Pretty Reckless: Epilogue

Notre Dame, Freshman Year

“Oh my Marx, my feet have blisters the size of your head, Penn. What’s up?” Daria complains. In my defense, no one told her to wear those red-soled heels for our lengthy stroll. In her defense, this shit is pretty goddamn long. I can’t see the end of it, and I’m pretty sure I should’ve packed water, Advil, and maybe even food for the road.

“Just a little bit more, baby.”

She soldiers through it without questioning me or my motives. I said I preferred if she didn’t ask any questions, and she trusts me. Why she does is beyond me, but she does. I hit the fucking jackpot on all counts when it comes to my girlfriend. She is hot, compassionate, funny, a spitfire, and her dad is willing to pay for our plane tickets when we come home for the holidays.

Daria releases air and starts whistling. She’s bored. She’s never been a power-walker or a jogger. She prefers to dance in the studio. She joined the cheer team at Notre Dame and doesn’t even think about becoming team captain. She is much more content doing her own thing.

“Via said she is having fun at Santa Barbara.”

My sister is attending community college and loving every minute of it. I think it’s because it’s so close to Mel, Jaime, and Bailey. She doesn’t like much exploring outside her territory and still needs some handholding. We’ve been getting better at the whole being twins thing, and Via and Daria have actually been keeping in touch. It’s frosty, but it’s there. At this point, I have no illusions or expectations about them becoming best buddies. If they can survive not killing each other over the holidays—which seems to be the case—I’m happy.

“Good. Good,” I say. I’m too distracted by the insanity that’s about to leave my mouth to care about Via.

“She’s been dating this really sweet guy named Doug. I think she’s bringing him to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Doug is an awful name, but anything is better than Gus.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” She stops. No. No. She can’t stop. We have maybe ten feet left to complete the journey. I tug at her sleeve and practically drag her the rest of the way between the two lakes on campus in the shape of an eight.

“I said no questions.”

“Fine! Can you release my hand, though? My palm is hella sweaty, and even though I love when you throw romantic crumbs at me, that’s a bit needy, Penn.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Eight more feet.”

“Marxxx,” she drawls. “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

When we reach the spot, I turn around and face her, releasing her hand.

“It’s been said that if a male and female student hold hands and walk around the two lakes on campus in the shape of the figure eight, they will get married.”

Seeing as we already live together in the apartment Daria’s parents purchased for her, and we’ve been declared as the ‘it’ couple on campus by every Tom, Dick, and Harry, I am trying to tell myself that it should not freak her out. But Daria takes a step back, cupping her mouth.

“Is this a proposal?”

“Nope”—I grin—“but it’s a promise you’ll be getting one before we graduate. Sound good?”

She nods. “Sounds…the best.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Okay. Good. Fuck.

Notre Dame, Junior Year

I pour out of class and hug my psychology textbooks close to my chest. After much discussion with my mom, I finally decided what I want to do when I grow up. Become a school counselor and help little future Darias. My backpack with my MacBook, phone, purse, and the rest of my belongings is strapped on my shoulders, feeling light as a feather. I can’t wait to see my superstar boyfriend playing against Navy tonight. Penn is all over political science. I think he wants to go back and make a difference in the neighborhoods that spat him and Gus and Via out into the world.

A smile hovers over my lips when I think about last night. About making love to him so long and hard he complained that he’d never have any strength for the game today. How, seemingly impossibly, our sex becomes even more intense and desperate and meaningful as time passes.

I’m about to exit Lyons Hall on campus, walking under the darkened arch on this autumn day, when a hand snakes behind me and tugs me to the corner of the arch. My back slams against the wall, and I let out a hysterical moan.

No. This is not happening. No.

A hand cups my mouth, and I’m thinking I should scream or bite it off when the man it belongs to stares at me from a few inches away. My boyfriend.

My soon-to-be dead boyfriend.

He removes his palm from my mouth with a cocky grin.

“What in the good heavens do you think you’re—”

He shuts me up with a hard kiss, his lips grinding on mine roughly, and I melt and clasp the lapels of his tracksuit. I’m a fool for this guy. Stupid in love and embarrassingly hot for him. When we finally come up for air, he rears his head back, staring at me, dead calm and serious.

“I have something for you.”

I bat my eyelashes as he produces a red apple from his duffel bag and tosses it into my hands. My eyes widen at the realization of what it is.

“Game over. You win. You conquered me even though it was me who marched into your territory unannounced.”

I’m at a loss for words. So I choose to do the stupidest thing in the moment. I take a bite of the apple, press my lips to his, and we both bite it in the middle.

The Lady and the Tramp style.

“Victories are sweeter when you celebrate them together,” I whisper.

“All right. Take two. This time, I hope like hell that you’ll get the hint because there’s so much more on the line. According to traditional folklore around this neck of the woods, if two people of the opposite sex kiss under the Lyons Arch, it leads to marriage. You following this, Miss Followhill?”

I blink at him, biting down on my lip so I don’t laugh hysterically. What does he mean, take two? When the hell was take one? My mouth drops into an O shape as the penny drops.

“You mean…?”

He gives me a sharp nod, closing his eyes.

“Had it in my pocket last year. Have it in my pocket now. I can’t afford a diamond just yet, so it has a…”

“Orange sea glass instead,” I finish for him, my heart rioting in my chest. He grins.

“Please, for the love of G…Marx, put me out of my fucking misery and tell me you’ll be my wife. I’m not asking you to make the commitment this year. Or next year. Or maybe not even the next one. I’m asking you to make the commitment to make the commitment, and yes, I know how Dr. Phil that sounds.”

I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him so hard I think our lips might fall off. He lifts me off the ground and into the air, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, then finally, my chin.

“Shiiiiit,” he hisses. “You’re still not giving me words, Skull Eyes.”

His shirts are so perfectly whole these days. Mine, too.

“Yes, Penn Scully. It would be an honor to be your wife.”

“Thank fuck, I thought I was going to grow old and die behind this thing,” I hear from the corner of the arch and cock my head. It’s our entire football team, cheer team, Mom, Dad, Bailey, Via, Knight, Luna, Vaughn, and a girl I don’t know but have heard all about. Adriana is there, too, with Harper on her hip. Camilo has his arm wrapped around her shoulder, and they’re smiling. Not just at us, but also at each other.

Mom and Dad clap. Bailey jumps up and down. Knight gives us a thumbs-up, and Vaughn rolls his eyes but smiles. Luna, Addy, Harper, and Camilo look at us like they’ve won something. Happy in our happiness.

And that’s what good friends and families do.

They pick you up and pull you out of the mud of your own mistakes.

And when you’re not the best version of yourself? Well, they’re still there, waiting, because we’re all fucking human.