Epilogue - Molly
Molly
The paper shakes in my grip as I set it on my professor’s desk with all the grace of Tank after six glasses of whiskey and the espresso martini he’ll sometimes ask me to make for him when he thinks no one is paying attention; he’ll always have me serve it to him in a highball glass and, whenever anyone asks what he’s drinking that’s so damn dark, he’ll just claim it’s his own reserve bourbon and it’s dark from the ashes of the last person who asked him what the hell he was drinking.
They usually leave him alone after that.
Then he’ll wink at me and touch his nose, like it’s our little secret.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that everyone knows what he’s drinking, that it all came out one night when he chased his whiskey with four shots of tequila, a full glass of mezcal, and some brandy, before calling out to me across the bar: “Molly, make me one of those nummers coffee drinks I like.”
We’ve all been humoring him since.
My fingers are cramped into a claw from gripping the pencil too hard, and my brain feels like it’s been scrubbed with steel wool.
Accounting isn’t hard in the way running the bar is hard — there’s no drunk customer grabbing my wrist, no knives, no blood — but it’s hard in a way that still makes me ache, still leaves fantasizing about the bottle of red I’m going to polish off when I get home, and yet, for how different it is to running the bar, it aches in a way that matters to me.
It’s hard, it hurts, it’s mine — my future, my ambition, my pride.
“Ms. Rogers?” Professor Hensley says when I gingerly set the paper down and take one hesitant step back.
She’s fifty-something, silver hair twisted into a bun so tight that it looks like it could stay that way for years, and her eyes have the steady, appraising calm that pierces through your willpower and makes you want to confess to all your idiot thoughts.
“Yes, Professor Hensley?” I say.
She takes my paper, flips it once, then looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Are you sure you want to hand this in? You look like you’ve just fought a bear. There’s another fifteen minutes left… You can take some more time.”
“I… studied,” I say. Then, because my mouth has never understood the concept of shutting up, I add, “Aggressively.”
One corner of her mouth lifts, her eyes scan the paper. “I can tell.”
That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Because the second she slides my exam into the pile, my brain immediately starts replaying every question I might’ve screwed up. Every number. Every formula. Every place I blanked for half a second and felt panic rise like bile in my throat.
It’d always come with the same refrain: it doesn’t matter how hard you studied. You’re going to fail. You’re going to prove you’re not worth it. You’re just a dumb bartender, and you’re going to be stuck pouring drinks forever.
I turn on my heel and walk out before my nerves can eat me alive.
The hallway outside the classroom is a long, beige throat of fluorescent light and stale air. People with backpacks and cups of coffee mill around wearing the blank stare of college students who are doing their best to pretend that their futures don’t scare the shit out of them.
Seeing these kids — seeing how young they are, how bright they are, how many years sit open in front of them — makes my chest tighten, sharp and sudden.
I don’t belong here. I’m just a dumb bartender.
I shake my head and keep walking. The test is done, I’ve turned it in. I tried, and, well, if I fail, at least I still have a job that pays well and people to support me.
I turn a corner in the hallway, heading toward the exit, and suddenly the world stops.
There, down the hall, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, is Evan.
And June.
And — I freeze. No. No way. Absolutely not.
A shocked wail breaks out of my mouth. “What the hell?”
A wall of black leather and denim and attitude lines the hallway on each side.
Smiling, standing at attention, waiting, all eyes on me like I’m the fucking centerpiece of some goddamn royal procession.
There’s a banner stretched across the hallway right above the door, decorated with glitter glue and stickers, that says: CONGRATULATIONS MOLLY.
I freeze in the middle of the hallway, staring as if I’ve hallucinated the entire thing from exam stress.
Evan starts toward me immediately. And even though I’ve looked at him countless times, I still can’t help myself from appreciating the sight of him.
He looks… good. Not perfect. Not untouched.
Still healing. There’s still a faint stiffness in his shoulder when he pushes off the wall, and a grimace crosses his handsome face — a reminder of the bullet he took to save my life.
But he’s upright. Strong. His jaw is rough with stubble.
His eyes are the heart-stopping same — dark, intense, like he’s always one breath away from either laughing or burning the world down.
Evan wraps me in a hug and plants a kiss on my lips that threatens to overwhelm my already stressed heart. “It’s about damn time you got out here. How’d you do?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t been graded yet.” I take in the entirety of the assembly, and my eyes narrow. “Why are you all here?”
Riley waves at me with both hands. “To support you, obviously. We wanted to be here to see you after you’ve passed your first college final.”
“I haven’t passed yet,” I say. It’s probably too sharp — I studied really hard for this test — but I’ve spent so long being a bartender, believing that I could only ever be a bartender, that the idea that I’d be a decent college student seems disturbingly alien.
“You will,” she replies.
“You will,” Evan echoes, his words delivered as a whisper against my ear and a kiss to my cheek. “I know you will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I was there when you studied. Because I know you. Because I believe in you. Because I love you…”
There’s a tone in his voice — strong and warm — that tells me he could keep going, but my cheeks already feel so hot that, if I don’t stop him now, I’m worried the banner might catch on fire. “Okay, okay, that’s enough.”
“I’ll never get enough of you…”
I give him a look, then a kiss on the cheek. “Fine. But shut your mouth, please.”
I keep walking, but it’s stiff. Controlled.
My feet carry me forward while my brain fights to come up with some explanation that’ll make me feel comfortable with the fact that my entire MC family is here, surrounding me, while every single student from my accounting class stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Okay,” I say, looking up at the glitter monstrosity. “Can we take it down now? I mean, why did you even need to put it up in the first place?”
