Epilogue
GRIFFIN - FOUR MONTHS LATER
The February air’s so cold it makes my cheeks sting and my breath puff out in white clouds as Beckett and I hurry down Whether Street toward Watchfire.
I’m bundled in my heavy coat, and Beckett’s wearing his thick brown Carhartt jacket over a flannel, looking exactly like every rugged mountain man fantasy I never knew I had.
When the arm around my shoulders squeezes me tight, I swear I can feel the warmth of his palm even through the layers.
Or maybe it’s just that every part of me feels warmer since I fell in love with this man.
I’m so busy looking at Beckett, soaking him in, I barely notice that every shop on Whether Street is decked out with shiny paper hearts and light-up cupids that twinkle against the snow. I also don’t notice the pedestrians we’re passing, trusting Beckett to steer us a path, as usual.
Judging by how many times he has to pull me out of the way to do just that, it’s clear the town is hopping tonight, and I understand why. After a couple of weeks of relentless snowfall, we Winsomefolk are happy for an excuse to break hibernation.
“Jesus Christ, Fred, watch where you’re going,” Beckett mutters as one of his crew passes us in the opposite direction.
Okay, all but one of us Winsomefolk.
I hide a smile in the neck of my coat. “You know, we really didn’t have to come out tonight,” I remind Beckett.
I’ve been extra busy this week, and so has Beckett.
My work for the Koasek Highlands Tourism and Visitors’ Center is nothing like my high-stress job in New York, but it turns out I love that.
Right now, we’re launching a new campaign to draw in visitors this summer—one that uses a lot of the ideas I came up with for my Big Dill campaign—so I’ve been busier than usual.
Beckett’s been working nonstop, assessing some new forest areas and doing snow removal.
It’s not like Beckett and I haven’t woken up together every morning, either in my bed or his, but we haven’t had as much time to just be together as I’d like.
“Of course we did, baby,” Beckett insists, just as he did when we had this same conversation an hour ago. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re the love of my life. We’re celebrating.”
But he glares at Charlie and Dolores Newman as they nearly walk into us, and I have to stifle a laugh.
The moment we step through Watchfire’s door, Vivian appears like she’s been waiting for us, which she probably has.
Her face lights up, and she comes over with that warm smile that made me understand how Beckett turned out to be such a good man, despite his attempts to hide it behind his Resting Intimidation Face.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, boys,” she says, pulling us both into hugs. “I have the perfect table for you.” She gives Beckett a wink and says, “Secluded, just like you asked for.”
Before leading us anywhere, though, she pauses and looks at me with gentle concern. “Griffin, sweetheart, how are you doing with the… the Jim thing?”
“Mom…” Beckett says, reaching for my hand in a gesture that’s become as natural as breathing. The way he immediately presents us as a united front still makes me mushy. Probably always will.
I smile at her, squeezing Beckett’s fingers. “I’m doing okay, Vivian. Really.”
I don’t blame her for asking because “the Jim thing,” as she calls it, was kind of a mindfuck, and I wasn’t always okay with it.
When Jim’s attorney came to Winsome for a visit back in early October, she’d mentioned that I’d really want to hear what she had to say, and she’d been right.
Beckett and I had gone to meet her the morning after Hello, Winsome, and the conversation had gone something like this:
Me: Hello, I’d like to know more about my inheritance and how Jim died, please.
Her: Yes, you mentioned ‘inheritance’ yesterday. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake. Jim Grange isn’t dead.
No, seriously. What the actual fuck, right?
I think the attorney thought I’d be delighted. Instead, my predominant emotion had been a kind of horrified embarrassment.
Turns out, when a man like Jim tells you he’s gone to the Big Drum Circle in the Sky, he literally means he’s gone to a fucking drum circle in Big Sky, Montana, in his Magic Mushroom Mobile.
What I’d thought was an inheritance trust was actually a trust tied to my thirtieth birthday, which I’d barely even celebrated with all the fallout from the Rise campaign.
The lawyer had apologized profusely for this miscommunication—her word—and explained she’d been on leave for a few weeks, helping her daughter through a difficult pregnancy.
She said she’d included Jim’s phone number on the paperwork, assuming I’d call him for info, but obviously, calling a dead man had never occurred to me.
