I’ve dreamed of this exact kind of Saturday morning.
Runners flock to the West Side Highway. At Oslo, the block’s coffee shop, someone’s scribbling “triple shot” on a plastic cup, nodding along to a playlist called “Good Noise.” Dogs are out for their first walks of the day.
And I’m still in bed, stretching, gloriously unaware of the location of my laptop, which is likely buried under stacks of mail somewhere in my apartment on Jane Street. Well, our apartment on Jane Street.
Though Teddy and I tried to slow-roll reveal our relationship status throughout our best friends’ wedding, all bets were off when I saw the look on Sloane’s face after she caught us kissing during “The Most Beautiful Girl In The World.” It was a very Sloane reaction, somewhere between I knew it and thank God and I’m six tequilas deep, but I’ll never forget this moment for the rest of my life. And it erased any residual trepidation I harbored about being publicly us.
Teddy and I were stupid enough in love to ask ourselves, “Why not just road-trip back to New York?” and then do it. The snow had melted, so we took three luxurious days retracing our steps, muttering promises into each other’s hands and kissing at every red light. I think we may have even had the best sex in the history of the state of Indiana. Or maybe other people have had multiple orgasms in the last stall of the Indiana Basketball Hall of Fame bathroom. Who’s to say?
Back in New York—home, we agreed—we sublet the top two floors of a rickety townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. We strolled the Promenade and established a regular table at the tiny Italian restaurant down the street with a sweaty, generous owner. I tried not to be too wistful about a river separating me from Violet and my office.
“What if we bought something?” Teddy ventured on a chilly Thursday night on our roof while we passed sparkling wine between us in my dad’s mug.
“That’s legally binding—awfully serious,” I joked, trying to keep my cool. But were those butterflies? Permanency. With Teddy. In New York.
He leaned in, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close enough to see the brightness of his eyes against the cityscape. “Why not make it our 51st Street?”
Cut to a thousand viewings, one aggressive real estate agent, and two months of extending our sublease, and then the place: a private garden, ceiling beams that date back to 1838, and a condo fee within budget. When we got the keys, Teddy carried me across the threshold on his back with Carter and Sloane on FaceTime. Violet showed up an hour later with a Balloon Saloon bouquet that she picked up on her ten-minute walk over.
That was months ago. The house-shaped balloons, once drifting to the rafters, had deflated and spun to the ground. The baseboards got dusty. Our neighborhood dry cleaner started remembering Teddy’s name. But the sensation I get, waking up next to him, in this home, might feel this unbelievably lucky forever.
As I shift in our sheets, I try my best to pry my ankle free from under Teddy’s calf without waking him, but it’s no use. He reaches for my waist, pulling my body against his as he finds the spot in my neck where his chin fits best. “You owe me at least another thirty minutes in bed.”
Turning to kiss him, I take in every inch of his features. “Thirty minutes? That’s generous, considering…” Before I can finish, he’s under the sheet, pressing open my hips and sliding his mouth to where it can be found on most lazy Saturday mornings. I roll my head back into the pillow in expectant bliss.
Thirteen minutes later, Teddy’s in the kitchen, shirtless, steaming milk for my cortado. He’s filled out since Sloane and Carter’s wedding, and the cardamom buns that have taken over this city have also played their part. His doctors can’t believe the recovery he’s made. Every trip back to Mayo Clinic, I prepare for the worst. But his steadfast optimism and my commitment to weekly therapy make it possible to hope for the best.
“Mar, you’re set for tonight, right?” he interrupts my thoughts, talking over the hiss of the espresso machine.
“Yes. Kallmeyer suit secured.”
On top of cohabitation, remission, and frequent morning sex, the past year has also been a major shift in work for both of us. Teddy’s leading pro bono work at a firm he’s obsessed with. The founding partner, his mentor and boss, has become like Teddy’s New York dad—sweet, without the complicated family history of his real dad. I left FourVC to raise my own fund, which was one of the most exhausting, humbling, and rewarding experiences I’ve endured—though that’s not something I let on to most people. Tonight, I’m being honored at an event at Casa Cipriani celebrating women in venture. Turns out, I just might be a girl boss after all. Or at least I’ll cosplay one this evening.
