37. Epilogue
CHARLOTTE
M y leg shakes as I sit in the lobby of New Hope Rehabilitation Center, my hands folded in my lap, waiting. The place smells of fresh flowers and the faint hint of coffee. The last time I was here a couple of months ago, it was to wish my mother good luck at the start of her journey, and though I’ve spoken with her since, I’m anxious to see her in person because this visit is different. I’m not here out of obligation or duty or concern. Today, I’m here because I’m ready to see something I’ve longed for. Real progress.
Beside me, Chris sits with his arm stretched over the back of my chair, his presence a balm to my frayed nerves.
Reaching out, he grabs my hand and squeezes, his touch light, yet grounding. “You okay?”
I exhale, turning to meet his eyes. “Yeah. I’m nervous, but . . . I think it’ll be good. She’s been doing so well. I just want to see it for myself.” A part of me still clings to the old fear—the fear that my mother’s recovery might still be fragile, that something might go wrong, or that the woman I know so well is still lost in a haze of depression. But today, my heart is light, and for once in my life, the anticipation of what’s to come is stronger than the old anxiety.
The door opens, and in walks my mother, her strides confident and steady. She looks more vibrant than I’ve ever seen her. Her dark hair shines under the fluorescent lights. There’s a newness in the way she moves, a bounce to her step that wasn’t present before, and as she approaches me, her smile is wide and genuine, and all my nerves disappear.
I rise to my feet, itching to hug her when my mother envelops me in her arms. “Charlotte,” she says, her voice rich with warmth. “I’ve missed you.”
Tears sting the back of my eyes as I find my voice. “I’ve missed you too, Mom,” I whisper.
My mother pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she looks me over. “You look happy.”
“So do you.” In fact, she looks radiant, more like she used to when I was young.
“For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m getting there; I really am. And I owe part of that to both of you,” she says, glancing down at Chris.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he says before rising to his feet and sweeping her into one of his giant bear hugs.
“I’ve been working so hard,” she says when he releases her, and we all sit. “I’m not near done yet, but I’m getting there. Rather than just therapy, I’ve done a lot of work with neuroplasticity, brain rewiring, and trauma release. It’s, well, life-changing,” she says with a self-conscious laugh.
“I wanna hear all about it,” I say, and then I listen as Mom launches into a diatribe about everything she’s done since coming here and how this is so different from her therapist back home.
I feel a lump in my throat, but it’s not one of sadness—it’s one of relief and joy. For the first time in so long, I can finally breathe knowing my mother is truly healing. The weight of the past few years, the stress and anxiety—everything that had burdened my heart—begins to lift.
“Well, that’s just . . .” I shake my head, at a loss for words. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”
Mom’s smile falters, a hitch in her voice when she says, “That day when you told me how you really felt and I saw how badly I had hurt you, it changed me. I know this sounds awful, but I never realized what my depression was doing to you. I always saw you as just this happy kid with a good head on her shoulders. Not like me. Never like me.” She shakes her head, her throat bobbing while an icy fist clenches my heart.
For so long I feared I would become like my mother, but I understand now how sick she really was. Her depression wasn’t contagious or hereditary. Just because I cry or get emotional doesn’t mean I’m doomed to spiral into darkness like she did. I won’t fall in love only to push everyone around me away. I’m my own person. I’m strong and loved and worthy, and I have nothing to fear because today and every day I choose happiness.
Still, it feels good to hear her say I’m different. It’s refreshing to sit across from her and feel like she sees me, really sees me, for the first time in forever.
She reaches out and takes my hand, a fire in her eyes I’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” she says. “I’m so sorry that you never felt like you were enough, or that you had to push me and help me when I was supposed to be the one supporting you and helping you. I can’t change the past, but I can change how I am going forward, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to rebuild our relationship, the way it’s supposed to be.”
The ice in my chest thaws at her words because they’re all I’ve ever wanted to hear. All I ever wanted was for my mother to be well again, to be the woman I remember as a child, before the darkness consumed her.
