Epilogue
Julian- One Year Later
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Julian. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”
Claudia Jameson gave me her signature smirk over FaceTime, all red lipstick and expensive indifference.
“Don’t act surprised. Your podcast was three lousy reviews away from getting canceled a year ago.
And now? You’ve tripled your listener base, you’ve got TikTok witches stitching your episodes with moon phase emojis, and your inbox is full of sponsorships from organic tea companies. ”
I sat back in my chair and swirled my green tea. It had gone cold hours ago, but I kept sipping it out of habit. “So you’re saying I’ve sold out.”
“I’m saying you’ve grown up. A rebrand that authentic doesn’t happen by accident.
You didn’t just pivot—you turned an expose on spiritual charlatans into a genuine conversation about healing.
And you did it without becoming one of those self-help gurus who wear prayer beads and cheats on his boyfriend. ”
I grinned. “Yet. And I mean the part about being a self-help guru, not the cheating.” Why on earth would I ever cheat on Jude?
She laughed. “Seriously, though. This new focus on transformation? On real human connection? It’s working. Listeners love the new you.”
I glanced out the window. Jude was outside, barefoot in the herb garden, muttering to a rosemary bush like it owed him money.
He wore one of my old tank tops and a pair of linen pants that should’ve looked ridiculous but somehow didn’t.
He caught me looking, waved, and flashed that crooked smile that still made my stomach do Olympic-level flips.
“Yeah,” I said, “I think I love the new me too.”
Claudia tilted her head, softened. “You’re happy.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “I really am.”
“Well. Keep it up. Keep telling the truth. And maybe keep your shirt on for the YouTube uploads—I’m getting complaints from people trying to listen at work.”
“You love the thirst views.”
“I do. But I love ad revenue more.”
We hung up, and I closed the laptop, letting the quiet of the house settle around me. A candle flickered on the windowsill—one of Jude’s vanilla-sage specials, hand-poured with intention and probably enchanted by Zephyr for all I knew.
A year ago, I was in this town hunting for a fraud.
Now I lived here.
With him.
I opened the window and leaned out into the golden warmth of late afternoon. “Hey,” I called down to the garden. “It’s time!”
Jude looked up from where he was snipping rosemary, sunlight catching in his hair. He smiled, lifted his hand in a lazy wave. “Be right up!”
I closed the window and let out a slow breath, nerves fizzing just beneath my skin. The mic was already set up, the outline scribbled in my notebook—like I didn’t already know exactly what I was going to say. But still. This was different.
Jude had never agreed to be interviewed before. Even after everything, he’d always said no. “It’s not about me,” he’d insist. “The work speaks louder without my voice in it.”
But last week over breakfast, he surprised me. Between a sip of coffee and a bite of toast, he said, “I think I’m ready to be on your podcast.”
I nearly choked on my steel-cut oats.
The door creaked open downstairs. Footsteps padded up. Then Jude stepped into the room—barefoot, cheeks a little flushed from the sun, eyes warm as they landed on me.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
He shrugged, grinning. “I’m sure about you.”
My throat tightened. I reached out and pulled him in for a quick kiss, the kind that still made my pulse skip. Then we took our seats at the mic, shoulder to shoulder.
I hit the record button.
“Welcome back to Unholy Orders,” I said. “I’m your host, Julian Reed—and today’s episode is one I never thought I’d get to make. Because sitting across from me is someone you’ve all heard about. Healer. Mystery man. Plant whisperer. And—most importantly—the man I love. Jude Brooks.”
Jude laughed softly. “You practiced that intro, didn’t you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I barely wrote it down.”
“You mean you scrawled it on a Post-it in pencil.”
“Details,” I said, smirking.
The moment settled between us. It felt surreal—bringing our private life into this very public space—but it also felt right. Honest. Like a full circle closing with a quiet click.
“So,” I said, voice softening, “how does it feel being on the mic?”
“Like I’m walking into a cathedral made of your voice,” he said. “A little intimidating. And very beautiful.”
And just like that, I forgot every single question I’d prepared.
We talked about Riverbend, and how we’d carved out a life here—between candlelit rituals and late-night takeout, between old ghosts and new beginnings.
I shared how Claudia and I had spoken earlier today, raving about the podcast’s rebrand and our tripled listener count.
“Spiritual healing is trending,” she said, “but you made it human. Keep going.”
And we would.
“I wrote to my mom in prison a month ago,” I told the audience. “Just a letter. No judgment. No demands. She never responded. But… I’m proud I sent it. I needed to let that weight go.”
Jude reached across the table and took my hand, grounding me like he always did. “I’m very proud of you.”
“I think,” I continued, “that healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about choosing not to let it define your future.”
We paused there. Let the words land.
Then I turned the mic toward Jude. “So, for the skeptics out there still wondering who you are, what would you say?”
Jude smiled, just a little. “I’d say I’m a man who listens. Who shows up. Who doesn’t have all the answers, but knows how to hold space for the questions.”
“And for the believers?”
He looked at me. Really looked. “I’d say… love is the most honest magic there is. And I believe in that. In us.”
I barely held it together. “Me too.”
We signed off a few minutes later, and I closed the laptop with a satisfied click. The red recording light went dark.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I said.
Jude stood and pulled me up into his arms.
“No,” he whispered, kissing the side of my neck. “That was holy.”
And I knew what he meant.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t searching for truth in other people’s lies. I wasn’t hunting miracles just to tear them down. I’d stopped running.
I’d found faith—in the quiet, steady kind of love that didn’t need a spotlight. Just two hands. One heart. One home.
“You know I love you, Jude, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Jude pulled his head back, locked eyes with me and smiled. “But why don’t we climb in bed and you can show me again.”