Epilogue #2
I flipped to the final chapter. “I’ll read one more short passage before we open for questions. We stood in the rain, his ring on my finger, and the past finally laid to rest between us. I realized the longest journey wasn’t a place you escaped from; it was a person you returned to.”
The applause washed over me, affirming my thoughts as I closed the book. The moderator returned to the microphone, opening the floor for questions. Hands shot up immediately, and she pointed to a middle-aged woman in a bright yellow scarf.
“Your memoir ends with your wedding, but writers never stop telling their stories. What will be your next project?” the woman asked.
I glanced toward Langston, who nodded. A tug of his lips told me he knew what I was about to do. We’d discussed this moment for weeks, whether to make the announcement here or how to share our news with the world. In the end, it felt right to do it in Paris, the city of new beginnings.
Setting my book aside and smoothing my hand over the bump straining against my blazer buttons. “Actually, my husband and I are working on something new together, a baby girl due in four months.”
The room erupted in applause and exclamations.
Cameras flashed as I cradled my belly, no longer trying to minimize its presence.
Raina’s mouth dropped, her shock giving way to tears she didn’t try to hide.
The children bounced in their seats; the news of a cousin was clearly more exciting than a boring book.
“Girl, why didn’t you tell me?” Raina asked, abandoning her decorum in a public setting in the face of family news.
I laughed, shrugging. “Surprise, surprise.”
The moderator, recovering quickly, asked, “Will motherhood change your writing?”
“It already has. Everything I write from now on will be shaped by this new love, just as everything I’ve written so far has been shaped by finding my way back to him,” I admitted, finding Langston’s eyes again.
He’d moved from his post at the wall to stand at the edge of the stage, a rare public smile breaking across his face.
Langston stepped onto the stage, breaking his own rule about staying in the background during my events.
His hand found the small of my back, a warm anchor as cameras flashed and questions came at me rapidly.
The security professional was replaced by the expectant father, unable to maintain distance when our future was being discussed.
“We’re delighted.” His deep voice carried without the microphone. I smiled, classic Langston, saying everything necessary and nothing more.
As the questions continued, Langston’s touch reminded me that no matter how many people watched, how many books were sold, how far we traveled, our connection mattered the most.
“Your sister almost fell out of her chair.” Langston chuckled as we entered the small café down the street from the bookstore.
Inside, the warmth was a welcome relief from Paris’s October chill.
Rich espresso and pastries made my stomach growl immediately.
Baby girl was hungry. I spotted Raina already claiming a corner table, her children circling like satellites as Mike tried to corral them into chairs.
“She’s going to rip me a new one. Five, four, three, two…” I counted, watching my sister’s face as she caught sight of us.
“Five months!” Raina exclaimed the moment we were within earshot, loud enough that several French patrons turned to stare. “You’re five whole months pregnant and didn’t tell me? Your own sister?”
“Inside voice, Rain,” Mike reminded her gently, though his eyes crinkled with amusement as he stood to shake Langston’s hand. “Congratulations, man. That’s incredible news.”
My nieces and nephews swarmed me as I gave all of them hugs and kisses. I was happy to see Junior visiting from college.
Langston’s hand remained at my lower back as we navigated around the table; that subtle protective gesture had become so natural, neither of us noticed it anymore.
“Thanks. We wanted to wait until we were past the first trimester, and then Aven thought it would be special to announce it here.”
“Special. That’s one word for it. Dramatic is another,” Raina repeated, eyebrows arched so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Before I responded, Raina was on her feet, wrapping her arms around me in a hug so tight it stole my breath. Her familiar scent, the expensive perfume she saved for special occasions, enveloped me as she squeezed harder.
“You always did have to do everything dramatically. I can’t believe my baby sister’s having a baby,” she murmured against my ear, but the words held more affection than accusation. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
I blinked fast; my pregnancy hormones amplified emotions I’d usually keep in check. “Believe it. She’s kicking my ass with this morning sickness.”
