Epilogue
One Year Later
My palm is damp when Frankie wraps her hand around mine and squeezes it.
“It’ll all be over in a matter of seconds.” Her lips curve with encouragement. “Wave and smile. That’s all you have to do.”
I nod and inhale deeply as the limo pulls to a stop in front of the BFI Southbank theater.
“And don’t trip!” She adds.
I exhale with a deflated breath. “No way I don’t trip now.”
Frankie leans into kiss me tenderly enough to restore my confidence. Mostly in her, but I think I might live through this experience, too.
A little over a year ago, I knew Frankie as Fran and couldn’t see her as anything but the waitress who kept my coffee cup full and my heart yearning for more of her.
Now I’m standing on the Southbank in a custom-fit tux that doesn’t feel quite right, staring at a wall of flashing lights and lenses, with the Thames behind us and the British Film Institute’s banners snapping in the wind like they’re cheering her on.
Frankie, though, is calm.
Not nervous but not performing either. Just…steady.
Like she’s figured out how to navigate this world without letting it swallow her whole.
Wish I could say the same. This is our first real appearance together, and I’m more scared than I was when Junie was born. I’d never been a father before, but I’d at least held a baby. But I’ve never walked a red carpet and the last tux I wore was a rented one to my senior prom.
I’m not prepared for this.
But I wouldn’t miss Frankie’s return to the spotlight for the world.
A runner opens the car door and says something about “two minutes” and “straight inside,” but Frankie’s already moving, already stepping out like she belongs here.
Her pink dress catches the light and for half a second my worries go quiet the way they do right before a foal finally turns the right way.
A camera flashes, and all my worries return.
Then Frankie looks back at me.
Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd. At me.
Her eyes shine with an invitation to join her excitement, and her smile chases away my worries for good.
I step out of the limo. Shutters click. I shield my eyes from a camera’s flash and stumble slightly.
Frankie glances back at me, still smiling, and I square my shoulders.
I handle frightened animals who could crush me.
I handle a five-year-old girl who hates bedtime and getting her hair combed.
I handled a five-week separation from the woman I love while she filmed the movie whose premiere we’re celebrating.
I can handle walking the red carpet to get there.
Frankie reaches for my hand. She laces her fingers through mine and gives my hand a squeeze that says, I’m here. I chose this. I chose you.
Another flash pops.
Then another.
Then a whole storm of them, along with a dozen voices vying for Frankie’s attention.
“Frankie! Over here!”
“Frankie, eyes up!”
“Together! Frankie and Cal!”
I hear my name somewhere in the chaos, turned into something British and sharp. I just keep my eyes on Frankie.
I’m supposed to smile. I’m supposed to look relaxed. I’m supposed to act like I’ve done this a hundred times.
I haven’t.
My instinct is to shift my weight like a nervous horse waiting for the trailer ramp. To rock back on my heels. To find the nearest exit.
Until Frankie’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, and the urge disappears.
“Breathe,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips.
Suddenly I remember how to inhale and exhale.
“Now look at me,” she adds, like she’s giving directions on set.
So, I turn to her, and my chest tightens—not with panic this time, but with that familiar ache that’s been living in me since the day I first saw her at Flamingo’s in a blonde wig and glasses.
I didn’t recognize her right away, but her disguise couldn’t keep her from being the brightest thing in the room.
Frankie’s eyes soften when they meet mine. The corners of her mouth tilt, small and real. Not for the cameras. Just for me.
She slides her other hand up my forearm, tucks it into the crook of my elbow, and suddenly we’re posed the way couples pose when they’ve already decided. When the question isn’t if.
It’s when.
Someone yells, “Just you, Frankie!”
Frankie doesn’t even flinch. She leans closer to me, the scent of her perfume mixing with London air and river and the faintest hint of hairspray, when she says, “No.”
No explanation. No apology. Just no.
The next round of flashes catches the diamonds at her throat—tiny, delicate, beautiful, but borrowed. My eyes drop automatically to her left hand. Nothing there, yet.
But soon. And the diamond there won’t be borrowed. It will be Frankie’s forever.
The ring is in my inside pocket, pressing against my ribs as a constant reminder that an even bigger moment than this premiere is coming for both of us.
I checked it three times on the limo ride over to make sure it was still there, like it might sprout legs and sprint back to California if I don’t stay focused on it.
I told myself I’d wait until after the screening. After the Q&A. After the drinks and the congratulations and the photos and the people.
I told myself I’d pick a quiet moment. I’ll know when it’s time, and everything will be perfect.
But standing here beside Frankie, having her choose me in front of all of the whole world, I start to realize something: There might never be a perfect moment.
There’s just the moment you decide you’re done being afraid of what might come and embrace the love right in front of you.
We step through the glass doors of the theatre and the noise outside disappears. A familiar voice calls, “Frankie!” and Archie barrels through the edge of the crowd inside, grinning like he owns the place.
Piper’s on his arm, looking as at home here as she does at fashion shows in LA.
Stella and Rhys are a step behind, Stella vibrating with excitement, hands clasped like she’s trying not to clap.
Britta and Dex are back at the hotel with Junie and their baby, comfortable in sweats and hoodies, eating whatever they want from room service.
Mom waves from across the room, looking almost as out of place as I feel as she grips her long dress and wobbles in heels toward us.
They gather around us in a loose half-circle.
Frankie’s shoulders ease, like she’s been holding the weight of the whole world on them and suddenly remembered she doesn’t have to. She has us. Her family.
Archie glances at me, then at Frankie, and his grin turns into something softer. Something approving.
He leans in just enough to be heard and murmurs, “Don’t stuff it up, mate.”
Frankie snorts a laugh.
I don’t look away from her. “Planning not to.”
A publicist steps into our circle to get Frankie’s attention. “It’s time.”
Frankie nods, then turns her face up to mine. “Still alright?” she asks.
I squeeze her hand once. “I’m okay.”
“Brilliant.” Her practiced smile turns wicked for half a second, taking me back to the Fran who teased while pouring my coffee. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
My heart stutters. “I wouldn’t let you if you tried,” I manage, though my throat feels tight.
We follow the publicist into the screening room with its red velvet curtains and matching seats gilded in gold. I keep Frankie close enough that her dress brushes my leg with every step. Or maybe it’s her keeping me close.
As we make our way not only to the front row seats but also into her world, I slide my fingers into my pocket and touch the ring box. Not to reassure myself it’s there, but to remind myself why I brought it.
Junie’s voice pops into my head, bright and certain: Frankie’s my friend.
Yeah, Bug. Mine too.
Only I’m about to ask her to be something else. Something forever.
Frankie glances at me as we take our seats. Her eyes are green and shining and brave.
“Ready?” I whisper.
She nods. “You?”
“I’ve been ready,” I tell her, and I mean it—more than she knows—because I’m not talking about the premiere.
I’m talking about everything that comes after.
Thank you so much for reading