Epilogue Now
EPILOGUE
NOW
Two years later…
Brooke and Jack climbed the flight of stairs to their apartment. It didn’t have an ocean view—because what were they, aristocrats?—but they did live in Portobello. Brooke pushed her wet hair off her shoulders where it was dripping into her hoodie as they came up the last flight of stairs, gym bags with soggy bathing suits and towels rolled up inside, the smell of the sea still on their skin.
A rectangular brown box sat on their Nice Package doormat and while Jack bent down to pick it up, Brooke checked out his ass.
He turned, pushing his damp hair off his forehead. “Brooke Sinclair,” he said with a huge grin crinkling his eyes behind his glasses.
Brooke’s stomach swooped like a gull over the ocean. “My books?”
Jack tilted the box and shook. “I think it’s a dishwasher.”
“Don’t hurt them,” she said, making grabby hands and taking the box from him. She held the box close to her chest while Jack dug in his pocket for the keys and unlocked the door. He held it open for her and she headed straight for their kitchen. Setting the box down on the bistro table, she passed Jack’s calendar hanging on the side of the fridge open to a shot of the Storr. As she rummaged through the junk drawer looking for a pair of scissors, Jack wrapped his towel around the bottom of her wet hair. “Trying to wreck them straight off?”
She grabbed the scissors with a triumphant “Aha,” and Jack shook his head.
“Apparently you are,” he said under his breath, grabbing the small box cutter and trading her for the scissors. “Do you want me to film this?”
“Look at me right now,” she said, pointing to her general dishevelment. She didn’t have time to make herself presentable and the overwhelming feelings of pride and happiness and relief in her chest were too big to share. She shook her head. “This is just for us.”
She sliced through the tape and ripped at the edges where the flaps held. Inside was a flat lay of perfection, an extension of her soul outside her body. She gazed at the pastel purple covers, neatly packed together, before running her hand along the smooth finish. Jack stood across from her, one arm crossed under the other, one hand cupping his elbow, and watched her with watery eyes.
It made the moment even more surreal. From the first time she’d met him, she’d had this dream and the hard work and tears and joy were all somehow organized into a story she could now hold in her hands.
Her novel was a heart book. A story that had poured out of her, borrowing little pieces of her real life. She’d been so scared she couldn’t do this without Mhairi, but Brooke had felt her presence, her encouragement, her faith, in every word she wrote.
Brooke picked up one book and flipped through the pages, the tiny Scottish thistles on the chapter headings making her smile so hard her cheeks hurt.
Jack gave her an amused grin. “Go on, then.”
Tipping her head down, she breathed in the smell, like dust and ink and love. Brooke let the scent settle on her heart. “It reminds me of Mhairi.”
Brooke still missed her, but it didn’t hurt as much these days. She felt Mhairi’s spirit in their old coffee shop, when strangers shredded tea tags, in unruly gusts of wind, and in unexpected bursts of inspiration.
“I can’t wait,” Jack said, stepping away and tipping his head toward the living room. Brooke followed him to the bay window, the low morning light filtering in on the bookshelf he’d built to house all their favorite books. “Another one for the Brooke Shelf,” he said.
Signed copies of every one of Mhairi’s books were on the top shelf, tucked next to Mhairi’s collection of all the books Brooke had ghostwritten. The last addition was Mhairi’s memoir with Jack’s soft pink picture of the Isle of Raasay on the cover. Her favorite story.
Sometimes when she reread it, parts felt like a fever dream that she barely remembered writing, they’d flowed so effortlessly out of her.
But the moment Mhairi had read the final draft was distilled in Brooke’s mind. The happiness shining in Mhairi’s eyes. The warmth of her hand as she reached for Brooke’s. The way she’d said, “Thank you for bringing my story to life,” with pride in her voice.
Jack wrapped his arms around Brooke’s waist and rested his cheek against her temple. “How does it feel?” he asked, nuzzling her ear, that soft spot that always felt like home.
“Like everything I ever wanted.” Brooke reached up to cup his cheek, to bask in the future she’d always dreamed of that’d become her present.
Maybe it wasn’t so easy to edit in real life, to delete and revise and correct, but she was so grateful for the grace to fail and make mistakes and still find a happy ending. Brooke twisted to kiss Jack, his lips soft and warm and comforting as he squeezed her shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the slope of her neck.
And then she turned back to the beginning of her book. To the name that mattered most—not the one on the cover, but the one tucked safely inside:
To Mhairi,
For giving us our second chance.
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