“I’d like that,” I say, my voice thick.
“Good.” Mom nods her head and wipes her cheeks before she slaps her hands over her thighs and says, “Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let me tell you about the apartment I found for when I get out of here, and then I wanna hear all about school and this new yoga studio you’ve been going to.”
The next few hours pass in a blur with us talking and laughing and having lunch. I can hardly remember the last time we shared such a peaceful, uncomplicated moment together. Mom talks openly about her progress here, her newfound clarity, and plans for the future, all with a genuine optimism in her words, something that had been absent for so long, but even more amazing, she listens to me fill her in on my life at AU. I tell her all about my friends, how Brynn and Jace are glued at the hip and how Liz so badly wants a boyfriend. We talk about the Griffin’s and Chris’s final playoff game this weekend, all while she smiles and asks questions and seems genuinely interested in what I have to say.
By the time we say our goodbyes, I’m sad to go. It feels like I finally have a mother, one I might someday also call a friend, and I can leave her without a knot in my chest or the worry of what might happen when I’m gone.
On the drive home, I’m quiet, lost in my thoughts when Chris reaches out, his touch warm and reassuring. “You okay?”
I nod, squeezing his hand, feeling content in a way I haven’t in a long time, maybe ever. “Yeah, I’m more than okay. I’m . . .” I shake my head and exhale. “Grateful. Happy.”
He smiles. “She’s doing well.”
“She is, and she’s only halfway through. She has two more months to go.” I smile to myself, then drop my gaze from the window to the gearshift of his car, watching as he shifts gears and mesmerized by the play of muscle in his forearm. I could be with Chris for hundreds of years and watching him drive this car will never get old.
“She called our parents, you know,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I tear my gaze away from his arm, my eyes wide on the side of his face. “She did? When, and what did she say? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chris chuckles, making the turn to head back toward campus. “Last weekend.” He shrugs. “And I didn’t say anything because I thought she might tell you, but she called to thank them for helping make her treatment possible and for coordinating the sale of her house.”
“Unbelievable,” I whisper, as I lean my head back against the headrest.
Months ago, Mom would have cut off her right arm before she so much as said a kind word about Barb Collins, let alone say thank you to her.
My throat constricts as I think about everything Chris has done for me. “Have I said thank you yet?” I ask, pushing past the lump in my throat.
“Only a dozen times.”
Campus passes on our left, and the athlete apartments come into view.
“None of this would’ve happened without you in my life, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says as he pulls into the parking lot and finds an empty spot.
Putting the car in park, he turns to face me, his eyes as clear and blue as the sky above.
“Well, I do.”
“I mean, I am pretty fucking awesome,” he says as he unbuckles his seat belt and leans toward me.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You are.”
“And handsome with classically good looks, a banging body, and talented on the field and in the sheets. I mean, I’m an enigma, really.”
“And humble. You forgot humble, too.”
“Right. Definitely humble.” He grins. “So does that mean you’ll keep me?”
I inch closer, my gaze dipping to his mouth. The one that’s sweet by day and torturous at night. “Did I ever have a choice?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” he whispers, and then he kisses me.
CHRIS
The locker room is alive with an infectious energy, a tangible sense of euphoria that buzzes through the air. The sound of laughter, music, and clapping bounce off the walls, mixing with the memory of the final whistle and the Griffins bringing home another win. We did it—advanced to the semifinals. Two games are the only things standing in our way from becoming the National Champions.
With Coach’s victory speech lingering in the air, the team huddles together. Our captain and QB, Damon Huhn, stands on one of the benches in the middle of the locker room, his face split by a grin that’s equal parts pride and disbelief.
He holds his helmet under the crook of his arm, shaking his head in awe. “I told you guys we had it!” he yells, his voice a craggy drawl from hours of shouting out commands on the field. “We’ve earned every second of this, and we’re not stopping here!”
