Epilogue
One Year Later
Ali
“You’re all set. Don’t forget your free T-shirt,” the woman working the registration table said with a huge smile on her face as she handed Misha and me a welcome bag and our race bibs.
Misha grumbled something.
“What was that?”
“I said,” he said more emphatically this time, “I sure hope Dr. Sex God is worth all this.”
“It won’t be that bad. And yes, he is.” I winked.
I picked up a T-shirt from the pile of large sizes and held it up. Thirtieth Annual Fun Run for the Arts stretched across the top and featured a familiar graphic of figures running along a sunrise sky.
“I needed a new fun run shirt to replace the one that got caught up in the mix-up.” We were cool with Charlotte these days, but we put that particular shirt in the pile of rags to be used at the clinic.
“There you are.” Jake snuck up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He planted kisses along my neck. “Are you ready to do this?”
Poor Jake. So full of enthusiasm. For an event that felt to us like torture.
“Can’t wait,” Misha responded with a scrunched face and exaggerated shrug. Eric joined us and wrapped his arm around Misha.
“We’re only doing the 5K, right?” Eric leaned into Misha and asked. “The marathoners scare me. They’re like superpeople or something.”
We all turned to look toward the very obvious serious runners who were busy stretching and warming up their joints.
“Yes. And walking most of it,” Misha said softly to Eric.
“Sheila and Marjorie are waiting for me over at the half-marathon start. I just wanted to say hi,” Jake said. He turned me toward him and grabbed my face like I loved.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said back.
Running was still not my thing. Walking. Yoga. Swimming. All my thing. Running? Not so much.
“Thank you for doing this. Our team has never been so strong. And we raised so much money,” Jake said to the group of us.
I’d learned that the arts organization that this running event benefited was important to Jake’s mom when she was still alive. He’d been participating in it for years. Once I learned how meaningful it was to him, I not only wanted to participate, but I may have had a hand in expanding its reach.
This year the fun run trail started in Lakeside on the wildflower path that stretched along the lake. The full marathon runners went all the way into the next town over. Those running the 5K and 10K—like Misha, Eric, and I—finished in Lakeside and ended up in the town square.
The only way I could convince Misha and Eric to join me was to promise we’d coordinate our fits to look like divas. So here we were in hot pink booty shorts and crop tops, tube socks reaching to our knees, matching vintage Nike Cortez basics on our feet and sweatbands on our foreheads and wrists.
“These shorts . . .” Jake growled into my ear. “They’re doing things to me.”
“Hmm . . . well run fast, Dr. Elliot, so we can go home and you can show me what that is,” I said in a quiet tone back.
He gave my ass a little slap in response before walking away.
“Do we have to actually do the whole distance?” Misha said once Jake was out of earshot.
“I’m Alison Fucking Bennet. Of course I’m going to finish this!” I said, feigning shock at his question. “Come on. We’ve got this. And the coffee cart at the end has fresh kringle.”
“Oh . . . well then. We can maintain a pretty good pace, right?” I knew his pessimism was no match for the promise of the flaky goodness that was the Danish pastry kringle.
An hour later and we were sitting at a picnic table in the center of the square enjoying iced beverages and kringle.
“If this is the carb-loading that runners get to do every day, maybe I should take up running,” Misha said between doughy bites.
“You’d probably have to give up wine, though,” I said.
“Ew! No. Never mind,” Misha said.
“So what time does Papa Bennet get into town today?” Misha asked, inserting his signature nicknaming into the mix.
“He arrives with the daily bus drop-off,” I said with wide eyes.
“He’s riding in on the Greyhound?” Misha asked incredulously.
“The new all-electric buses aren’t too shabby,” I said, referring to how Greyhound had invested significantly in upgrades to their buses on the route into Lakeside from Chicago, Madison, and now even Milwaukee. “Even James Bennet is excited about riding the bus.”
“Are you ready to spend time with him?” Misha asked.
“Of course. I feel good about it.”
My dad had discovered therapy sometime after I stopped trying to win his approval.
He reached out to me three months ago asking one thing of me: help with understanding why I’d distanced myself from him.
We’d been talking ever since. Slowly. Imperfectly.
He still craved control. I still bristled at it.
But he was starting to notice when he was doing it.
And I didn’t bolt anymore. So we sat in the uncomfortableness of it all.
I thought it was working. We understood each other more now. It was still new. But I was hopeful.
“Okay, team. I have to go chat with MJ. The new business owner might start moving in today. I wanted to give her some warning,” I said as I crushed my napkin in my hand and gathered my food trash.
Lakeside was blooming. Turns out, we didn’t need a big corporate development partner after all.
I’d established my consultation firm, Among Wildflowers, to lead the charge.
We’d attracted new businesses, invested in sustainability, and protected the character of the town.
Tourism had reached new heights here since last year too.
The annual wildflower festival took place every August and had reached international acclaim.
For the first time, I wasn’t chasing meaning and purpose. I was standing in it.
And new businesses were investing in the area. The largest new project was a retro twenty-cabin family summer camp-inspired resort. Camp Lakeside was already booked at capacity for its inaugural summer, which was still more than a year away.
On a smaller scale, the town square was filling in. Vacant storefronts were glowing with fresh paint and Coming Soon signs.
An ambitious tattoo artist was moving into the space next door to MJ’s nail salon. Honestly? It felt like the perfect fit.
The only wild card was MJ. The two businesses didn’t just share a wall, they shared an old pass-through window—a relic from when the space was a diner. And I wasn’t sure how she would feel about her new neighbor.
I reached MJ’s door and stepped inside. Her space was cozy and unapologetically girlie—like stepping into an Anthropologie daydream.
Electric blues, blush pinks, and leafy greens were layered around the room.
