Epilogue
Katie
Three years later
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I chew on my lip, my fingers tapping on the benchtop as I stare at the white sticks laid out in front of me. There are six of them. Two boxes worth. All with two dark blue lines. Clear as day. Can’t miss them.
I’m pregnant.
Holy fuck.
My eyes glance at the clock hanging on the wall across the room, and I wince.
It’s almost six and Flynn will be walking through the front door any minute.
He took some time off after his career with the Broncos ended.
He wanted to make sure the next step was the right one, so he stepped back from football, tried his hand at a few things.
He even tried bartending, which he lasted a day doing before promptly telling me the magic he thought was in bartending was actually in his watching me do it.
Of course, he swears up until this day it has nothing to do with the fact he was shit at it.
By Christmas that year though, he was getting itchy. Restless.
So, when Boston Metropolitan University called and asked if he wanted to join them as their new head coach for the spring season, Flynn knew it was the right decision.
I must say, the man was meant to coach. He was a great player, but he sees the game, understands its players, like no one I’ve ever seen before.
Even Jeff commends him for his achievements in the short time he’s been there.
They’re getting closer and closer to a bowl game.
Flynn also just loves it. Deep down, I think there is a part of him that is grateful the injury happened.
It all worked out. He took the time off he wanted, and we traveled a little.
Spent a few months jetting off whenever we felt the urge, since he wasn’t tied to a training schedule or games.
He found his peace, and then the job at the university dropped in front of him, and he stepped up like it was always meant to be.
I have never been prouder than the moment he won his first game with those kids.
They’d been on a bad streak, he turned them around, and now he’s well and truly building a championship team.
I’m still at the bar. I laugh and joke about how much work it is but secretly, I love it.
I love the hustle and bustle, I love the ever-changing challenge it poses.
We now have open mic nights and it’s been a hit.
One of the country singers who played a few weeks at the bar over the summer just got signed by Mr. Suit himself, Mark Madison.
And on Friday nights, with a regular crowd, I get up on the makeshift stage and get to perform.
I never wanted to be a singer, not one that traveled and toured and had to push album after album out.
I just wanted to love singing and have a place to do that while having fun.
Now I do, even if it is only at the bar that my family owns.
Sammy graduated from high school and went to play football for Texas State.
He’s a quarterback, and he’s a damn good one.
I actually think Flynn is a little upset that he didn’t pick BMU to play at.
I fly out with my parents whenever we can to see Sammy play, and whenever he’s home and comes round, he and Flynn are in the backyard, passing a ball back and forth while rambling about different stats. It’s sweet.
Our lives haven’t really changed all that much. We still live close to Scott and Ivy, and their cheeky little boy, Matty. We still holiday in Italy every summer together. The boys still play golf, and they’re still terrible at it.
I glance down at my left hand. I’m still just a girlfriend.
I thought a year, eighteen months max, would be the time it would take for Flynn to crack and propose. In fact, I was so confident that he would that I was waiting for it by our first Christmas together. It never happened. Then, our anniversary passed. My birthday. Another summer holiday in Italy.
At every event over the last three years, I have been holding my breath for the moment he decided to get on one knee and give me a damn ring.
I know what I said. I know I told him that I just wanted to be us. But I meant for like, a few months. Not years.
And now I’m fucking pregnant and we’re still just playing house, skirting any mentions of a ring or a wedding. I try to drop hints, but either they’re not obvious enough or he’s ignoring me.
Maybe I should just tell him I want to get married?
I groan, dropping my head to the kitchen bench and shifting on the stool. I should’ve just told him I wanted to get married a year and a half ago. If I had, I wouldn’t be having anxiety about what my very Italian mother and very Irish father are going to say about me having a baby out of wedlock.
They’ll be over the moon for a grandchild, but I can just see the flash of disappointment my mother will throw my way when we tell them.
“Urgh, what am I going to do?” I ask myself.
