I know, I know, sadness. But at least we didn't kill everyone off.
Epilogue - 8 years later
George Frederick
The idea of a date with Sam is daunting because we already know each other. Not well, of course, but we spoke a little bit in high school. We became better friends in senior year but never close enough to keep in touch. Now, seven years from that graduation day and the party where we kissed, with a degree in astrophysics that has proven useless so far, I walk into the restaurant. It's somewhat aesthetically pleasing but too loud to keep up with its exterior. There are families and couples and individuals seated throughout the room at booths, tables, and on stools. The noises emitted from their conversations form a gentle hum in the background of the place, and somehow it's comforting to hear. Before I've been standing inside for five minutes, the footsteps follow the sound of a door swinging open and then closed behind me. A man starts to speak, and I have to tear my eyes away from the bright walls to pay attention. I spin on my heel to face Samuel Seabury.
"George," he says, taming his hair with a quivering hand. A nervous habit, which proves he's nervous. About seeing me? It seems unlikely. Why would anyone other than George Frederick hold on to the memory of one tiny kiss for that long?
"Sam," I say back, smiling at him. His eyes flick down reflexively to my shoes and then back up again. Checking me out. Shamelessly, I might add.
"You want to find a table?" He nods and steps forward. I watch his eyes travel across the room in the same way mine did minutes before. He begins to walk ahead of me, his pace brisk and faster than mine, and I follow him to a table near the center of the space. I've never been fond of eating where people's eyes are likely to wander, but this isn't a one-man show anymore.
Samuel picks up a menu composed of only one laminated sheet and a bulleted list of dishes. He scans through the options and he's so focused on the menu that I have to remind myself that I'm not supposed to be watching him. Eyes on menu, not cute boy across from you. Maybe it's weird because it's my first date ever. Well, first boy date. I only came out a few years ago, and I didn't exactly have time for partying with the gay community at Harvard. I was, you know, studying astrophysics.
"What?" Sam says with a nervous laugh. Oh shit. I'm staring again.
"Nothing. I, um… I like your shirt?" He's wearing a white button-down with a crescent print on it. I would never put that on my body, but I think he should wear it every single day for the rest of his life.
"Do you?" He looks down at it, and his glasses slip to the bridge of his nose. He grins when he pushes them back up and I swear to God, I'm this close to leaning over and snogging him.
Samuel Seabury
Frankly, I'm not sure how I managed to achieve a date with George. But now I'm here and with each second that passes my level of nervousness fall a little more. He looks incredible, but knowing George it's no surprise. He puts thought into his appearance I think, and it definitely pays off. While I keep my own eyes fixed on the menu before me, I can feel his gaze piercing my skull. I've caught him staring twice now. The thought of that both unnerves me and makes my heart beat just a little faster. For me, he's one of the people that maybe I imagined myself with but never thought it could be more than a fantasy. I lift my water glass to my face. The cold liquid is drastic compared to the atmosphere in which I am overheating.
"So I know this was nine years ago, but what happened with you and Peggy?" I ask him in an attempt at breaking the silence that fills the space between us.
"Still not over that?" he jokes, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "Honestly, nothing. It lasted about two days, just until I came out to her. And we've been best friends ever since." That makes sense actually, I really didn't see much chemistry between the two to begin with. Except for Peggy's obvious attraction. Despite that, I was jealous.
"Ah," I say. "So nothing? How about in college? Anyone catch your eye? Any people I should worry about? Any ex-boyfriends from your school?" I am mostly joking, but it does come as sort a relief when George denies all of them. Although I don't believe him, it's probably better we do altogether avoid the subject of other romance. Who wants to talk about that on a first date.
"What do you want to eat?" Maybe I'd been quiet for too long and that led to George switching the subject. I shrug and turn my blushing face back to the menu. Most of the food looks good, so I pick randomly and set it down. I'd much rather resume a conversation with my date. I watch him scan the paper far more carefully than I did. The look on his face is absolutely adorable.
When he sets down his menu, I try again to strike up a conversation. I ask him about his college career, the people he met, and the friends he made. I ask him about Peggy and how her life is going now. He tells me all this with a smile on his face the radiates confidence. God, I wish I could be more like him sometimes. Apparently, Peggy Schuyler does actually have a boyfriend now. He tells me who, from high school, he's kept in touch with. And about his trip back home. When the waiter approaches our table I almost want to ignore him just to keep George talking. I let him order first, then with a smile on my face place my own order. He leaves and I turn back to George.
