Page 124 of On the Ropes
Epilogue
TABITHA
One Year Later
Istood in front of the steps at the art museum and waited for my dark-and-stormy boyfriend to arrive. He’d sent me a text message while I was filming that said: Up for a spontaneous activity?
I said yes, of course. One year in and I was still helpless to resist that man. He’d told me to wait for him here, although I was disappointed not to see his old truck pulling up. It’d been a while since we’d put the back seat to better, sexier use.
Not ten seconds later, Dean Knox-Morelli was strolling toward me down the sidewalk with those broad shoulders and that shy half grin. My stomach dipped, filling with butterflies—a physical reaction to his presence that only heightened the longer we were together.
I propped my hands on my hips. “I’m here for my activity, Mr. Machine. Will you tell me what it is?”
Dean reached me, lifting my chin for a sweet kiss. “I can’t. That’ll ruin the surprise.”
I hummed under my breath, eyebrow raised. He simply took my hand as he walked toward the middle of the steps we’d run together before getting drenched in a storm while hardcore making out.
“They’re not predicting bad weather, are they?” I asked innocently.
His eyes burned. “You wish, troublemaker.”
“A girl can dream.” I waved my hand up the steps. “You’re finally going to race me again, huh? My only request is that you don’t double cheat like last time.”
His lips twitched. “I thought I’d give you a chance to defend your good name.”
I held on to his arm for balance as I reached behind to slide off my sandals. “While barefoot, at that.” I tilted my head. “So before I race you and win, are you gonna tell me if you guys got the grant today?”
“We did.”
“You did?”
A smile flew across his face. I hugged him, holding him tight. “That’s fucking incredible news. The center deserves that funding.”
He kissed my cheek before gently releasing me. “I have a theory that the video you made that we submitted about the senior food program, along with the grant, might have given us the boost we needed.”
I shrugged. “Hey, I’m just the lady who holds the camera. Eddie and Alice are the real charmers.”
“Rowan’s worried that any day now his grandmother’s gonna ask him to get her an agent.”
I laughed. “I would pay actual money to see those two on the big screen.”
Dean’s journey toward a new identity, away from boxing and toward community work, was a long one and not without its bumps in the road. But over the past year, I’d witnessed even more of his confidence returning. And even more of his joy. Like all things, Dean approached his new job at the rec center with a dedication and focus that had the fledgling program growing faster than ever. Rowan arranged for Eddie to be paid as a consultant, and Dean brought him to the office frequently to pick his brain on the most helpful ways to approach our neighbors. Eddie helped Dean build trust in the community and gave him updates from the web of communication that kept South Philly folks in the know.
Dean did a damn good job of trust-building too. It was a regular occurrence for me to be walking home to Tenth Street from the subway stop and do a double take as I spotted my hunky boyfriend sitting in a lawn chair, casually chatting with a person who Rowan or Eddie had identified as needing extra food. Some folks were comfortable right away. Others were resistant, but Dean had always been known for his patience.
He was still recognized as Dean the Machine when we were out together, with the usual mixed bag of sympathy or judgment. More and more though, it was clients and neighbors saying hi, updating him on their grandchildren and how their gardens were doing in this heat.
While Dean was growing programs, I was busy rooting my business in Philadelphia, making contacts and focusing on stories about activism. The land bank had hired me almost right away. And working on Annie’s pocket park had inspired me so much I started studying other urban green spaces in the city and the neighborhoods that had fought to build them. I had enough footage that I was toying with the idea of making a documentary. Although it was currently on the back burner for my newest project: making a movie to celebrate forty years of the Lavender Center helping people like me and Dean.
I hitched my thumb over my shoulder. “You’re not nervous to lose to me, are you?”
He dropped down into a runner’s lunge. “Win or lose, I still get nervous around you, Tabitha.”
I mimicked him, fingers grazing the ground. “You did this last time, you know. Flirted with me until I was distracted.”
He seemed to ponder that statement. But then he whispered, “Go” and went sprinting up the steps.
I briefly enjoyed the sight of Dean running and flirting with me on a warm night. Then I followed behind him, racing up the steps shoulder to shoulder, out of breath and trying not to laugh.