Mayhem lifts his chin proudly, like a man defending his art. “Because we wanted to make a banner.”
I stare at him. “That’s not a reason.”
“It is,” he insists. “It’s a strong reason. Unless you’re some art-hating fascist.”
I know better than to get Mayhem going, so I turn my eyes to Evan in pure accusation. “You let him do this.”
Evan’s smile makes my knees weak, but not my resolve. “I tried to stop him.”
“That’s a lie,” Goldie says. “You encouraged him.”
“Also,” Mayhem adds, holding up a roll of glitter tape like evidence, “you bought me the glitter.”
Evan makes a face. “I did not buy the glitter.”
June elbows him. “You did. You said it was ‘festive.’ And that if he needed more, you’d get it.”
“I didn’t need more, though. In fact, I’ve still got a ton left over,” Mayhem says.
My jaw drops. “You gave Mayhem extra glitter?”
Evan’s cheeks go faintly red, which should be illegal for a man with that kind of handsome face; I want to kiss him as much as I want to slap him. “I was trying to help.”
I point at Mayhem. “If I find glitter in my hair, I’m setting your bike on fire.”
Mayhem’s grin widens. “Sounds good. I’ll show you which button to push.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think I don’t already have an incineration button on my bike?”
“Why do I even ask?”
“Beats me. My bike’s parked out front, so if you want, I can show you the button now.”
“No, I’m good.”
My gaze flicks back to the banner, then to all the faces watching me like I’m someone worth celebrating, and the embarrassment in my chest twists into something else — something tight and warm and terrifying.
Pride.
Pride, and appreciation for my family. The family that shows up loud and weird and wholehearted.
I swallow, throat burning.
Evan steps closer, voice low. “Everything alright?”
“No. This is… mortifying.”
His eyes soften. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
“You deserve to be celebrated,” he says simply. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s obvious.
My chest squeezes. I’m not good at this part. I’m good at bar fights and sarcasm and keeping people at a distance. I’m good at surviving.
But this?
This is the part where you let people love you.
Where you let them in, let them see all of you, and hope against hope that they’ll keep loving you despite it.
Apparently, this collection of lunatics and misfits still loves me.
I stare at the banner for a second longer, and then I do the only thing my body knows how to do when it’s overwhelmed — I grab Evan.
He responds, arms wrapping around my waist like he’s done it a thousand times.
I grab his shirt and haul him down, and I kiss him hard right there in the hallway, under fluorescent lights and the judging eyes of academia.
One kiss becomes another, then another, and my hands leave his shirt to go somewhere round and firm and perfectly grabbable.
Somebody whistles. Loud.
Riley shouts, “GET IT, MOLLY!”
When I finally pull away, breathing hard, I press my forehead into his.
“You’re insane,” I whisper.
His mouth brushes mine in a kiss before he answers. “For you? Yeah.”
I should have a comeback.
I don’t.
Instead, I exhale and let myself lean into him, feeling light, whole, and loved. Then I straighten and glare at the group like I’m back behind the bar and they’re all about to get cut off.
“We are leaving,” I announce. “Before I get arrested for public indecency.”
“That was not indecent. It was borderline inspirational,” Riley says.
“Shut up,” I snap, but my voice cracks, and that gives me away. “I love you. Now, can we get this banner down and get the hell out of here? The bar’s supposed to open in a couple of hours and there’s work to do.”
June puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s quick, shy, gentle. “There’s still one more surprise.”
If it were anyone else, the prospect of another surprise would make me snap. But since it’s June, and since traces of what she went through still linger in her eyes, I smile. “What’s that?”
“It’s back at the bar. It’s nothing big, it’s just… I… I helped plan it.”
“Thank you, June. I can’t wait to see it.”
The group moves like a pack, boots and denim and loud voices filling the hallway. A few students flatten themselves against the lockers to let the biker parade pass. Evan keeps his hand on my lower back as we walk, steady, possessive without being a jerk about it. Like he’s anchoring me.
When we reach the parking lot, the bikes are there, lined up like a military convoy. The sound of them starting is thunder in my bones, familiar and comforting now instead of frightening. I drive my beat-up truck to the bar, while Evan rides beside me on his bike with June behind him.
We end up back at The Noble Fir and there’s a party waiting for me. Food everywhere — a buffet of snacks, cupcakes, and barbecue. Drinks that I thankfully don’t have to make. Music blaring from the jukebox.
I lose myself in the party. Smiling, holding onto Evan, and dancing.
Until my phone pings. And I freeze.
Evan notices instantly. “What is it?”
He watches with concern as I pull my phone out with fingers that suddenly don’t work right. It takes three tries to unlock my phone and four to open my email.
It’s from my professor.
Final Grades have been posted for ACC 101
I stop breathing as I click open the email and the attachment.
A single line loads.
A-
For a second, my vision blurs. I just stare at the thing, reading it three times and wondering if this is what it feels like to have an aneurysm. Then a laugh rips out of me.
Evan’s face changes. He knows. He can read me like a damn book.
“You did it,” he says softly.
“… I got an A-minus.”
June squeals and hugs me around the middle like I’m her sister now, like I belong. Evan steps in close, cupping my face carefully, thumb brushing away some silly tear that’s leaking from my eye — where the hell did that thing come from — and he looks at that tear like it’s precious.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “You’re so much better than you give yourself credit for.”
I lean into his touch, letting myself have this. Letting myself be held up instead of holding everything alone. Letting him in, even more.
I’m not just surviving anymore, fighting to keep the world and all its heartache out while I make it through another day. No, I’m building.
I look up at Evan and smile. “You better not ever let me forget this.”
“Never,” he says. “Not for a second.”