The room erupts in cheers, players slapping each other on the back, some raising their fists in triumph. Each one of us dug deep for every last ounce of strength on the green and as a result, pulled out a win in overtime.
Jace lets out a whoop beside me, slapping Damon on the ass with a towel. “Notre Dame, we’re coming for you, baby!”
“That’s right, boys. But just remember this is one step.” Damon points a finger at the ground. “We still have two more games until we’re named national champs, and the next game is going to take everything we’ve got. So, enjoy tonight, gentlemen, because tomorrow our asses are back at work. We’re not here to stop at the semifinals. We’re going all the way.”
“Yeah, baby!” I clap him on the back as he jumps down from the bleachers. “Best damn QB in the conference.”
Damon shakes his head. His hair is damp from sweat, and his cheeks are pink from his exertion on the field. He glances between me, Jace, and Brandon. “Couldn’t have done it without any of you.”
I take a dramatic bow. “I mean, we are the fucking best offensive line in the league, and Brandon is one hell of a lineman, so . . . you’re welcome.”
“We’re celebrating tonight?” Jace raises a hand and Damon slaps it.
“Hell, yes, we’re celebrating. Is that even a question?” I ask before I point right at Damon. “And you, my friend, are letting loose. No playing the responsible QB tonight. I want you drinking and dancing with girls. In fact, I wanna see some chick attached to you like a fucking leech.”
Damon snorts, and I can tell he’s about to make a smart remark about me and Charlotte when I slap a towel in his arms, and tell him to hit the showers, then hurry to get one of my own.
Twenty minutes later, I leave the locker room and hit the parking lot, where I make a beeline for the Boss and spot a spunky brunette waiting for me inside.
Unable to fight my smile, I open the back door and throw my stuff on the seat before sliding behind the wheel. Her smile widens, her dark eyes sparkling like onyx under the overhead lights. She’s so beautiful it hurts, and I can’t believe she’s mine. “You did it,” she murmurs.
“We did it,” I confirm, and then she flings herself into my arms and crushes her mouth to mine, her lips soft and warm despite the cold.
By the time I pull away, the windows are steamed and we’re both breathless as I brush the hair from her face. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, making my heart thump inside my chest before a wide grin splits her lips. “How does it feel to have only two games standing between you and the National Championship?”
“Not as good as it feels to have you in my arms.”
She tips her head back and laughs, and I savor the sound, remembering how not that long ago, it was so rare coming from her. “Ever the charmer, Chris Collins.”
I shrug, my smile growing. “What can I say? I’m in love with my girlfriend.”
“Mm-hmm.” She leans closer, her lips hovering above mine once more. “Well, you’ll get to relive exactly what it feels like to have me in your arms later,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to my mouth. “But first, we celebrate.”
Bradd’s is packed, more so than I’ve ever seen it, and the energy of our big win is humming in the air. I tighten my grip around Charlotte’s waist as I steer her toward the bar with Jace and Brynn behind us. I can already see Damon, Brandon, and West, our kicker, who clinched the win with a last-minute field goal, waiting at the bar with Elizabeth and Samantha.
I tilt my chin toward them, leaning down to whisper in Charlotte’s ear, “What do you think about Liz and West?”
Charlotte blinks up at me, then back at her friend. “West?”
“He’s kind of a closet nerd. A little introverted. Bookish. Super smart and kind of clumsy off the field.” The moment the words leave my lips, West fumbles the drink Damon hands him and spills half of it on the bar.
Charlotte chuckles, then bites her lip. “That’s adorable.”
I frown down at her when she notices and laughs. “So jealous,” she says, then grabs my shirt and yanks me toward them. “Don’t worry, I only have eyes for you.”
“Hey, man!” Damon’s eyes brighten as he sees us approach.
“What are we drinking?” I ask, eyeing the cups in their hands.
“Everything,” West answers with a goofy grin that tells me he’s had quite the head start.
“Drinks for Griffins are free tonight.” Brandon punctuates his statement by slapping what looks to be a rum and Coke in my hands, then waving the bartender down for another.
