Epilogue Emma
ONE YEAR LATER
"You're going to be late for your own celebration," David called from the kitchen.
"Two minutes!" I fastened my earrings—the vintage silver ones he'd found at a flea market last month, just because—and grabbed my heels. "And it's not my celebration."
"You just got promoted to Director of Clinical Services." He appeared in the doorway, looking unfairly good in jeans and the henley I'd bought him. "That's literally your celebration."
"It's a work party. There's a difference."
He crossed the room and pulled me against him. "You're running the entire DV program for three clinics now. Let me be proud of you."
"Fine." I kissed him, meaning for it to be quick, but he deepened it until I forgot about the party entirely. "David—"
"I know, I know." He pulled back, grinning. "Can't help it. You're hot when you're successful."
"I'm always successful."
"Exactly."
I laughed, grabbing my purse. Our apartment—our apartment, the two-bedroom we'd chosen together six months ago—was warm and lived-in. David's law books mixed with my medical journals. His coffee maker next to my tea collection. The engagement ring on my finger catching the light.
Yeah. That had happened fast.
Three months ago, he'd proposed in the middle of a Wednesday, while we were cooking dinner. No grand gesture, no big speech. Just "I want to marry you again. Better this time. Will you let me?" while holding a vintage sapphire ring he'd saved for months to buy—nothing like the first one.
I'd said yes before he finished asking.
"Jess texted," David said, helping me into my coat. "She's already at the bar with Marcus, and she says if we're late to your own celebration, she's giving your table to someone else."
"She wouldn't dare."
"It's Jess. She absolutely would." He grabbed his keys. "She also said Marcus is bringing his new girlfriend, the one from the yoga studio."
"The instructor who made him do crow pose on their first date?"
"That's the one."
We walked to the bar hand in hand, December cold making our breath visible. David had turned down three headhunting calls this month alone—big firms offering senior positions, the kind of money that used to matter to him. He'd barely bothered listening to their pitches.
"I have everything I want," he'd told me after the last one. "Why would I fuck that up for a corner office?"
The bar was packed with my colleagues, but I spotted Marcus immediately—he was demonstrating some elaborate story to a group of nurses who were crying with laughter.
"There she is!" Dr. Martinez raised her wine glass. "Our new director!"
The next hour was a blur of congratulations and conversations. David stayed close but not clingy, chatting easily with my coworkers. He'd become part of this world—showing up to fundraisers, referring cases, becoming friends with people who'd initially side-eyed him hard.
"He's different," Jess had told me last month. "Like, actually different. Not performing different."
She was right. This David didn't perform anything. He just was.
"Want to get some air?" he asked, after I'd made the rounds.
We stepped onto the bar's small patio. The city sparkled around us, everything feeling possible.
"I have something to tell you," he said.
My stomach flipped. Old habit.
"What?"
"I put an offer on the Prospect Heights office space. The one with room for three attorneys." He watched my face carefully. "I want to expand the practice. Take on more cases. Maybe hire that law student who's been volunteering."
"David, that's amazing!"
"Yeah?" He seemed to exhale. "It's a big lease. Big commitment."
"You're ready for it."
"We're ready for it," he corrected. "I ran the numbers by you last week, remember?"
I did remember. Sitting at our kitchen table, going through spreadsheets together, him genuinely wanting my input. Nothing like the unilateral decisions of our first marriage.
"I love you," I said suddenly.
"Still hits different," he murmured, pulling me close. "Every time you say it."
"I love you," I repeated, just to watch him smile.
"January wedding?" he asked against my hair. "Or are you still thinking spring?"
"January." I'd already lost three years with him. I wasn't wasting more time. "Small thing. Just family and close friends."
"Whatever you want."
"I want you," I said simply. "Everything else is just details."
He kissed me then, right there on the patio with my coworkers probably watching through the window. When we pulled apart, his eyes were bright.
"Want to know a secret?" he asked.
"Always."
"Some nights I still can't believe you took me back. I wake up and watch you sleep and think about what an idiot I was. How lucky I am." He cupped my face. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it."
"You already do," I said. "Every day."
"Not enough. Never enough."
"David." I pressed my forehead to his. "I'm happy. Like, stupidly, embarrassingly happy. Can that be enough?"
"Yeah," he said softly. "That can be enough."
Marcus appeared in the doorway. "Hey, lovebirds. They're doing speeches."
We went back inside. Dr. Martinez said lovely things about my work. I managed not to cry. David held my hand the entire time, thumb stroking over my engagement ring.
Later, walking home, pleasantly tipsy and warm despite the cold, I thought about second chances. How they weren't really about going backward but about moving forward with hard-won wisdom.
"I'm proud of us," I said suddenly.
David looked at me, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. We did the work. We figured it out. We're good together now."
"We're great together now," he corrected, spinning me in a circle right there on the sidewalk.
I laughed, dizzy and happy. "Take me home."
"Yes, Director Peterson."
"That's future Mrs. Harrison-Peterson to you."
He stopped walking. "You're taking my name again?"
"Hyphenating this time. I'm my own person who happens to love you."
"Emma Harrison-Peterson." He tested it out, grinning. "I love it."
"I love you."
"Love you more."
"Impossible," I said, and kissed him right there under the streetlight, tasting forever on his lips.
We were getting married in six weeks. Small ceremony, good food, people who'd watched us rebuild from ashes. It would be nothing like our first wedding—no country club, no three hundred guests, no trying to impress anyone.
Just us, promising to choose each other every day.
We already did, but the promises would be nice too.
"Home?" David asked.
"Home," I agreed.
And we walked home together, to our apartment, our life, our second chance that had become our best chance.
Sometimes broken things, when mended right, become stronger than they ever were before.
We were proof of that.