Epilogue
FRANKIE
Three years later…
“Remind me again why we’re doing this.”
I glanced back at Turner from the entrance of our house. “Because the alternative was an hour and a half flight, and you think it’s too risky. Even though the doctor said it would be totally fine.”
Turner grumbled. “I’d rather decide what is or isn’t totally fine for my pregnant wife and unborn child. In fact, I don’t think we should be leaving the house at all.”
“Well, damn.” I braced a hand on my waist. “I didn’t realize you’d graduated with a degree in medicine on your way downstairs. I can’t believe I missed my husband’s white coat ceremony.”
Turner’s eyes narrowed, and he dropped our bags at his feet in a very dramatic way.
I smiled. The corner of his mouth twitched, with a mix of amusement and a spark of heat I knew well.
In two strides he was right in front of me, and in one swoop of his head, his mouth was on my ear.
“I should fuck all that sassiness right out of you,” he murmured.
“But if I do, we’ll never leave the house. ”
I chuckled, a little flustered. “So, you admit you’re being overprotective and we should leave.”
He hummed, nipping at my earlobe and snaking an arm around my very pregnant form.
“Why, thank you,” I muttered, delighted with the closeness. “I love to be right.”
Turner laughed huskily. “I admit to nothing.”
“Oh please. I speak fluent growly-husband at this point. That hum was a ‘yeah, okay I might be a total grump.’ And that little nip was a ‘damn, Frankie. You’re always right.’”
Turner snorted.
I brushed a kiss on his chin. “It’ll be okay,” I assured him, more seriously. “It’s only a five-hour drive. We will make stops so I can stretch my legs. And when we get to New York, I’ll let you coddle me and forbid me from leaving the bed until I’m fully rested.”
A soft sound of agreement left my man’s mouth, but he still said, “I dunno. Why are we even going?”
“We RSVPed weeks ago.” My mouth fell on that spot he loved so much, right beneath his ear. I kissed it and he sighed. “And Lucas was so excited when you said we’d be at his restaurant’s anniversary party. Rosie told me he calls you ‘the one that got away,’ you know that?”
That bashful smile that made him look so adorably boyish expanded. His hands dragged down my spine until landing on my backside. He squeezed. “He’s a good fella.”
Three years ago, almost to the day, Turner had declined Lucas’s offer to collaborate in New York.
For a short time, I blamed myself. But I’d come to terms with the decision now.
My therapy journey hadn’t exactly been easy, and it was ongoing, but I’d come to understand that it was okay to accept—and expect—certain sacrifices from those that loved you.
Just like it was okay to make them for those you loved.
After what happened in Vermont, I’d needed to go home—not only to Turner, but to Portland, Maine.
In hindsight, I knew now that I would have also healed if we’d moved to New York.
It would have taken me longer, possibly.
But with Turner by my side, I would have come out from that hole I’d slipped into.
Luckily, I hadn’t needed to. Portland had been a decision we’d made together.
And it was good. Right, even. Turner had been happy to park the idea of partnering with Lucas, and we’d decided to do it right if the moment ever presented itself again.
The Midnight Baker thrived, regardless of where we were.
My sales spiked after the attack made the news.
The thriller author whose life turned into one of her books sold books, just like Peter had anticipated.
The subsequent royalty checks remained untouched for a long time.
It felt wrong to profit from something so painful and traumatic.
For both of us. Peter hadn’t passed away from the fall, but when we learned of him dying soon after, of smoke inhalation and burns from the fire he’d set, we’d still felt responsible.
Turner was right, surviving that day had been a bitch.
Some days I thought I’d never get to the other side.
And I knew some days were extra tough for Turner, too.
But we’d done it. Together. I’d donated part of the money Wolves at Night made to a charity that funded research into mental illness, and eventually, I learned to place my guilt somewhere else.
On Peter. On how this world worked, and how I could do nothing to stop those headlines from selling my books.
We used the other part of the money to purchase a home.
A big, two-story house where we could start a life.
On the day we moved in, Turner proposed.
Surrounded by nothing but boxes and empty corners that made our laughter echo, he went down on one knee and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.
As if there was any other way I’d want to live.
We laughed more and kissed and cried. And that was the moment I knew I’d survive anything life threw at me.