A deep chuckle echoes down the hallway, and a shiver runs down my spine. I sit up, glancing over my shoulder to see Flynn coming through the front door. He’s wearing a deep red polo shirt and black running pants. He toes off his sneakers and drops the BMU backpack he takes to work by the staircase.
“What have you done now?” he says, a smile painting his lips as he pads toward me.
I swipe the white sticks still lying on the counter into a pile and stand from the stool.
I keep them bundled in my hands, hidden behind my back.
Flynn approaches me, looking a little tired but still smiling.
His eyes are bright, the mix of blue and green swirling as he takes me in.
He smirks, gaze dropping down my body as he checks me out.
God, he’s so sexy it makes my stomach clench and my heart skip multiple beats.
When he nears me, he bends, dropping a lingering kiss to my lips.
Instantly, his hand reaches for my ponytail and pulls at the elastic wrapped around my hair.
The curls fall free, and he sinks his hands into the strands, gently massaging my head as I look up at him.
I try to smile, but looking at him, having his hands in my hair, makes me feel like I’m going to cry.
Fucking hormones.
“Hey,” he murmurs, noticing what I can only guess is the glassy look in my eyes as the sting of impending tears overwhelms me. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad day?”
He steps closer as I shake my head, my lip quivering. Fucking hell, I think I might lose it.
What if he doesn’t want to marry me anymore? What if I made him wait too long, and now he’s bored? What if he’s changed his mind and doesn’t even want kids?
“I—” I gulp in some air, trying to get the words out without completely allowing my internal, irrational meltdown to take over. It doesn’t work, and a fat tear drops down my cheek.
Flynn immediately wipes it away.
I revel in the feel of his hands on me and use the calming strokes of his thumb across my cheek to even out my breathing. I take a step away from him, pull my hands from behind my back, and show him the numerous white sticks I’m holding.
His expression goes from concern, to amusement, to confused, to downright shock.
“Is that—” he stammers.
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.” I nod, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch him take in what they mean.
He takes one of them from my hand and turns it over, eyes gazing down at the clear as day, double blue lines. “When?”
“I felt off last week.” I shrug, turning to place the remaining tests back on the kitchen bench. “And I’m late. Very late.”
“How late?”
“A month, maybe six weeks.”
Flynn blows out a breath and shakes his head. “How did you not notice?”
“I … haven’t really been tracking. We’ve been busy getting ready for Italy, and you’re in the middle of recruiting.
I just … didn’t notice that I missed a period.
” I wring my hands in front of me, twisting my fingers.
I wish he would touch me. Or tell me that he’s excited.
Logically, I know he loves me, but today’s been one hell of a rollercoaster, and I don’t have the energy to play mediator with my own emotions.
“What made you think about it?”
“Ivy’s pregnant again. She told me this morning.” Flynn’s eyes snap to mine, widening.
“She is?” I nod and he laughs. “Fuck, yeah.”
I frown, my stomach twisting. Happy for Ivy? Happy for us?
Fuck, I need to lie down.
“Flynn,” I say, gently taking the test from his hands and placing it with the others. “Are you … do you want this? Are you happy?”
Silence envelops us as we stand there, staring at one another. His eyes are darting over my face. He’s searching. He’s reading my emotions, tapping into my thoughts, like he does so well. I’m his open book.
He steps forward again, his hands cupping my cheeks and his thumbs swiping gently over my skin. “I don’t think I have ever felt happier in my entire life. This feeling? It’s pure bliss. It’s euphoric.”
“It is?” I ask weakly, sagging in his arms. He holds me steady, wrapped in his arms.
“Nothing makes me happier than knowing I’m the one you chose to procreate with.”
I scrunch up my nose, trying to hold off the sob that crawls up my throat in pure relief. “Procreate?”
“You and me, Rockstar.” He leans down, kissing me gently. When he pulls back, he whispers against my lips, “We’re having a baby.”
“I thought you might not want one with me.”
“I see the hormones are already kicking in.” He smiles, not letting go. “Because I know you know that’s a wild thought to have when it comes to me wanting you. Babies with you, a future with you. I’ll take it all.”