It was tied together with gold-trimmed fixtures and vintage-inspired furniture. Chic and cute all at the same time.
“Hey, girlie!” I singsonged cheerfully to my friend. She was hunched over her phone at her reception desk.
She lifted her head but only gave me a quick glance. “Hey.”
She already sounded defeated.
“That is not the energy I’d expect from someone with a color wall more organized than the Home Edit. What’s up?”
She placed her phone down hard on the counter and sighed.
“Oh, nothing. Ben can’t make it to our date. Again.”
“That boy is canceling on you again?” Ben and MJ had been on-again, off-again for months.
She’d had the biggest crush on him when he was just the UPS delivery driver for her store.
After weeks of flirting, he’d asked her out.
She was completely smitten. Now it seemed he was giving her the runaround.
“Yeah. It’s fine. He’s super busy. CDG regionals are coming up. Apparently, he’s trying to perfect some kind of wrist-flick maneuver.”
Ben was deeply committed to competitive disc golf. He called the last-Saturday-of-the-month match “regionals” because teams from, well . . . the region showed up.
We all understood what that meant. And we all practically dislocated something trying not to roll our eyes when it came up.
Except for Stacy. She didn’t believe in restraint.
Meanwhile, MJ kept getting bumped down the priority list by a man chasing a plastic disc through the park.
“Oh. Regionals. Again. That’s a bummer.”
I did not care for Ben. MJ could do much better. I worked hard to keep that opinion to myself.
Apparently, not hard enough.
Before the look on my face betrayed me completely, I pivoted.
“Well . . . maybe being free today is actually a good thing. I think the new tenant next door is moving in this afternoon. You’ll have an opportunity to meet him.”
MJ blinked, clearly only half listening, but she nodded anyway.
“His name is Liam. He’s a tattoo artist. He’s been in Colorado the last few years.
I think he said something about wanting a change.
Or maybe it was coming home. I can’t quite remember.
” I waved a hand. “Either way, I figured you’d want to introduce yourself early.
You know. Establish some boundaries for that very unnecessary pass-through window. ”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for the heads-up.” Her smile was tight.
She grabbed her phone, thumbs already moving.
“Do you think I should offer to watch his practice?” she asked, not looking up.
Ew, no. “His disc golf practice?”
“I should, right? To be a supportive girlfriend?” She looked up.
“I mean . . .” I hesitated. “Did he ask you to join him?”
“No. I could surprise him.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t know if that’s the move,” I said carefully. “He seems . . . focused.”
Before she could respond, she caught a glimpse of someone through the glass window. She stopped, startled, then ducked below the window.
“Oh my God, Ali,” she whispered harshly. “Why is Liam Carter here?”
“Oh. So you know him?”
“Of course I know him. He was my older brother’s friend in high school.”
That confirmed it. “So he did move back home.”
MJ’s head snapped toward me. “No. No. No. Ali. He’s the new tattoo artist next door?”
“Yeah. Why?” It wasn’t like MJ to be this dramatic. “Is he a bad guy or something?”
“No . . .” She groaned. “He’s actually . . . decent. It’s just—”
A soft tap on the glass interrupted her. Liam stood on the other side, grinning. He gave me an easy wave.
“What is he doing?” MJ hissed from the floor.
“He sees me,” I murmured back, forcing a polite smile as I waved. “He’s saying hello.”
“Does this window open?” Liam called. Louder than necessary. The glass barely muffled sound.
I nodded and gestured toward the latch on his side.
“You might want to stand up,” I muttered to MJ out of the corner of my mouth.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
I helped her to her feet.
The second she faced the window, Liam went still.
Recognition hit. Hard.
Silence stretched between them.
His gaze dragged over her. Slow. Shameless. MJ, however, was crimson.
“Maggie. Jo. Whitaker.”
His tongue pressed into the inside of his cheek.
“Well. This is . . . unexpected.”
That was my cue.
I slipped toward the door, turning back just to make sure neither of them passed out.
There was history there.
And me, Marjorie, Stacy, and Misha would be unpacking with her later.
I looked across the street. There in the front window of Tender Paws, sitting pretty and looking exceptionally poised, was Dandy. Short for Dandelion, she was the rolliest-polliest of the litter I’d uncovered behind the bus depot more than a year ago.
We’d nursed all the pups to health and found forever homes for each of them. Dandy was mine from that very first day when she roared like a lion cub. It didn’t take much for her to win Jake over. Now she was ours.
I walked inside the clinic and hooked Dandy to her lead. She could join me outside for a bit this morning before it got too hot.
“We’ll pop over to see Betsy, your favorite, before heading home,” I said to Dandy. She gave me that all-knowing look like Chic used to. Albeit, Dandy’s was still in the infant stage.
Home. That was a word I’d become so used to, living in Lakeside.
I’d come here unraveling. It was a soft place to land. Gentle. Easy. Wide open. Quiet in a way Chicago never was. The way my father never was.
It had restored me like all those summers visiting Gibby as a child.
Now it sustained me. Fulfilled me.
I was still me. Still a bit tangled. Still bold. Still occasionally chaotic.
Maybe I was too much for some people.
But I wasn’t too much for my people.
I was Alison Fucking Bennet.
And my wildness?
It wasn’t a liability.
It was my superpower.
Jake
I finished the half and went looking for Ali. She walked out of the Corner Market with Dandy on her leash, looking irresistible in those hot pink shorts and her crop top. I needed to get her home and back in bed.
I was still constantly amazed she was mine.
She was back.
She was staying.
She was mine.
Maybe she felt like she was too much at times and maybe that was unwelcome—out there. But here, in Lakeside and in my arms, she fit.
This woman who was every bit my opposite—every bit my undoing. Who was wild and unsettling and absolutely all-consuming.
My wildflower.