Epilogue #3
We wave a quick goodbye and run out of The Oak. Quickly, we make it over the bridge and past the school, and the library comes into view. Even with the memory of Rafael pointing a gun at me there, this is still my favorite place in the whole town.
We enter, breathing hard from the quick jog, and I nod a silent “Hello” at every familiar face. The silence here is different from anywhere else. It’s reverent, filled with knowledge, with art.
Rafael leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Another place that, if I may say so, has one major drawback.”
“Tons of books?”
He smirks. “Exactly.”
I keep my voice low. “But the clue is about us, right? About that night?”
He hums, pointing ahead. “We were in the psychology section.”
“Appropriate,” I murmur, trailing after him. He’s carrying the stack of books-slash-clues—if that were an Olympic sport, he’d bring home the gold—and he’s got his usual magnetic charm that turns every head in the room. “You know what’s weird?”
“Everything. Everything about this is extremely weird.”
“No, I mean… today’s my birthday.”
He gasps, then theatrically smacks his forehead. “Oh, shit. Is it?”
“Funny.” I shoot him a look. “This is kind of a treasure hunt, isn’t it?”
His teasing grin fades into something softer. “And your mom used to plan one for every birthday.” He cups my face. “So… this is not creepy. It’s kind of sweet?”
“Yeah, kind of.” My gaze lingers on the books in his arms.
The Art of Falling Slowly
Last First Kiss
The Love Alibi
Love, Late Fees, and Other Disasters
I squint at the covers. These are some of my favorite books—specifically, the ones Rafael annotated for me.
It’s been a constant over the past three years: whenever I thought he might enjoy something, I told him to read it.
He did, every time. And he left behind notes in the margins.
Thoughts, jokes, cute and flirty lines. It’s still one of my favorite acts of love.
It can’t be by chance, but there isn’t a single other person in the world who would know which books he annotated for me, is there? I certainly can’t remember telling anyone.
“Here,” he says, stopping at the spot where I almost tased him—and where, in return, he pointed a gun at me. “I guess we’re looking for a pastel cover?”
“A pink one.” I scan the shelf. “Only Ever You.”
He tilts his head, but doesn’t question it before he turns and starts searching the spines. And then I see it—a bright pink one, wedged behind his elbow.
I step forward and pull it out.
I always tell Rafael this is the book that fully completed my transition into being a romance reader. The one no other has ever topped. Which is funny, considering it revolves around the trope I had sworn I’d never get behind: arranged marriage.
I flip to the first page. There it is—my name, scribbled at the top, followed by the usual page and line number: Page 48, line 10.
“Did you notice,” I ask, my voice light as I thumb through it, “that these are all books you annotated for me?” Page 47, 48. I scroll through the lines until I reach the tenth one. “Who would know that besides me and…”
Turn around.
“You,” I whisper. I blink, my back straightening before I turn.
Instead of Rafael’s face, I’m met with a ring. A ring with a black diamond—small and discreet, exactly the kind I’d buy for myself. A ring sitting on velvet in a red box.
I swear I see white for a moment, like a flash-bang of emotion detonating before my eyes.
Then my gaze shifts past the ring to the man holding it. Tall. Tattooed. Beautiful. Kneeling. Looking up at me with a soft, uncharacteristically nervous smile.
“Freckles.”
“Holy motherfucking shitballs,” I say, my hands shaking.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Nice.”
“Sorry, I—this was you? This whole…”
Of course it was him.
He brought me on this adventure. Got us away, just the two of us. Sent me on a scavenger hunt for my birthday. Gave me mystery and meaning and nostalgia and us. He gave me everything I didn’t need to ask for—and now he’s giving me this.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
My voice breaks and my vision blurs. “So much fun.”
“Oh, don’t cry, Freckles. Not before my speech.”
Speech? No. I don’t think I can survive a speech.
He smiles, preparing. “Scarlett Moore, I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you knocked down your own birthday cake without even noticing. And I knew I was going to marry you the day you wrote me a rambling letter that vaguely smelled like vomit.”
Oof. My romance skills have improved since, but… whatever.
“All those years I was gone, I lived in limbo. Just waiting for Thursday nights, for your podcast. To hear the way your voice would shift when you were tired, or passionate, or pretending not to be nervous. I held on to that. Your laugh. The way your voice dipped when you were feeling something big.” He swallows.
“I wanted to come back—but I knew that when I did, I’d have to fight to be happy.
Because Willowbrook would always be haunted by the ghost of my father’s abuse. And I’d always have to live with that.”
He looks up at me like I’m the light at the end of every tunnel he’s ever walked down, and I press my lips together, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw my arms around him.
“But I was so wrong, Scarlett, because when I finally came back… you rewrote entire chapters. Changed the settings. Helped me complete my story arc.” He grins when I can’t help but let out a wet chuckle.
“This town isn’t haunted anymore. That bookstore?
It’s not just the place where I used to buy schoolbooks and piss off my dad because they were too expensive.
It’s where we read together for the first time.
And The Oak? Not my father’s bar anymore—it’s where I met your friends for the first time.
Where you tried to make me feel like I belonged. ”
I swipe at my eyes, my lips trembling so hard I can’t speak.
“You’re everywhere, Scarlett. You’re everything.
And for the rest of my life, I want to keep collecting moments with you.
Create new memories.” He clears his throat, shifting slightly on one knee.
“And since this is your favorite place, I’d like to make a new memory.
So from today on, this library can stop being the place where I almost lost you…
and start being the place where I asked you to be mine forever. ”
The tears spill freely now, and I’m so grateful he’s done with his speech—because if he said one more word, I might actually collapse.
“So, Scarlett Moore—girl of wontons, books, and freckles—will you marry me?”
I sob, nodding so hard my neck cramps up and the moment stutters. “Yes. Yes. I love you—s-so much.” I can’t find words, not the right ones, but I see it in his eyes as he rises and kisses me.
He knows.
He knows he’s more than I ever let myself dream of. That I fell in love with his soul, not in spite of his shadows but because of how he chose to fight through them. That I loved him before I even understood what love really was. On a cellular level. In some other life, maybe even in all of them.
And in this life—he is what I know as love.
He knows. I can feel it in the way his tongue brushes mine, in the smile he leaves on my lips, in the way his fingers tremble just slightly as he slips the ring onto my finger. In the quiet, reverent way he whispers, “I love you, too,” his forehead resting against mine.
But I should say something. Anything. So in between hiccups and sniffles, I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck.
“God, Rafael Gray. I’m so glad you’re not a serial killer.”