or their talent, or even their connections. It is their hope. Where there is hope, there is life. And where there is life, anything is possible. I owe my hope to one special person. She is here today, and I have a feeling she’ll be here for a very long time. Which is good, because no one knows what tomorrow will bring. All I know is that tomorrow, life is going to change. Not only for me. For Ever.”
Joe and I live in San Francisco. I attend Berkeley. I study art and design and have an Etsy shop where I sell custom-made sketches. I’ve moved on from designing gravestones, although I do that, too, on commission. I also draw characters, caricatures （especially of rock stars）， and more. I’m at no risk of getting rich from the gig, but it keeps my bank account from being completely empty. There is something incredibly empowering about making a living by doing what you love, so I focus on being grateful for that.
Joe has recently quit his job as a longshoreman. He now works from home. Which is great, because I study long hours, and someone needs to be there for Loki to stare at with deep disapproval. We live in a tiny studio apartment, but it is ours, and we love it.
One day, I get back to the apartment to find a Post-it Note on the fridge. It entails a simple instruction.
Drive to the cemetery to see your mom.
It is written in Joe’s handwriting. Which is great, because I’m still listening to true-crime podcasts, and I’m still worried someone is going to murder me in a totally unexpected way.
I take my keys, kiss the top of Loki’s head, and drive to Half Moon Bay. It’s Friday night, and traffic is a mess. I put Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer” on the stereo, because it was Mom’s favorite song and （still） arguably the best song in the world. Ever since I moved back to San Francisco, I have visited her every couple of months. We have great conversations. One sided but great nonetheless.
I resist the urge to call Joe on my way there. Knowing him, he wouldn’t pick up anyway. That’s the drawback of having an acerbic, mostly detached boyfriend. I know I am the love of his life . . . but I also know that he is a stubborn son of a gun.
When I get to the cemetery, I find that the parking lot is even emptier than usual. After grabbing a parking spot, I get out of the car and start making my way to Mom’s grave. I look left and right as I cross the street. I’m so confused. Everything looks the same. Joe is nowhere in sight.
I stop by my mother’s tombstone and scan the new design I made by myself. It is incredibly detailed. It is the shape of her arm—the arm that cradled me, that wiped my tears off, that pulled me to safety when I fell onto the rails—and it is tattooed to its last inch, just like Mom’s arm in real life. The design is so unique, so comprehensive. Dad says he gets asked about it all the time.