She’s speechless, but it doesn’t matter. I know her answer.
Like everything with Ashlee, it’s perfect and I only want to make it even more so.
“Marry me, Ashlee. Be the mother to our children. My wife I can worship. Let me be the father I never had to the lives I know we’ll share together… just. Please… say yes.”
She can only mouth the word at first, but once she kisses me, and I feel that incredible charge circulating between us, she finds her voice.
“Yes,” she whispers, kissing my hands and I her head as tears run down both our faces.
It’s the best word I’ve heard my whole life and cements us together, forever.
Paris awaits, the city of love.
We spend the rest of the flight in each other’s arms, talking about our future and little of the past.
Paris speeds towards us, everything else further behind with every second.
“I love you, Tony Fontana,” she tells me.
“And I love you more,” I tell her, our heads pressed together, relieved and finally able to make our way home.
Together.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
Ashlee
Lots of people speak French in France, lucky for me most of them speak English too.
Tony wanted me to be in the movies. I was like, excuse me? Ah, no thanks honey, I’ve seen what the press does to actors. First hand, remember?
But I didn’t want to stop him from setting up his own production company either.
And he’s been instrumental in me setting up my own thing, stage shows that give up and coming actors a chance to strut their stuff. Especially slightly curvy girls and boys who might have been turned down in the past because they don’t look like something they’re not.
It’s been a whirlwind ride alright, and we open our first show in three weeks.
“You okay, Ashlee? You look like crap.”
I’ve been hearing it all morning and it’s not helping, because I know it’s true.
I have so much to feel good about, so why do I feel like I’m dying every time I come to work or look at food?
During our first dress rehearsal I have to run to the bathroom three times, then again once we break for something to eat.
My god, what if I’m really sick? There’s so many things going around right now. I can’t afford to be sick… oh god, no!
Every great and even beginner stage directors have an assistant director, someone whose job is to help out, even take charge when the shit hits the fan.
Chloe’s been a rock so far and she doesn’t look surprised when I finally get up the strength to tell her.
“I have to go home. I feel like crap,” I announce, feeling the saliva rushing into my mouth again as I swallow hard, trying not to dry heave as I make my way out.
Everybody is so understanding, maybe it’s a French thing. But cheering me as I leave?
I shoot Chloe a look, but she only shrugs. Smiling.
Like she knows something I don’t.
Like they all do.
The taxi ride back to the apartment is a blur.
What is wrong with me? And why is everyone grinning at me when I tell them I feel so ill?
Home again, I feel instantly more relaxed and safe. I breathe in the scent of Tony which I have no problem permeating everything we own, every space we occupy.
It’s like having him with me when he’s not home. He’s directing his own movie on set today, just outside of Paris but not due back for another day or two.
He video calls me every chance he gets and we spend half the time he’s away on the phone, which rings as soon as I walk in the door.
I know it’s him.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, filled with concern.
“How’d you know?” I ask, touched by his connection even when he’s not around.
“Chloe called when you left, she said you were sick.”
“Oh.”
“Plus, you’ve been sick for weeks honey, every morning. Don’t think I don’t know. I know my girl and something’s up,” he says, distracted by some background noise. Lights and cameras being moved around.
“I’m coming home,” he announces, and I hear myself groaning in the negative, but secretly glad he’s coming home.
“Tony? I’m scared,” I tell him, surprising myself but at least feeling honest.
“Ashlee, I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, no arguments. I’m calling a local doctor, and they’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll see you soon.”
He hangs up, but only because he really is leaving to come home straight away.
I love it when Tony takes charge. I should’ve gone to a doctor sooner but I always thought…
I don’t know what I thought.
I feel dizzy again. Maybe if I ate-
Ugh! Nope. The thought of food, liquid… anything…
I lay on the couch until the door buzzes, all those grinning faces are swimming in time with my nausea. I struggle to get up.
Swear these pants are shrinking.
A female doctor, of course. She practically catches me as I open the door, pitching forward, I'm so dizzy.
Helping me back to the couch we play twenty questions in my pretty good broken French before she opts for English.
There it is again, that look. What is it with these people?
“And when was the last time you bled?” she asks point blank, making me do a double take.
“Bled? I haven’t cut myself.”
Oh… that bled?
I do the math in my head, not hard. I know it’s been forever.
“But…” I start to say, the good doctor is already packing her bag up, checking her pager which is buzzing.
“I have another patient, here is a test. If it’s negative, call me on this number and I will come back,” she says abruptly, but with a knowing smile.
That damned smile.
And in a moment, she’s gone.
I’ve never felt happier, more relieved or more stupid in my whole life.
The white tiles of the bathroom are a blur and I feel the hot tears dropping down onto my legs as I sit here, still on the toilet, the solid
