EpilogueDon’t stop believin’.
—Steve Perry, Neal Schon, and Jonathan Cain
One Year Later
Jamie
I’m lying on Freddie’s half-made bed. Ours, now. The lights are low, and the Moonlight Sonata is playing from my phone speaker. Freddie shakes his head, recounting our awkward visit with his parents this evening, when we announced that I’m moving into his apartment off campus.
“‘Your body is a temple,’” Freddie’s impression of his dad is creeping closer and closer to a bad Nixon. “‘I trust you to treat it as such.’“ Our news about moving in together didn’t go over as well as we’d hoped, but President Churchill will always be President Churchill.
“I certainly agree, Freddie, your body is a temple.” I sneak my hands delicately under his waistband. “Let us go down and worship at the altar.”
F
