Epilogue 2 - Damien
Seventeen Years Later
‘Love Like Ours’ – Aron Wright
The house is chaos. Our entire family is here, dressed in pajamas and ready for the annual Hartley sleepover.
We started having it here at the house a few years ago, and I think Mom and Dad are grateful that I offered.
They’re getting a little too old to host parties like this, so of course I was more than happy to take on the task.
So many pictures cover our walls that I almost forget what color the paint is sometimes.
Most of them are of our family—Ashia, our six kids, and I—but it includes the whole Hartley bunch.
We bought Emma an old Polaroid camera for her fifteenth birthday, and she’s certainly made a habit out of it.
A part of me still can’t believe that I ever kept the house so bare.
Every time I turn around, I’m reminded of our amazing life.
If I look left to right, I can see how my kids have grown.
Dozens of baby pictures stack on top of one another, and then the years go by with every inch I track.
My princess turned eighteen three months ago, and it’s torn me to pieces.
I’m so proud of all of my kids, beyond grateful for the genuine, exceptional people they’re becoming, and it’s all thanks to my wife.
I don’t know how she does it. Between taking kids to school, keeping the house clean, running a daycare, keeping a steady involvement at Devil’s Hands, and still being as perfect as she is?
It blows my mind. I help where I can, and I don’t miss a fucking thing.
Anytime Emma wants to shoot scenery with her camera, I take her.
When all of the boys have football games, I go to every single one.
Our youngest does gymnastics, and I sure as hell do not miss any of that.
Ashia and I switch off between taking which kids to school what day, the two oldest drive, and our youngest goes to daycare with Ashia until she starts kindergarten in the fall.
Oh, my God. My baby is starting kindergarten…
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
We’re still the perfect team, even after all of these years.
I’m still just as obsessed with her as I’ve always been.
If anything, my obsession has just gotten even deeper.
Beautiful, striking, grey strands grace her perfect hair in little hidden places, and I’ll never dare tell her, but I think she’s gotten shorter.
Just a little, not enough that she would ever notice, but I have.
I notice everything about her. She’s still just as stunning as the day I saw her, and every day just adds to that elegance.
I stand in the corner of our kitchen, drying the plates she just washed after dinner and staring at her angelic form.
The smile that dances on her lips has pulled me in.
It’s the softest, absentminded little curl, like it’s permanently stuck there.
She’s dancing lightly to the music playing over the speaker system, and every time she hands me a new dish, she eyes me like she’s stealing a glance of her own.
Her eyes rake down my jaw, then my neck, and I know she’s thinking about what’s hiding beneath my shirt.
As our family has continued to grow, I’ve added to the tattoo I got for my Goddess.
The branches of our children’s names and birthdays travel across my shoulder, up my neck, and along my chest, racing along my veins just as they do within my heart.
My woman loves the ink, and when she traces the lines at night, it still sends shivers through my body.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, her cheeks flush red and she looks back to the sink, trying not to get caught by the dozens of people in our house. I don’t give a single fuck. I ogle my wife every chance I get, and our children know how much I love their mother. That’s never been a secret.
“Daddy!” Paisley, our youngest daughter, shouts from across the room and runs in our direction.
I set the plate down onto the counter and catch her just as she jumps up for me to hold her.
She wraps her little four-year-old arms around my neck and squeezes me as tightly as I hold her.
Her long dark hair, just like her mother’s, grazes my face, and I have to shake it away to see her properly.
“There’s my girl. I thought you were coloring with your cousins?”
“I drew a doggy!”
“You did?” I act surprised. “Does this one have golden fur?” I raise a brow, really selling my shock.
When Paisley draws a dog, it’s always of our golden retriever, German Shepherd mix, Cookie.
We always act like it’s the best drawing on this side of the globe, because let’s face it, it is, but also because she gets so excited that we love her squiggly lines and bold color strokes.
Besides me and her mom, Cookie might just be Paisley’s favorite person, so her drawing is at least a once-a-day occurrence.
She nods her head in quick little movements and smiles so wide that I’m almost afraid it hurts her adorable little face.