"So," I say. "Things went well?"
James Madison
Thomas Jefferson has come to pick me up from college on our anniversary. He's walked all the way from the south wing to my dorm in the sunshine that illuminates his face and the wind that sends his hair spilling out in all directions. I watch him walk down the path with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows from the window above the sink for a few minutes, just until he reaches the petunias. When he does, I can't resist watching him reach down and smell them and then pluck one and tuck it behind his ear. Thomas is taller than he was in high school and broader in the shoulders, but he still sounds the same when he talks to me and his lips feel the same on mine. In a way, nothing has changed.
"James, love? Are you here?" He props the door halfway open with his foot as he calls to me. I walk over to him with a smile so big astronauts could see it from the moon. I slip my bare feet into sand-colored sandals sitting neatly to the side of the welcome mat. I go on my tiptoes to kiss Thomas hello, but he leans back with a smirk and I swat his face. He dips his head down to kiss me, just one short second like a beat in the script of a movie. Thomas takes my hand a drags me out of the dorm, letting the door bounce against the door behind us until it finally closes. Thomas squeezes my hand.
"Where do you want to go?"
I snort in response. "As if. You have it planned out, don't you? I never get a say."
"You never ask for one, love."
We continue in silence, marveling in the spring air that doesn't sting our faces anymore and admiring the flowers that line our path. I look up at Thomas and the petunia in his hair. He's so beautiful, and it makes me want to sing his praises from the top of the tallest university building in the north wing.
"So, Thomas, where do you want to go?" He smiles and looks ahead at the field in front of us. When we play this game, Thomas always waits for me to ask him where he wants to go, and when I do, he's smug about it.
"I want to take you to a waterfall. And I want to have a picnic near said waterfall and talk to you until we can't stand each other."
"Well I already can't stand you," I joke. Thomas plays along, clutching his chest in faux shock. "You know you're the best thing that ever happened to me." He turns his head away from the flowers he's been eyeing for the past two minutes to look me in the eye. His smile steals the breath out of my lungs every time, and there's nothing I wouldn't sacrifice to see his smile for years and years and years. But that's not something I, or even the doctors, can control.
Thomas Jefferson
I don't know what to do besides stare numbly ahead. Tears are burning in my eyes and I don't even bother to wipe them away, because he's gone. James is gone and he's never coming back. I knew he didn't have long. I knew I'd have to say goodbye soon. But nothing could've prepared me for this. I lose myself in my own thoughts, my memories of James and our time together.
I met him so long ago I barely remember our first exchange. My earliest memory of the two of us is also quite long ago. I believe we were on a swing set. We talked for almost an hour and towards the end, I very clearly remember telling him I wanted to go to Paris. When he asked me why all I knew to say was that they had croissants. He kept that moment in his mind so long that he surprised me with a trip to France during our gap year. On the way there, he recalled that story to me. God, I love him so much. No. I loved him. I still don't want to believe it. I'm not ready to embrace the fact that he's dead. He had been sick for so long but I truly thought he was getting better. He was fighting and I was hoping we would have a future together. And now I'm standing here, at his funeral, wishing that he would pop up from behind me and tell me that everything is okay, and he is okay.
One of my fondest memories of him is from middle school. Although the three years were absolute shit, James did manage to make it a little more tolerable. Especially during the classes that really bugged me. Classes like math and science. I did learn to like them as my experience progressed, but during that time, when every minute wore me out, he kept me entertained. We spent quite a lot a time laughing, and I'm sure a few teachers started to feel vexed by us.
"James was…" I pull my focus back to the present. And however much I'd love to just hear more about James, I don't want the pain to increase. I'd rather focus on my fond memories of my boyfriend. Not someone else's. But I had my chance to speak, and now it's someone else's turn. The tears come flooding back as I listen. His friend speaks about his mischief with James while laughing and crying and very clearly struggling to keep his voice steady.
I remember some of these stories. In fact, I don't think there's a single one I haven't heard. That gives me some pride, that he'd trust me with all these things are obviously important in his life. His friend steps away and another replaces him. I wait out speech after speech and watch James' friends and family cry along with me. None of us want to let him go.
"Are you holding up okay?" A whispered voice draws my ears away from his cousin and to a family member standing by my side. I try to spare him a smile, but it does no good. He holds out his arms to hug me and I fall against him. I'm falling apart and James is no longer here to pick up the pieces.