“Great. Well, I booked you a massage with Hazel at noon—surprise, I love you, et cetera,” he says, walking back to bed with a cup in each hand and giving me a kiss on the forehead. “And I have taken afterparty planning into my own hands.”
“Is that code for a pint at Josie’s and an episode of Veep before bed?”
He crawls back under the covers and brushes my tangled hair behind my ears. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll tack on a Veselka order and really do it up.”
An hour later, I’m wrapped in a robe, deciding between two very different pairs of loafers to wear with my suit, when Teddy walks into our closet (one that, yes, a person can walk into).
“I’m gonna pretend I’m going on a run and actually lie on the pier and call Carter for an hour. Need anything?”
I laugh. “Nothing. Leave at six?”
He kisses me, our bodies finding every excuse to close any space between us. “Yes, and I left you two eggs over medium on the counter.”
What feels like an expanse of empty time is filled with locating my steamer, catching my mom up via email, and consulting Sloane on how to part my hair, which she refuses to do over FaceTime.
“It would be a lot easier than texting selfies back and forth like we’re stuck in an econ lecture,” I message her.
I get a voice note back: “I have a very robust social calendar in Minneapolis, Mar. Carter signed us up for afternoon trivia at the brewery and I’m cramming.” We land on a middle part, and I encourage her to brush up on state birds.
Teddy’s back, and I can hear him singing “Father Figure” under his breath while he washes the dishes, a sure sign he’s nervous, like he’s the one who has to give an acceptance speech tonight.
“Hi,” I mutter, coming up behind him and slipping my arms around his waist in my robe, inhaling his freshly showered scent. My hair is pinned behind my ears, and my makeup is done.
“I can’t even see you, and I know you look perfect,” he responds before turning the water off to face me, reaching his arms out as if to take me in. A familiar smile spreads across his face. “And since you’re practically ready, you just take a seat.”
I laugh as he leads me to our palatial sofa, our New York version of a three-car garage, and I fall back, robe opening to Teddy making himself comfortable on his knees.
“Nineteen minutes,” he says, checking the clock. “Should be more than enough time.”
It’s not like it was that first time in Copenhagen or the dozens of times after Sloane’s wedding, dotting our map back to the city. It’s slower now, with just as much need, only wrapped in the safety of knowing we’re not going anywhere. It feels like we can’t say ‘I love you enough’ even as our bodies demonstrate the hundreds of ways its true.
Breathless and a little flushed, we slide into our town car, twenty-three minutes later. “Smile,” Teddy instructs, whipping out a disposable camera from his tuxedo jacket pocket and flashing it in my face. I’m used to it: Since treatment, he captures all the good days on one of the little cameras he buys on Canal Street and keeps a box of the prints under our bed.
I wrest the camera from his hands and aim it at him. His tuxedo was a holiday gift from me, custom from a spot on Christopher Street, but, really, it was mostly a gift for me. Teddy, handsome, healthy, and reaching for my hand with those steadfast eyes as we race south. Instead of thinking about how all of this could go wrong, I treasure all the ways it’s gone right.
As we walk off the elevator at the venue, I keep one eye on him and his impossibly animated smile. We mingle during the cocktail hour. I offer advice to younger analysts just starting their careers. I shake hands with men I’ve listened to on podcasts and kiss the cheeks of the women from funds like Forerunner, G9, and FFF who make this industry feel like home. And before I know it, we’re settled in front of wilted salad plates, my loafer toeing Teddy’s pant leg.
His hand doesn’t leave my thigh, its weight steadying me. Centerpieces tower toward the endless ceiling, and blowouts gleam. I wish my dad could see this. Not that he’d know what to do with multiple forks, or care about the embossed place cards. I sigh, leaning toward Teddy, starting to whisper the thought into his ear. “I wish he…”
“Me too, Mar. He’d be so proud.”
