Epilogue
AVEN
I woke up in Paris to the edge of a paper origami crane tickling my cheek.
Langston had placed it on my pillow sometime this morning.
I unfolded the delicate paper wings to reveal his handwriting.
To the mother of my child and the keeper of my heart, knock ‘em dead today. I’ve got everything else covered.
I knew Langston wanted to turn my bad experience with paper cranes into something good. And that he did, because I wasn’t terrified when I saw them anymore. The simple sentiment, so unexpectedly tender from a man who’d once built walls like it was his second profession, made my throat tighten.
The sweet gesture lasted three seconds before morning sickness hit me like a freight train, sending me scrambling toward the bathroom.
I barely made it, dropping to my knees on the cool tile as my body reminded me “morning” sickness could be cruel.
Five months in, and this baby girl still had me worshipping the porcelain throne at random intervals throughout the day.
I rested my forehead against the bathtub, waiting for the wave to pass.
“You really testing your mama today, huh?” I whispered, hand cradling the firm curve of my belly beneath my sleep shirt. “Got a big day, little bit. Need you to cooperate.”
When I felt steady enough to stand, I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face, taking in my reflection. Despite the ten hours of sleep Langston insisted I got, dark circles sat beneath my eyes.
My skin glowed, though. Raina swore pregnancy glow was the universe’s apology for everything else your body went through. I now embraced my wild curls that would’ve stressed me out as a part of the journey.
I laid out my outfit for the European leg of my book reading — a cream blouse, navy blazer with gold buttons, and matching navy pants with a stretchy waistband that was forgiving of my growing bump. The Parisian literary culture demanded a certain polish.
I stood before the full-length mirror, applying makeup to last through three hours of reading, Q the Parisian bookstore had packed in twice the number of people than the owner had anticipated.
I scanned the sea of faces until I found Langston at the back wall.
Even from this distance, I read his lips, You got this, Trouble.
I smiled and settled into the velvet-backed chair as the moderator tapped her microphone.
The audience hushed as smartphones were raised to capture the moment.
I spotted Raina and her children in the front row, all five of them miraculously silent.
Mike sat at the end, arm draped across the back of Raina’s chair, nodding encouragingly when our eyes met.
My sister looked different away from her suburban life, softer somehow.
Her usual judgment had been replaced by admiration.
“Mesdames et messieurs, the host switched to English. We are honored to welcome Aven Compton-Black, whose memoir The Truth in Our Lies has captured hearts across America and now Europe. She has been called ‘the woman who turned a lie into bestselling truth,’ and her journey from small-town America to the chaos of South America and back again reminds us sometimes the longest journeys lead us right back home,” the moderator began, her French accent making my simple story sound like literature with a capital L.
I adjusted the microphone; thankfully, the morning sickness had given me a temporary reprieve.
“Thank you all for coming, especially those of you who traveled so far.” I eyed Raina, who rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile.
I opened my book to a marked page, I sank into the words I’d written during late nights at Langston’s kitchen table, and early mornings in our bed.
“I ran because running was easier than staying,” I read, the words transporting me back to Lima to Leo to the fear that chased me home. “I collected passport stamps, praying each new country would be far enough away from my stalker. Yet distance, I learned, is measured in more than miles.”
The audience was quiet, drawn into the narration.
“In Brazil, a woman selling blankets told me all threads, no matter how tangled, were a part of the same fabric. I didn’t understand what she meant until I found myself in a basement archive room, sorting through the past while a man I’d once known stood guard over my future,” I continued, turning the page.
My eyes gravitated to Langston, his stance alert, ever my protector. The memory of his reluctance to hire me and my desperation for any job felt like a lifetime ago. Yet here we were, transformed into the foundation of everything that mattered.
I read the passage about finding myself cornered in the elevator, the security footage that revealed Langston’s long-held secret, and the rain-soaked parking lot proposal that had changed everything.
Each word carried us further into the story of two people finding their way back to each other against all odds.
Raina dabbed at her eyes as Mike silently comforted her, their oldest daughter watching the exchange with the keen observation of a child who missed nothing. In the back, Langston’s posture shifted, the only outward sign of how deeply those words affected him still.