Maria Lewis
I swing my leather jacket over my shoulder as I check the clock for the third time in the last ten minutes. One hour left. I'm aching to go home. Business has been slow and those few people that strayed into the bookstore did nothing but piss me off. This time, when the doorbell rings to let me know that a new customer has arrived, I don't even look up from my own book lying open before me. My eyes and mind stay within the story on the pages but I speak anyways.
"Hello. Welcome to the…" I look up with a lazy smile on my face but even that vanishes at the sight of the girl standing with her back to me by the shelves. Elizabeth Schuyler is still beautiful. I stand motionless, because maybe if I don't move she won't notice me. What I don't understand is why she hasn't come to visit before now. She knows I work here, at least to the best of my knowledge. She turns to look at me, and at that moment I'm so so close to ducking beneath the front counter.
"Maria?" It's been three years since I've seen her. Since she broke up with me. It wasn't as bad as some breakups, though, and we did keep in touch. She just told me that it might be better to "take a break" if we would be apart for so long anyway. So the only way I've spoken to her in that time is over text messages. "Hey!" She rushes forward and pulls me close to her, pinning my arms to my side in a strangling hug. The gesture makes me smile because I missed this. And I missed her.
"How are you doing, 'Liza?" I ask her.
"Good! It's been too long, though, I missed you." Her grin is contagious. I step around the counter to have a conversation with her without a thick wooden box between us.
"You too… what have you been up to? Did you start dating anyone?" The question leaves my mouth before I think about my words. I wish I could take it back now, even though I'm not sure why I care. Three years is more than enough time to get over someone.
"I haven't, why do you ask?" I'm almost too caught up in my own embarrassment to notice the way she completely ignores my other question.
"No! I am…" I tip back and forth on the tips of my toes and search for the right way to put it. "Just trying to uh… catch up?" She smiles like she knows exactly what I was thinking. I wish I knew what I was thinking.
"How about you, what's new? Any secrets you're just dying to tell someone? Any new crushes you're nervous about telling? Any new…" she trails off and I take it upon myself to fill in the blanks. I shake my head. Other than this job, my life has been normal. I would have filled her in on anything over text.
"Can I help you find anything?" I ask.
Elizabeth Schuyler
Somehow, in my head, Maria hasn't changed at all. I still picture a smiling, crimson-lipped, flannel-wearing seventeen-year-old staring back at me. But now, facing her in the quiet bookstore that smells of dust and childhood stories, the image blurs and rearranges to better reflect the truth. Her face is longer and more serious now, framed by shorter, wavier hair, but if anything her lips are an even louder color. She puts her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and looks at me with the same expression as before. Her lips tip up at the corners to challenge me in a way that I can't seem to make sense of. And her eyes search my face in a calm, trusting way, if not a bit inquisitive.
"What's the best book in this store?"
"The best book?" She tips her head up to think, tapping a slow rhythm on her chin with her index finger. I admire her cheeks, her eyelashes, her jawline. A mischievous smile overtakes her face as her eyes flash with an idea or a plan or something of the like.
"Let me show you. I'm not technically allowed to, but, as they say, oh well." She holds out a hand as if by instinct, and I place mine on top as a reaction. The smile resurfaces on her face as she weaves through stacks of books and bookshelves labeled with genres with me trailing behind until she reaches the back. We duck into the door together and she uses a key in her pocket to unlock another door that takes us out of the cluttered room and up a staircase.
"It's the storage room," she shouts over the whirring of the air conditioner. The room above the staircase is beautiful. There are boxes of books, some shiny and new, some with fading colors and ripped edges. Maria steps back and spins slowly around with her hands spread out. I approach the tall box containing fantasy novels. The first one is a book whose inside cover mentions a league of brainwashed young adults attacking a minority of sensible teenagers.
"Sounds like our high school," I say to Maria as she reads the sentences. She giggles and takes a step forward to look me in the eye.
"I haven't shown you my favorite book yet." Her voice is almost in a whisper, low and captivating. She turns and bends down to sort through a particularly low stack of books encased in a cardboard box that advertises backpacks very enthusiastically. She pulls out a thick book and traces her finger on the cover design, a profile of a girl with hair made of velvet and skin that shines like metal. The title reads, "Eliza."