“You will?”
“Fuck, yes I will.” He kisses me again. “You’re never getting rid of me now, Murphy.”
The heavy weight I felt earlier as I stared at all the blue lines lifts, and the euphoria that he spoke about settles into my skin as though he’s transferring it to me through his touch. His hands drop, tracing the lines of my neck and over my shoulders, down my body until they settle on my waist.
He touches his forehead to mine. “Can I ask you to marry me now? Give you my ring to wear? Or do you want to wait a little longer?”
I rear back as though he’s shocked me with a low current. “What?”
“I mean, I will drop to my knee right this second, but if you want to wait, that’s okay too.”
“You have a ring?” I ask, pushing out of his arms a little and staring at him. What the fuck? “Since when?”
“Since, like, two weeks after you told me you would be my girlfriend for real.” He nods his head like what he’s saying is common information. He smirks, his eyes darting over my face as I shake my head.
“Why the fuck haven’t you given it to me yet?” My voice pitches as I throw my hands, my heart racing. I’m going to kill this man.
“You wanted to wait,” Flynn says, laughing and taking a step toward me, trying to pull me back into his arms. I shake my head and slap his hands away. “Rockstar, you told me you wanted to wait, so I waited. I was just waiting for you to be ready, for you to say you wanted the ring.”
“I—you, what?”
“I would’ve married you that day in the hospital, concussion and bruised bones be damned.”
“I meant like a year.” I throw my hands up. “I meant like eighteen months. I meant like until we had some time to settle in, until you had figured out what was coming after football. I didn’t mean—” I press my hands into my stomach. “Wait until I was pregnant.”
“Oh, baby.” He laughs, shaking his head. He grabs for me again, and when I try to push him away, he doesn’t let me. Instead, he pulls me around, spinning us so he can sit on the stool and position me in between his legs. His fingers find my waist, and he digs in, holding me there. “I’m sorry.”
The fight drains from me instantly, and I sag into him.
“If I’d known you had a time frame in mind, I never would’ve missed it.” He leans forward, his hands coming around my front and resting on my stomach. He splays his fingers over the non-existent bump, his hands warming my body.
“Okay.” I sigh. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”
“You’re allowed. You’re growing my little girl in there.”
“Girl?”
“I’m built to be a girl dad, don’t you think?”
I give him a watery smile, the tears burning behind my eyes again. “You’re ridiculous.”
He only smiles. “Do you want your ring now? Or would you like a big fancy proposal with the flowers, and the string quartet playing, and the hidden photographer?”
“Now, please.”
Flynn gently pushes me back so he can stand from the stool.
I watch as he rounds the kitchen bench and pulls open one of the many junk drawers we have around the house.
He hates them, but they balance out my messiness to his over-the-top cleanliness.
He rifles through the contents, finally pulling out a red velvet box and turning to face me.
I stare at him, my jaw on the floor and disbelief in my eyes.
“You kept it in the junk drawer?” I exclaim as he comes back to me. He holds the box out and shrugs.
“You never found it. In fact, I’m surprised you never did.
I guess those junk drawers really do hide treasures when you need them to.
” He flicks open the lid of the box. A diamond the size of a small boulder sits nestled into small velvet cushions.
The gold band glints from the lights above us.
Simple, understated but still fucking huge.
I stare at the ring, completely dumbfounded that he kept it in a drawer for three years. A drawer I toss things into every day.
“So, Rockstar, will you marry me?”
I blink up at him as he takes the ring from the box and holds it up, turning it a little between his fingers. A smile spreads across my lips.
“Fine, but keep a piece of my jewelry in the junk drawer again, and I’m throwing out your golf clubs,” I say, trying my best to have the fake threat come out convincingly.
I fail, and my voice shakes with emotion.
Flynn feigns shock for a moment, his face falling in horror before a smile cracks and he lifts my left hand, sliding the ring onto my finger.
He leans down, kissing me hard and leaving me breathless.
We were never very good at faking it anyway.