“I don’t care,” he said, flatly. And then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Besides—I will always be older than you.”
I laughed in spite of myself, then put my fingers beneath his chin so he’d have to look me in the eyes. His expression was full of such painful vulnerability it stole the breath from my lungs.
I nodded. “I want to stay.”
When he kissed me again, I decided that knowing exactly what came next could wait.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
I was just packing up my bag to go home at the end of the day when my phone buzzed several times, letting me know I had new texts.
It took me a minute to find my purse in my art bag. Now that I was teaching full time and needed to bring supplies with me on the El every day, the bag I carried around with me was the biggest one I’d ever had. It seemed like the thing had at least a dozen interior pockets—pockets my keys and my cell phone were constantly disappearing into.
By the time I managed to locate my phone, Frederick had sent nearly a dozen texts.
I am waiting for you outside the entrance to the Fine Arts building.
I am wearing an outfit I selected myself this afternoon.
That green Henley you like, paired with black trousers.
I think you would approve.
Or I hope you will approve, anyway.
But I suppose only time will tell.
I miss you.
A laugh bubbled up inside of me.
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, age three hundred and fifty-one, was texting using emojis.
It was nearly impossible to believe.
I have to put a few things away before I’m ready to leave
We’ve been working on plastics this week
So my room’s a mess
Give me 15 minutes
I miss you too
I found him where he said he’d be, in a shady spot right outside Harmony Academy’s fine arts building. He was leaning against the brick wall of the building, legs crossed at the ankle, engrossed with something on his phone.
As I approached he looked up and gave me a bright smile.
“You’re here.”
“I am,” I agreed. I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “How was your day?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It was fine. Boring. I spent most of it tied up in communication with our realtor, who seems to think we should be able to close on our new home by the end of next month.” He paused. “The rest of the day was spent listening to Reginald wax amorously about his accountant.”
A group of students from my afternoon welding class passed by. They waved at me, and I waved back at them, smiling. It was still so hard to believe I was in this job, with students who respected me and wanted to hear what I had to say.
When I turned back to Frederick, he was looking at me with an expression so heated it was almost inappropriate, given that we were not only at my place of employment but also in front of a whole bunch of kids.
“Reginald has an accountant?” I asked, pushing the strap of my bag up a little higher on my shoulder. “Really?”
“So it would appear.”
“Why?”
“It takes a lot of expertise to manage wealth that began accruing two hundred years ago.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “Reginald has never had a head for business—that should be no surprise—but over the years he has amassed a fortune more than large enough to subsidize his lifestyle. Anyway, it appears he has become infatuated with his very human accountant, which has led to all the problems you might imagine and quite a few you probably cannot.”
He was likely right about that. “Let’s not talk about Reginald anymore,” I suggested. I nodded down the hill the fine arts building perched on, towards the small man-made lake sitting in the center of Harmony’s campus and the path that circled it. My impression of it when I interviewed here a year earlier—that it was probably a popular place to go walking when the weather was nice—turned out to be accurate. It was a favorite place to go walking at lunchtime, after lacrosse games, and on Friday afternoons. “Go for a walk with me?”
It was warm for early December, and I wanted to spend a little more time outside enjoying it before going back home. The overcast sky wouldn’t make things too uncomfortable for Frederick, who was recovered enough from his century of accidental slumber to be able to handle daytime excursions provided there was adequate shade. Besides, it was four o’clock on a December day in Chicago; the sun wouldn’t be up for much longer either way.
To my surprise, Frederick hesitated, a pained look flitting across his face.
“What is it?” I asked, concerned.