"I read this book constantly when I was young. And then I met you, and I was sure it was meant to be because you were just like her." I take the book from her hands, rub my finger along its spine, and watch her face tense and then relax when I lean forward and kiss her.
Marquis de Lafayette
Practically everyone warned me against choosing Herc as my roommate. Maria assured me that the relationship would fizzle out, Angelica laughed when she heard, and Alex gripped me by the shoulders while telling me very seriously that it was a bad idea.
"You two both go to a lot of parties," he had said. "And what if you go to two different parties and get drunk and meet someone…"
"That can happen no matter what," I had replied, shaking him off. They've all been wrong so far. There are more parties, but we go to fewer of them, choosing instead to stay up studying or talk late at night. We've only gotten in an average number of fights, and none of them have pushed us further away from each other, so I would say that we're good. Hercules majors in fashion design, and I am more than willing to be his model either in the dorm room or in the school's annual fashion show. Almost everyone we know has already graduated, scattered throughout the country with stable jobs and significant others. Thomas isn't doing so well without James, as I've heard, but a weekly email chain from at least five other students who went to our high school tells us that things are going well for the majority of the alumni. Angelica sends a riveting tale of smashing the patriarchy monthly, whether it be vandalizing sexist signs or leading a rally, and Maria tells of sweet everyday observations set in the bookstore where she is employed. Hercules and I, on the other hand, don't have much to report. But I plan to change that.
"Babe," I say one morning, tapping the drawing Hercules examines with skeptical eyes from his seat on the couch.
"Yeah?" He looks up and smiles at me as if this were the first time we met. As if instead of a messy college dorm it was a dull French classroom and we were two seats apart instead of next to each other on the couch. As if the spark were still there which, if I'm not mistaken, it is.
"I want to take you somewhere." The forms are filled out, the plan made, and all I need to do is convince Hercules to take a break. He pouts at me, so I lean forward and kiss his frowning lips.
"If you put it like that…" he jokes, chuckling. I pull him from the couch by the hand and lead him through the winding hallways of the school. With the recovered knowledge that Hercules is much faster, I'm the one dragged along now, past dorm rooms and classrooms and framed paintings on the walls. We reach the front doors and Hercules follows me down narrow sidewalks that lead to a building tucked neatly behind a larger structure. I drop his hand to push open the heavy double doors. He glances around at the advertisements tacked onto the bulletin while I stare straight ahead, having memorized every inch of the space.
Hercules Mulligan
I think I've asked him a thousand times where we are going, to no avail of course. We cleared the end of campus long ago, but he shows no sign of stopping. His eyes are set ahead and wherever he has decided to bring me, he is hellbent on getting there. Lafayette has pulled a few steps ahead of me, and now I have to struggle to catch up. Despite my height advantage, he is considerably faster.
When he finally stops, I just look at him and grin. He has lead me to the animal shelter. The one farther from campus, where the space between buildings begins to get bigger. Therefore, this is the one that fewer people go to.
"I want a dog," he tells me flatly. I don't say anything because I would never argue with that and I don't think I need to tell him that I wholeheartedly agree. The place is fairly quiet. Most sounds consist of the radiator humming persistently and the soft noises of animals conversing from their separate cages. A smiling boy with dark hair drifts our way and opens with a classic offer.
"Can I help you with anything?" Lafayette repeats his statement about a dog, to which the boy smiles and beckons for the pair of us to follow. The barking grows louder and pushes back the humming. Lafayette's grin only grows with each step, and he looks so fucking ecstatic right now that instead of watching the dogs press their paws and noses toward us, I watch his face. The employee's words bring me back to our goal.
"Any specific age? Older? Younger?" Personally, I'd like a puppy. But given that it was my boyfriend's idea, I let him answer with his preference. It's like he reads my thoughts with his answer when he says he too, would like a puppy. The boy fires off question after question about what sort of dog we'd like. Lafayette waves him off and says we just want a puppy to care for. He brings us around a corner and almost immediately Laf gravitates toward a cage with an excited and mildly floppy beagle.
"Do you want to say hi?" Laf nods emphatically to our helper and steps aside for him to unlatch the door and pick up the small dog. With only a warning to be careful with the dog, the boy hands her to an open-armed Lafayette. With the small dog in his arms, he looks like he might literally explode from such extreme happiness. I watch him with the dog and I know that even if I wanted to protest I have no chance against this puppy.
