Epilogue
The moving truck rattles down the highway, its rusty hum filling the quiet between Jake and me as we barrel toward our new home—and the rest of our lives—with nothing but caffeine and dreams fueling us forward.
Fall has descended upon Maplewood Springs, transforming the landscape into a canvas of crimson and gold and yellow and brown. My creative soul always thrives during autumn months, something about the dying beauty and crisp air kickstarting inspiration that summer heat somehow suffocates.
Staring out the passenger window, my eyes catch something massive looming ahead on the horizon.
“Look!” I exclaim, nearly bouncing out of my seat as I point toward the towering billboard. “That’s—that’s us!”
There it is, looming in all its larger-than-life glory: our campaign.
The exact perfume ad we obsessed over during countless late nights and coffee-fueled brainstorming spirals.
The bold, vibrant colors practically scream against the clear blue sky, and our carefully chosen tagline is right there for the world to see: “étoile Perfumes: The Sweet Scent of Memories.” Framed by the elegant imagery we tweaked and re-tweaked for weeks, it looks flawless.
Jake’s gaze follows my frantic gesturing, his lips curving all the way to his eyes. “Wow,” he says. “Seeing it up there is on another level.”
The knowledge that thousands of drivers will pass by our creation every day sends a thrill through my veins. “I still can’t believe it’s really happening.”
As our billboard shrinks in the rearview mirror, pride blooms in my chest so fast it feels like it might crack my ribs and take flight out the window.
Every messy moment, the heartbreak, the sabotage, the soul-sucking uncertainty, somehow funneled us here…
to this ridiculous, shining little slice of professional triumph.
And now the moving truck keeps charging toward the next chapter of our lives.
By the time we pull into the driveway of our new home, the sun has begun its lazy descent, bathing our cozy little neighborhood in a golden glow that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in honey.
Nestled beneath the sprawling arms of a grand oak tree, our house stands waiting, its windows gleaming softly as if welcoming us home.
The white wooden porch with its two cushioned chairs flanking a small table—Jake’s handiwork from yesterday—already looks lived-in and loved. My mind immediately conjures future mornings wrapped in blankets with steaming coffee warming our hands as the birds chirp around us.
I can already picture us living here. The living room, spacious yet intimate, practically begging for our cream sectional and its collection of throws and textured pillows for movie nights spent tangled together.
But the kitchen—oh, the kitchen is going to be my absolute favorite, its open layout inviting both creativity and connection. White cabinets paired with brushed gold marble countertops surround the showstopping island where we will share Saturday morning pancakes with too much syrup.
Music will definitely fill this space while I cook, soundtrack to creations that will keep Jake happily fed and utterly spoiled.
Upstairs, the hallway walls will be lined with photographs and trinkets that will tell our story—vacations captured in sunlit frames, family gatherings, quiet moments between us.
For Jake, it’s the backyard that sealed the deal on this house the moment we first saw it.
The wooden deck adorned with already-hung string lights overlooks a fire pit, the entire space wrapped in the privacy of mature trees and flowering bushes—perfect for stargazing with Jake while flames crackle and our dreams take shape in the darkness.
Mom’s enthusiastic waving catches my attention the moment we step out of the truck, her familiar figure bouncing with excitement on our brand-new porch.
“There they are!” Mom calls, her voice carrying across the yard.
Dad, practical as ever, skips the sentiment and goes straight for action.
Clapping a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder, Dad doesn’t waste a second before announcing, “Let’s get these boxes inside before it gets dark.”
While Mom tackles the lighter boxes, the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel yanks my attention back to the driveway. Maisie’s car glides to a stop behind our moving truck, and my smile shows up instantly as she and Logan climb out together.
A split second too late, I realize I completely forgot to warn my mom about our celebrity guest.
Wait until the very last possible moment to drop bombshell information, then enjoy watching the fireworks—that was always her philosophy with surprises.
Mom freezes mid-step, the box of kitchen essentials in her arms suddenly forgotten.
Her eyes grow cartoonishly wide, lips parting in silent shock as she leans heavily against the nearest cabinet.
The delicate balance between woman and moving box fails spectacularly as her grip loosens, sending measuring cups and whisks tumbling across the floor.
“Holy mother of pearl and all things glittery,” Mom gasps, one hand pressed to her chest, “is that THE Logan Humphries?!”