I finally had the haven I’d always hoped for.
The pocket of safety to hide me from reality when it turned too ugly.
And it wasn’t about the house, or the ring, or whatever came after.
It was about the man I was sharing life with.
The one who had always been part of my family, and the man I was starting one with.
“Where did you go?” Turner asked softly, bringing me back to the present. He was always so careful when I spaced out. My thoughtful, observant husband.
“Back to the day you proposed. It was a nice day.”
“The best day,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose. “Tied with the day we picked up Charlie from the shelter. And only topped by the day I watched you walk down that aisle towards me. Bawled like a goddamn baby. Can’t wait to do that again when I finally get to hold him.”
His palm was on my belly. He did that any chance he got.
“Maybe we should take Charlie with us to New York,” I said. “Now I’m feeling weird about leaving him.”
Turner tilted his head as he studied me. “We’ll pick him up from Ric’s if you ask me to, but that will break your brother’s heart.”
Ric had reluctantly agreed to babysit our shelter pup one weekend last year and fallen helplessly in love with him.
“You’re right.” I laughed. “I’m almost sure he scheduled activities for the two of them.
I saw his calendar and I swear, there was a two-hour slot on Saturday reserved for Good Boy Time. I wonder what that’s about.”
“I’d rather not know.”
“He really needs a hobby. What if we get him a sewing machine, like mine?”
He laughed. “Your machine is a hundred years old. And I don’t think he’d enjoy fixing one like you did. He doesn’t have any fucking patience. He’ll hurl it out a window before he learns how to darn a sock.”
Part of my journey had been searching for something that was just for me.
Turned out Mia’s old sewing machine held the answer.
Things weren’t like they used to be between us, and they probably never would be.
But we’d had a conversation that had been a long time coming.
We’d cried and hugged and made peace with the past. Neither of us could change it. And we’d missed each other horribly.
Just like we’d repaired our relationship, even if not completely, we’d also fixed the old sewing machine.
Not without effort—and a hundred YouTube tutorials.
But it all worked out. Now, whenever my mind fell into a dark place, I sat at the machine and sewed.
Turner considered himself the luckiest motherfucker alive—his words—since I had started making him bespoke clothes and branded aprons for work.
“Alright,” Turner said, giving me a last kiss and stepping back to grab our bags. “Last chance to stay home.”
“Nice try,” I told my husband with a playful shove. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll get there. Plus, if you’re nice and leave the house in the next two minutes, I’ll tell you about what I wrote this week. Including plot twists.”
His expression transformed then. My husband beamed at me like he always did when I told him about my writing.
It had taken me over a year, and even though I was writing, nothing was the same.
I didn’t tour or place all that pressure to perform well and sell on myself. I wrote because it brought me joy.
I wrote selfishly.
Take the day I’d finally snatched my laptop and opened a blank document, for instance.
It had been a weird one. I can’t recall the specifics, but I remembered being sad and angry after not feeling that way for a while.
Not even my sewing machine, or a walk with Charlie had appeased the strange turmoil.
I’d needed that happiness, that sense of fulfillment only words could provide.
Before I knew what was happening, Turner had come home and found me in the pristine office we’d kept, untouched, since moving in.
He had smiled at me and silently closed the door behind him.
I sat there for hours that day. And more followed that week. What I wrote was shit and was eventually reworked or discarded. But new beginnings can be messy. They don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be there.
That weekend in Vermont had been one, in a way.
It had been terrifying and tragic and so damn far from perfect.
But it had also been blissful and freeing in the way I finally opened up to feelings I’d buried for years.
I’d been so concerned about that weekend being the make-or-break point of my career, that it was fascinating to see now how much truth there had been in that.
Much like I feared, I had crashed and burned, until there was nothing but debris.
But Turner had been there with me. For me. To collect the pieces and hold them together when I couldn’t.
And today, the boy who I had loved all my life and who had loved me back, remained by my side to remind me that beauty could come out of breaking.
That no matter what, I’ll always be his light. And he’ll be mine.
That no matter how far my mind escaped sometimes, he’ll always be there to tether me to the beautiful family we’re creating.
He won’t let go. Ever. And I won’t either.
The End.