"I want her!" He squeaks out when the puppy licks his face. I step closer to his side to check the paper pinned to the door. The dog is (according to the sign) female, two months old, and comes with the name Maggie. Personally, I like the name. Although I can't guarantee Laf will feel the same way. We follow the employee back through the maze to the front room to finalize our ownership of our new puppy, settled contently in Laf's arms.
Alexander Hamilton
The email was addressed to both of us, John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton, and it was sent to the addresses that could be accessed from our website. The man started off by complimenting our book - he had read it recently, he said, and he wished it existed when he was growing up - and then went on to say it was a favorite of his daughter's. This was all leading up to his momentous request that we visit his eighth grade English classroom to give a presentation to his very bright and very engaged students at the very school that John attended as a kid. I stared at the screen for a few minutes and then at the framed cover of the novel on the wall, and then I called John's name. I could hear his footsteps, fuzzy purple socks hitting a hardwood floor, before I saw him. He was holding a half-eaten apple in one hand and a pen in the other. I motioned for him to read the email.
"Alexander Hamilton," John said, grinning like an idiot. "I was delighted when we got published. But now our first school visit? It's Christmas." Then he hugged me from behind and looked on as I replied to Mr. Barrett.
And now, after three months of exchanging emails with logistics and exclamation points and two hours of "tie or no tie?" and the like, we're standing outside the classroom. John has grabbed my hand in his own and it's kind of warm and damp, but mostly familiar and comforting. With my free hand I'm clutching several pieces of paper I've written and printed to be used in the presentation. The tall man inside the classroom catches my eye and soon his face grows closer until the door is opening and Mr. Barrett is greeting us. I give John's hand a squeeze before walking into the classroom and waving to all the students. They're each holding a copy of Midnight Pride in their hands and wear huge smiles. I can't help but imagine John sitting in one of those chairs with his old messy hair forming a halo around his face.
"Hey guys," I say, not even trying to stifle the grin that pulls at my lips. "I'm Alex, and this is John."
"We think it's really cool that you all have read our book."
"Don't interrupt me, loser," I say, reaching up to tousle his fluffy hair. John slaps my hand away and redirects his attention to the group seated in front of us, most of whom are giggling.
"Before we begin, do you guys have questions?" A ginger girl sitting in the back tentatively raises her hand.
"So how do you, like, get past the initial stage of hating everything you write?" I look at John to ask if I can answer the question, and he quirks up the left side of his mouth in approval. I puff out my cheeks and let out a slow stream of air before beginning to speak.
"It can be really hard - trust me, I know - but really you have to just accept that it might not be perfect but it does have to get written in order to have something to work with. Does that make sense?" The girl nods and jots something down in her notebook.
"So what would you all like to know? Stuff about the book, the process…?" John begins.
"Is there going to be a sequel?" A boy calls out.
"Maybe," I say, smirking. "Okay, yes. You'll have to wait for it, though."
"Is there going to be a movie?"
"I hope so, but we haven't been contacted about it."
It continues like this, asking and answering questions and sometimes referring to specific pages in the book or the resources we've typed up. The students are alert and polite to us, and I almost feel bad that I wasn't like them back in high school. But, oh well. At least I did one thing right by dating John.
"How long have you guys been dating?"
"Eight years?" John looks at me for confirmation. "We kind of broke up when we went to college."
"If you count that, it would be four or five. But I don't count it." A few kids 'aww.' I press a hand to my breast pocket to feel the outline of the small box that is fortunately not visible above the top of the pocket. I don't know if I'll ever be prepared for what I'm going to do, and I don't know if it was the right choice to plan for today. What I do know is that I've known John Laurens for eight years and loved him my entire life, if not the John Laurens that has unruly hair and tired eyes then the idea of him, someone to hold and love and belong with. Other than that, I'll just wing it. But I think that knowledge is enough to get me on track.
"Did you guys mean for there to be so much fucking sexual tension between Willis and Kamren?" One girl asks before widening her eyes. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to swear."
John laughs it off as he runs a hand through his hair. "I mean, it wasn't completely intentional, but we noticed that and let it happen."
The girl smiles, turns to her classmate, and gives him a high five. I watch John look at the students with pride and feel my thoughts turn to the box in my pocket. Now's as good a time as any.
"Thank you so much!" Mr. Barrett says, shaking our hands. "I guess we'll wrap up now. I'm sure the students are very appreciative that you've taken time away from your busy schedules to visit our classroom!"