Logan’s megawatt smile—the one that’s plastered across billboards and makes teenage girls swoon—crinkles at the corners as he extends his hand. “Hi, Mrs. Lake, nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” Mom squeaks, then clears her throat. “I mean, hello. I know who you are. I’ve heard of you—I mean, everyone has heard of you.” Her head bobs up and down like one of those dashboard dogs, enthusiasm cranked to eleven.
Logan seems used to this sort of situation. “Thank you. You’re really sweet, Mrs. Lake.”
Mom’s palm flies to her chest, fingers splayed like she’s about to pledge allegiance. “Me, sweet? No, no—you are sweet, talented, and much taller than you appear on TV.”
Biting my lip fails to keep the laughter from bubbling inside me.
“I’m a big fan,” Mom declares, then suddenly backtracks, “but not in a creepy way.” Her hand shoots out, retreats, then ventures forward again like an uncertain explorer. “Can I shake your hand?”
Their palms connect in what should be a simple greeting. Mom stares at their joined hands with reverent wonder for a good minute before she releases his hand.
Jake and Logan shake hands next, their grip easy and solid. “Never thought I’d shake hands with someone famous,” Jake admits, and his genuine grin blows straight through any attempt at playing it cool.
Turning to Maisie, I scan the space behind her. “Where’s Claire? I thought you were supposed to come together.”
Maisie’s shoulders drop slightly. “She’s at the hospital. Her grandma isn’t doing good. Claire just got word this afternoon.”
My heart sinks at the news. “We should go check up on her once we move into our new home.”
The rest of the evening is a symphony of laughter and sweaty labor.
We haul cardboard fortresses, wrestle furniture through doorways, and weave stories between heavy breaths as the house gradually transforms around us.
Dad offers Jake unsolicited blueprints for the perfect garage arrangement, while Mom claims the kitchen as her organizational kingdom.
My gaze drifts repeatedly to Logan and Jake, who seem to be falling into an easy rhythm of conversation.
I wander toward the balcony where they stand shoulder to shoulder.
“How do you like your steak?” Jake asks.
Logan’s eyes light up. “Medium rare—it’s the best way to eat it.”
“Same. When we settle in, come on by and we can fire up the grill,” Jake offers, his invitation hanging comfortably in the evening air.
A genuine smile crosses Logan’s face. “Sounds good to me.”
Their conversation drifts toward safer male territory. “Who do you think will win—Seahawks or Patriots?” Jake asks.
“I always bet on the underdog,” Logan says. “I got twenty on the Patriots.”
Jake extends his hand decisively. “You’re on.” They shake on it, both grinning like old friends who just discovered they’re on the same team.
Nudging Maisie with my elbow, I tilt my head toward the men. “Look at those two. This could be the start of a budding friendship.”
Maisie’s lips curve upward. “Good. Logan doesn’t have any real guy friends. A guys' night with steak and football would be good for him.”
Two hours later, with everyone gone, Jake and I stand alone in the middle of the living room. The house breathes around us, filled with partially unpacked boxes and scattered belongings.
Kneeling, I sift through a cardboard treasure chest filled with photos and mementos—some untouched since I sealed them away before New York, when everything between us was a question mark with no answer in sight.
I begin hanging our history on the walls—snapshots from high school with terrible haircuts, candid moments when we thought we knew everything, and precious milestones that built the foundation of us. Each frame locks another piece of our story into place.
As I hold up a framed prom photo—Jake drowning slightly in his rented suit, me wrapped in a sparkly green monstrosity—his footsteps sound across the hardwood behind me. His expression glows as he extends his palm, revealing a small, crumpled paper.
“Don’t forget about this,” he says.
Unfolding it carefully, my eyes widen. “No way.” The angry note demanding he move his bike and sofa from the hallway stares back at me. “You kept this?”
Jake’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I knew it was you from the moment I read it. Recognized your cursive handwriting instantly. I couldn’t focus on work at all that day.”
Laughter escapes me as I throw my arms around his neck. “You sentimental softie.”
His answering chuckle vibrates against my chest as his arms encircle me. “What can I say? Some things are worth holding on to.”
We pull back just enough to take in the room, now lined with little fragments of our shared past. Photos that caught us growing up, mementos that hold our inside jokes like they’re priceless artifacts, tangible proof that our journey twisted and detoured and tried to shake us loose but still brought us here. To this house. To this moment.
It’s all here in one place.
Us.
THE END