“In that case, you’ll be ordering all my drinks for me tonight,” Charlotte says as she steals my glass and takes a sip. I watch her lips wrap around the straw, mesmerized, before Damon slaps me on the arm.
“They roped off a VIP area just for us.” He points to the corner of the bar furthest from the dance floor, and sure enough, there’s a small roped off section of booths where I already recognize a few of our other teammates. “I guess there’s a waitress assigned to us and everything.”
“Damn. I can’t wait to see what happens if we win the championship,” I mumble.
“ When .” Jace slaps me on the chest. “When we win the championship.”
After each of us has a drink in hand, we cross the bar, making our way to the VIP section at a crawl. Patrons and students stop us on the way, offering their congrats or recapping their favorite parts of the game with Damon getting the bulk of the attention until we’re finally able to duck beneath the ropes and cram into one of the booths.
Tucking Charlotte into my side, I peer down at her and place a peck on her head as she smiles up at me. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” She grins, her gaze slipping to my mouth.
Damon groans across from us, loud enough to draw my attention. “I think I speak for all the single people at the table when I say, can we at least keep the PDA to a minimum until we’re too fucked up to care?”
Charlotte flips him the bird before I can, and we all laugh.
“Speaking of PDA,” I say, turning to Brandon. “I’m surprised Tatum isn’t here tonight.”
“For the millionth time, Tate and I aren’t even—”
“Hey guys,” a cheerful voice calls out beside me.
I glance up into the soft hazel eyes of Tatum and grin. “Speak of the devil,” I say as Brandon punches my thigh beneath the table.
Tatum’s gaze jumps between us, a furrow creasing her brow. “Did I miss something?”
“Nope.” Brandon clutches his cup and motions for her to take the spot beside him. “Just the usual.”
“I barely found you guys, it’s so crowded in here,” she says in a rush as she takes a seat.
“Which means,” I say, pointing at her with my cup, “it’s the perfect night to find Damon a chick. I mean, that is, unless you’re game.”
Tatum just laughs good-naturedly while Brandon’s face puffs up like a pufferfish ready to explode.
“You’re so mean.” Charlotte needles me in the side, and I laugh.
“Okay, fine. I’m just messing with you, but in all seriousness, what’s your type, Damon?” I ask, scanning the crowd. Several girls in a group are glancing this way and I take note of each of them. “We have a redhead with a great smile, a long-legged brunette, the short blonde . . .” I trail off as my gaze filters through the crowd. “There’s a dark and mysterious chick by the bar, one with blue hair and a lot of face piercings . . .”
“Just because I choose not to date or complicate my life with women, doesn’t mean I need your help,” he growls, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he freezes.
His gaze locks on something in the distance while his nostrils flare.
I snap my fingers in front of his face to get his attention, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Gale-force winds couldn’t pull him from whatever he’s staring at.
Turning, I follow the trajectory of his gaze, past a group of celebrating fans, pausing on a girl in the distance. “So, that’s your schtick,” I muse. “Medium height, long blonde curls, killer body . . .”
“Move!” Damon’s voice barks at my back, and I turn to see him scrambling to get out of his seat. Grabbing his jacket, he practically mows West down in the process.
“Wait. Where are you going?” West asks.
“I’m just . . . I need to step out for a second.” His words are rushed, his expression harried as he all but falls from the booth, his eyes wide like a wild caged animal.
We barely have time to react before he’s crossing the bar and pushing his way through the crowd. With a sigh, I jump up after him, a little perturbed to be chasing him down like I’m back on the fucking football field vying for the ball.
When I catch up to him, I clap a hand over his shoulder, and he spins around, his gaze landing on me briefly before it focuses on something in the distance, and I’d bet my life he’s looking at the blonde chick.
“Dude, what the hell? You know I was just messing with you,” I say. “Where’s the fire?”
Damon’s throat bobs, emotion flickering through his brilliant green eyes as he meets my gaze and says, “That’s my ex.”