Epilogue
Troy
Four Months Later
Fall has settled over the ridge. The air carries a crisp edge now, cool enough in the mornings to see your breath, warm enough by afternoon to make you forget winter is coming.
The trees have turned, deep gold and rust stretching across the hillside, and for the first time in a long while, everything feels exactly where it should be.
Including her.
I lean against the fence post at the edge of Rainey’s garden, phone in hand, recording. She has no idea.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I call out, keeping my voice even.
She spins around, a tomato in one hand, dirt on her cheek, hair half pulled back and already falling out again.
“I am not doing it wrong,” she fires back. “I’m innovating.”
I angle the camera slightly, catching the row she’s already worked through. It’s not perfect, nothing about her ever is. But it’s full. Red, ripe tomatoes hanging heavy on vines she almost didn’t plant.
“You’re pulling from the wrong side,” I say.
“They’re attached on all sides,” she argues. “That feels like a design flaw.”
I almost smile at her response. She turns back to the plant, squinting at it, then tugs again. The tomato comes free a second too fast, and she stumbles back half a step, catching herself before she loses balance.
“See?” she says, holding it up like a victory. “Controlled harvesting.”
“That wasn’t controlled.”
“It absolutely was.”
I keep recording. Because this right here is the part she doesn’t see. The part where she stayed.
The first time I saw this land, it was overgrown and fighting back. The runoff carved through the yard, the gutters hanging like they’d given up, the roof barely holding on.
Now, the drainage runs clean. The gutters hold. The roof’s solid. And the garden? The garden gives back.
She did that. It wasn't easy or perfect. But she did it anyway with a little advice and help.
Rainey straightens and brushes her hands on her jeans, leaving streaks of dirt behind like she doesn’t even notice anymore. A few months ago, she would have. Now it just means she worked.
“You going to help,” she calls out, “or just stand there documenting my greatness?”
“I’m documenting,” I say. “This is important.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “For what?”
“Evidence.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It’s not.”
She laughs, turning back to the plants, and I lower the phone slightly, watching her without the screen between us now.
She’s still chaos. Still leaves her place in a state that would drive most people insane. Still talks too fast when she’s thinking through something and doesn’t realize she’s already solved it. But she’s here. She didn’t quit. And she didn’t leave.
I push off the fence and walk toward her, slipping the phone into my pocket as I close the distance. She doesn’t notice right away, focused on another tomato, twisting it free with more care this time.
“See?” she says. “Technique.”
“Improvement,” I correct.
“I’m getting there.”
“You are.”
She glances up at that, something softer moving through her expression before she looks back down again.
“Don’t get used to agreeing with me,” she laughs.
“I won’t.”
I stop a few steps away from her, taking it in — the garden, the house behind her, the way the light hits her hair in the late afternoon.
This is what I meant. This is what lasts.
She turns back toward me, holding up another tomato like she’s about to make a point. And then she stops.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. I reach into my pocket instead. Her eyes track the movement, curiosity shifting into something more focused as I step closer.
“Troy…” she says slowly.
I pull the box out and turn it once in my hand before opening it. The diamond catches the light the same way everything else does up here. Suddenly, she’s quiet.
“I wasn’t planning on doing this with a speech,” I say. “You know I don’t do that.”
She nods slightly, still staring at the ring.
“Yeah, I know that about you,” she says.
“But I meant what I said,” I continue. “About not investing in things that don’t last.”
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“And you stayed,” I say. “Even when it would’ve been easier not to.”
Her breath shifts, just slightly.
“I didn’t just stay for the garden,” she says.
“I know.”
I take one more step closer, close enough now that there’s no space left between us.
“I’m not letting you go,” I tell her. “Not for anything that doesn’t matter.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“So if you’re going to stay,” I add, voice steady, “you might as well do it with me.”
There’s a few seconds of silence that seem like an eternity. Then—
“Are you asking me,” she says slowly, “or just informing me of your plans?”
“I’m asking you, Rainey, to marry me.”
Her eyes drop to the ring again, then back to me.
“Yes,” she says.
The word settles into something solid the second it leaves her. Rainey says it without hesitation, questions or second-guessing. I slide the ring onto her finger, watching the way it fits like it was always meant to be there. She looks down at it, then back up at me.
“Well,” she says, “this feels like a bigger commitment than tomatoes.”
“It is.”
“Good,” she replies, stepping closer, her hands finding me like they belong there. “Because I’m not quitting this either.”
I kiss her then.
“I love you, Rainey.”
“I love you, Troy.”
Behind us, the garden holds. I know it will experience its seasons, just like we will. Everything has a time, a place, and a reason. And this woman is now my reason for living and loving again.
Thank you so much for reading