“Language,” Raina said automatically, glancing at her children, who were too busy arguing over who got to sit next to Uncle Langston to pay attention to adult conversation.
We settled around the table, Langston pulling out my chair before taking the seat beside me. The waiter appeared with menus.
“We brought something to show y’all,” Langston said once our drinks were ordered, reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve the envelope of ultrasound photos we’d gotten at our last appointment.
The children immediately swarmed; Raina’s youngest practically climbed into Langston’s lap to get a better look. For a man who once claimed to dislike kids, my husband handled the invasion of his personal space with remarkable grace, shifting to accommodate the smaller bodies.
“That’s your baby cousin. See her nose here? And those are her little hands,” Lang explained, pointing to the grainy black and white image where our daughter’s profile was clearly visible.
“She looks like an alien,” eight-year-old Brandon observed, squinting at the photo.
“Brandon!” Raina scolded, but I just laughed.
“She kinda does, but a cute alien,” I agreed, leaning closer to Langston to look at the image.
Mike peered over his children’s heads at the images. “Technology’s amazing. With our first, the ultrasound looked like static on an old TV. You couldn’t tell head from feet.”
“Do you have a name yet?” Fifteen-year-old Zena asked, her eyes wide with the important question.
“Not yet. We have a few ideas, but we’re still deciding,” Langston answered, his voice softening in a way it only did around family.
“You should name her Paris,” Zena suggested, chocolate croissant crumbs dotting her chin.
Langston’s eyes found mine over the child’s head, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. We discussed that name last night, though I wasn’t about to give a kid the satisfaction of knowing she’d nailed it.
As the children returned to their seats, momentarily satisfied with seeing the ultrasound, Raina reached across the table to take my hand. Her expression had shifted, the initial shock giving way to something more vulnerable.
“I was wrong about you. For years, I thought you were running away, that all your traveling was avoiding responsibility,” she said, her fingers squeezing mine.
“It was… at first anyway,” I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.
She shook her head. “No. I was wrong about you chasing dreams. You just had different ones than mine. You needed to go out there to figure out where you belonged. I never understood that because I always knew where I fit.” Raina’s eyes flicked to Langston, then back to me.
The simple acknowledgment my path had been valid, even if different from hers, loosened something in my chest that had been tight for years. I blinked back tears, cursing the pregnancy hormones that had me crying at commercials, let alone genuine moments of sisterly connection.
“Damn, Rain, you’re going to make me mess up my makeup,” I said, voice thick with emotion.
She laughed. “Please. Like you ever leave the house without waterproof mascara.”
The waiter returned with our order — a decaf latte for me, espressos for the adults, and hot chocolates for the kids. Thanks to Raina, who had already placed the order.
The table was busy with conversation, and Mike inquired about Langston’s expansion of Black Security into Europe, while the children debated the Eiffel Tower versus the Louvre.
I found myself admiring our baby’s profile in the ultrasound photo.
Her tiny nose, the curve of her forehead, the small fist raised near her face as if already prepared to take on the world.
Langston leaned to look at the picture with me. “She has your nose,” Langston commented.
“And your chin,” I countered, a smile tugging at my lips.
Raina reminded her youngest to use a napkin, as a street violinist’s melody drifted through a cracked window. It was a perfect moment, one I would have once been too restless to appreciate.
“Happy?” Langston asked quietly, his question simple but layered with meaning.
I nodded, looking around at this unlikely family — my Type A sister and her gentle husband, their boisterous children, my security-obsessed husband with his rare public smile, and me, the former rolling stone, now anchored by choice rather than circumstance.
“Terrified, but yeah. Happier than I knew was possible,” I admitted, hand moving to my belly where our daughter had started her afternoon acrobatics.
His hand covered mine as he pressed a kiss to my temple. In the moment, surrounded by family in a Parisian café, I understood what my memoir had really been about, not only finding my way back but finding my way forward… to this.