"Just a moment," I interrupt. "Before we go, I'd like to pose a question…" I sink down to one knee on the floor. When John catches sight of me there, he glares.
John Laurens
I stare down at him kneeling on the floor. Fuck no. I will not let Alexander Hamilton steal my moment. Before he can do anything else, I grab him by the wrist.
"Get up, Hamilton," I say through gritted teeth. Frankly, I don't know why I'm angry. He doesn't know of my plans and maybe I didn't read his actions as well as I thought. But it doesn't matter now, because he's already on his feet wearing a crestfallen look. I look back toward the curious group of students with a smile.
"Okay… so thank you so much and now we'll be leaving," I rush through the sentence, and as a result of which, end up stumbling quite a lot over my own words.
To my surprise, he makes no comment even after we've fled the school. As we walk down the block my thoughts drift to the small box in my own pocket. I feel bad for the way I shot him down, but if he really was about to propose, there was no way I could have let him. I have my own plan for how this will go and I want every last detail to be perfect. I just hope Alexander hasn't changed his mind about wanting to marry me after I so blatantly told him not to ask. At least our visit was a success.
I am very proud of the book I wrote with Alexander. Midnight Pride took a fair amount of time and energy, but the end product was extremely satisfying, and in a way, it solidified our relationship. Somehow we managed to stay sane and in love after over a year of writing about each other's characters. Somehow I love him even more after spending so much time working with him I thought I would go crazy. So really, I can't let Alexander propose before I do. It's not like he loves me more or wants this more than I do.
The silence between us dissolves after seven minutes of walking when Alex starts laughing uncontrollably. I sneak a glance at him, doubled over and clutching his sides, and bite back a smile.
"What is it?" Alex is far too busy cackling to answer my question.
"Did you see their faces?" is all he says before he collapses back into his fit of hysteria.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure they don't have a clue what they witnessed."
"They seemed disappointed," Alex says when he's finally gotten past his fit of laughter.
"So did you," I point out. When the words leave my mouth I immediately regret it. I don't want to have to explain myself and ruin my plans.
"And why wouldn't I be? I just got rejected by the love of my life."
"You dork." I kiss him in an attempt to change the subject. This was supposed to be a surprise
and not one he could take over. Thankfully, he doesn't fight me on this. When I pull away from him doesn't bring it up again.
"I'm just happy people read our book. And seemed to like it!" He declares.
"Yeah! We may have even gotten that one kid to ship Willis and Kamren. I feel like that shows emotional investment!" We round the corner of our block (I was surprised that the school was so close to our apartment) and Alex's hand finds mine. I'm getting more nervous by the second. Even though I know he won't say no, some part of me thinks everything will go wrong. I fish through my coat pocket for the set of keys that I just had replaced. So far, I have lost my set four times, and luckily each has been inside the apartment.
I check the clock mounted above the kitchen doorway. The face reads 3:56, significantly later than I thought.
"I'll make dinner - just go sit down or something," I instruct him.
"Alexander Hamilton does not comply with anyone's wishes for him to sit down," he says. So he's in one of his difficult moods.
"Hamilton, please," I say, not caring much to hide my exasperation. I bring him into another room and push him gently into an armchair. With that, I go to the kitchen to stress and try to cook an adequate dinner for my boyfriend. -
An hour later, the kitchen is a complete disaster. But I guess that's what happens when you try something new. I bring the food out the back porch before I return for Alexander. He's still seated where I put him. A book lays open on his lap and he's deep within whatever world is on the pages. The first time I say his name he doesn't hear me. Once I manage to get his attention, it doesn't take much more to get him to follow me through our apartment and to the scene I've set up outside. Besides the food placed carefully and presented neatly on our plates, I've placed a glass vase filled with scarlet roses. The rail confining us to our porch space has soft lights woven around the wood that would have looked significantly better in the dark.
"What's all this?" He asks, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips. I don't answer, because I'm sure he already knows.
"Before we eat…" I start. "I have a question." His face lights up before I've even posed the question. I fall onto one knee and bring the small wooden box from my breast pocket.
"Alexander Hamilton, will you marry me?" He nods and I can see the tears in his eyes.
"Well duh." He laughs and I slide the shimmering ring onto his finger and rise back onto two feet, where Alexander connects our lips in a passionate kiss. Everything has gone perfectly. I proposed; he said yes. I am engaged to the man I have fallen hopelessly in love with, and I couldn't be happier.