“Yeah! Will you come see?”
“Why?” Henry, our oldest son, asks from the other side of the kitchen island.
That kid is me made over. His hair might also be dark like his mother’s, and he may have her eyes, but that boy is my carbon copy—my pride and joy.
Well, one out of six of them, but still.
He’s as tall as I am, even at seventeen, and he’s so fucking smart and strong that it blows my mind.
He’s quieter and observant like his grandfather, and he’s just as deadly as the rest of us.
He hasn’t killed anyone yet, thank fuck, but he hasn’t been subtle about his interest in ‘the family business.’ His attendance record at the Attic might outweigh mine, and if it weren’t for Ashia convincing him to play flag football after school, I’m sure he’d be there even more.
“We can’t even tell what it is half of the time. ”
“Henry Charles Hartley…” Ashia turns around and scolds him, narrowing her eyes at his comment.
One thing we’ve never done with our kids is hinder their confidence or squash their creativity, no matter what it is.
Henry’s not normally this cold towards his siblings, especially his sisters, but something has been bothering him today.
I’m still trying to find out what. Out of all of our kids, he’s the most reserved. He’s like his mother in that regard.
When he meets his mother’s eyes, the same color as both him and Paisley’s, he softens instantly.
He’s always been a mama’s boy, and I couldn’t be prouder.
I mean it when I say that boy is my clone, because his protectiveness over his mother and sisters matches mine.
He was suspended from school last month for a week because one of his teammates smacked Emma’s ass…
That kid found a lunch tray crushing his nose and my son’s fist in his eye about three seconds later.
Then there was that time the month before when another boy in his class talked about how hot his mom is…and Henry broke a lunch table when he took that kid to the floor.
I’m so fucking proud.
Henry turns his gaze back to Paisley with a defeated frown, and it sinks even more when he sees the newfound pout on her lip.
“I’m sorry, Pais. I’m sure your doggy is cute.” She just crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, giving him a sort of death glare as I cling to her. His shoulders sag at the look. “How about we all play hide and seek? That always makes you feel better.”
“We’re on it!” Rowan and Tobias, our twelve-year-old twin boys, run into the main living area from the hallway with the same excited energy they always have.
After we had Henry, Ashia needed a break from being pregnant.
Two under two was a lot, and it took some getting used to, but we loved every moment of it.
I gave Ashia all of the time she needed, of course, because I know how hard pregnancy is on her.
Henry was born at almost thirty-seven-weeks, and thankfully, she didn’t have as many health scares as she did the first time around, but it still took its toll.
She unlocked something primal in me when Emma turned five, though.
Ashia said, and I quote, ‘there’s still so much room in our house,’ and talked about missing having a newborn.
I put the twins inside her that night.
We call them our ‘devil duo’ because they’re always sprinting through the house, up to something. They’re undeniably fast, though, and very quick thinkers. They both do amazing on their football team as running backs. Henry only doesn’t play contact because…well, the school won’t let him.
“Boys?” I call after them. “Where’s your brother?”
“I’m right here, Dad!” Grayson, our eight-year-old son, runs in next, carrying at least four pillows under his arms.
They’re definitely going to beat the hell out of each other with those.
“No running in the house, you could hurt yourselves,” Ashia warns them, pointing one of her small fingers at them before setting the last plate on the counter.
“Sorry, Mom!” the boys reply and barely slow down as they make their way over to the couches. Paisley wiggles in my arms, wanting to be let down, so I place her back on her feet gently and kiss the top of her head.
“Bye, Daddy!” she yells back as she chases after her brothers, and a warmth settles in my chest. I pick up the last plate and turn my gaze to Ashia, practically melting when she smiles back at me.
Emma comes down the stairs, trying to work her way through the crowd and over to us.
It’s hard to believe that she’s eighteen…
it went by way too fast… Where did my baby go?
Now she’s wearing makeup and asking to hang out with her friends, driving herself to school and asking about part-time jobs.
I’m not ready for her to grow up, and I’ve made that abundantly clear.