This revelation, which Milo claims puts my life squarely in Days of Our Griffin territory, threw me for a loop. Talking to my therapist the past few months helped me regain perspective. Having Beckett by my side helped even more.
And meeting with Jim for the first time last week had also been surprisingly good, not because Jim and I had some fantastic, immediate connection… but because we really hadn’t.
Jim isn’t my parent and had never intended to be.
He’s a man who did a nice thing for two women he once knew, and an even nicer thing for the grown man he’d known as a child.
I’m learning his lack of involvement in my life isn’t a judgment on my worth; it’s about him being true to himself.
Now that I’m being true to myself, I really get it.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my own mothers and from being around the Axfords, it’s that biology doesn’t make someone a parent, and being a parent—biological or not—doesn’t entitle someone to a place in your life.
The only people I want in my life are the ones who stick around through difficult times. Who do the best they can and also acknowledge when their “best” still hurts you. Then they take steps to do better and let you do better too.
“You can tell my moms to stop worrying,” I add, taking Beckett’s hand more firmly and smiling up at him. “I’m in good hands.”
Vivian and my moms now have a group chat that I privately refer to as the Is Griffin Okay chat. The answer’s been Yes for just about four months now, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon. I feel more grounded than I have in… well, ever.
Beckett grumbles under his breath, “I think he’d be doing better if he could get some privacy with his boyfriend.”
I snicker at his mock-grouchy tone. “Patience, mountain man.”
Vivian laughs and shakes her head. “Come on, Griffin. Let me show you to your table before my son spontaneously combusts.”
We pass another couple having a romantic date, and I realize it’s Ry Marek, Winsome’s current Big Dill.
Beckett and I officially withdrew our names from contention the morning after Hello, Winsome.
Beckett because he hadn’t actually wanted the position, and me because it became clear pretty quickly that I had other stuff to focus on.
But Ry’s been amazing at it. He got the new crosswalk installed near the school right away, and he’s brought his Captain Fun energy to all his ceremonial appearances, which is exactly what the town deserved.
Once we’re seated next to each other at a cozy, candlelit corner table near the front window, Beckett finally relaxes. He reaches over to trace his fingers over my knuckles, and the simple touch sends heat racing up my arm.
“I want tonight to be special,” he says, his voice low and private in the way that makes my heartbeat quicken.
I lean forward, close enough to smell that pine and cedar scent that clings to his skin.
“Baby, every single day is special when I’m with you.
” I drop my voice to match his, and I don’t even care that the shit coming out of my mouth is so gooey it would have mortified past-Griffin.
I revel in this shit now. The gooier the better.
“And it’ll get even more special when we get home.
I have plans for you in the pickle turret. Remember last time?”
The pickle-barrel room has now become a kind of office.
Beckett dragged up a comfortable desk chair, and I’ve decorated the space with framed artwork and a gorgeous carved oak tree sculpture True made me for Christmas.
We also moved the old living room couch up there so I could get some more functional furniture since I’ve been having lots of friends and family over.
The other night, Beckett climbed up to the turret via the rope bridge to surprise me while I was working on a secret project… and let’s just say the brothel couch lived up to its name.
Beckett’s eyes dilate and darken with want in the candlelight, and I know we’re both remembering. I’m worried that the whole restaurant will know, too, since my cheeks are so hot. Unfortunately, my tendency to blush like a tomato remains unchanged.
Beckett leans closer—close enough for me to breathe in the woodsy, outdoor scent that’s become home to me—and says, “Griffin Mercer, those blushes are going to be the death of me,” and I decide maybe I don’t mind my blushing so much.
Before I can respond, the door opens, and Carlos, one of Beckett’s crew guys, walks in. He’s wearing a suit, carrying a single red rose, and looking nervous as hell.
As soon as he spots us, he heads in our direction.
Beckett groans under his breath as he separates from me, and I smirk at his expression.
“Hey, boss,” Carlos says. “Griff.”
“Carlos.” I jump up to give the man a quick hug. “How’s your mom?”
“Better. Thanks for visiting her, man. Broken hip’s a bummer.
She’s gotta micromanage me cooking from the couch in the living room.
Carlos, don’t forget the azafran! Like I haven’t been watching her since I was a kid.
” He gives me a sheepish smile and clears his throat.
“Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. I’ll, ah… let you two get back to your night.”