When I accept the award and hold the frozen handshake for a photo, seeing Teddy surrounded by smiling faces reminds me of our graduation at Iowa. I say a few words, rehearsed and seared into my brain: “I’ve worked hard, but some of the best things that have happened to me have happened because I stopped pushing. ‘You can’t control anything in life except your free throws,’ my dad used to say.”
As I make my way back to our table, Teddy stands to hug me. I lean into him, my mouth beginning to form the words of a plea, but before I can speak them, he says, “Get out of here? I thought you’d never ask.”
From the back of a car, I try to FaceTime Violet to show her the glass geode etched with my name, but she doesn’t answer.
“I’m out… I’ll call in the morning!” she writes back. “I’m sure you killed it.”
Realizing I have no idea where we’re headed, I turn to Teddy with an expression halfway between suspicion and excitement. “Ok, spill.”
“Marin Voss, did you not just give a speech about letting life happen?” he asks, using my award as a microphone.
“Honestly,” I say, settling into my seat and snapping my phone into my woven leather clutch, “maybe this is me now. Maybe I love a surprise.” I kiss his temple and curl against his body, looking out the window at the crosswalks popping in and out of view. “Look at me, just enjoying the ride.”
When the driver deposits us in front of Sing Sing, I’m only barely surprised. Clusters of twentysomethings nurse cigarettes. A couple is alternating between screaming and making out against a brownstone gate next to them. I roll my eyes at Teddy and smooth my venue-inappropriate suiting, knowing full well there’s not another place in the world I’d rather be right now that isn’t a dive bar outside of Joliet, Illinois.
“Expert-level call,” I mutter, as he offers his hand and we climb the stairs.
Sing Sing is as sticky and glorious as ever. We make our way to the Jumbo Private—a room lined with one long snaking bench and dotted with a couple coffee tables. Six pitchers of beer sit next to stacks of cups.
“Thanks, Jon,” Teddy offers, closing the door behind him, quietly singing the chorus of “I’m Still Standing.”
“Since when are you on a first-name basis with Jon the Sing Sing manager?” I question, but I’m already leafing through the binder in front of me, knowing I’m not going to get a real answer.
“Since always. You know Jon!” At this, Jon rolls back in, depositing towering platters of take-out sushi, then leaves with a wink. “I thought you might be hungry?” Teddy’s drowned out by the opening Wurlitzer electric piano of Steely Dan’s “Dirty Work.” The two-hour clock starts counting down in the back of my mind, the microphone is calling, and I’m too hellbent on singing to worry about what he might have up his sleeve.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m wrapping Teddy’s arm around my waist, leaning my head into his and placing the mic between us. We repeat the seemingly endless rounds of choruses on our tracklist of mandatory Prince songs, and I finish the dregs of my beer and locate the nearest tambourine while Teddy snaps another picture.
I’m deep into my percussive performance, hovering over the songbook, when Teddy grabs my face in his hands. “Marin,” he interrupts my antics with a seriousness that makes my stomach drop. “Marin Voss.” He’s shouting at this point, and lyrics projected in pink flood the room. “I love you more than anything on this planet. Every single good thing I hoped for starts with you.” His eyes start to fill with tears, and before I know it, he’s on one knee. “I want to build the rest of my life around you. Marry me?”
Stunned, I drop my microphone to the floor, and a glistening, elongated cushion diamond reflects back at me, along with the happiest future I could imagine for myself—the one I was scared of for too long.
“Teddy, of course it’s a yes. It’s been a yes since…” Before the words can even leave my mouth, the door kicks open. No Jon this time. Violet, Carter, Sloane, and our closest New York friends come piling into the room with rousing cheers.
I’m too happy to think, too grateful to feel. I pull in Violet and Sloane, the three of us alternating between weepy tears and shrieks of happy laughter. I stop to catch my breath, attempt to take it all in, then start laughing at myself again: I took the most roundabout path possible to end up with a hometown boy who keeps a bottle of Hidden Valley in our refrigerator.
The screen rolls into a new song, “Rich Girl” by Hall & Oates, and I feel Teddy hug me from behind, whispering in my ear. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”
And I don’t have to think twice before agreeing and reaching for my discarded tambourine.