Epilogue
ABBY
June the following year
“I’m so excited you’re finally letting me see the place,” I say for the millionth time on our way to see Miles’s most recently finished project.
He’s been working on the Rhode Island beach house all year, coming out at least once a month since he left Mexico to check on the progress. It’s a six-hour drive from my apartment, and usually we spend it on the phone, so today already feels like an adventure.
We left my place at five in the morning, and it’s nearly eleven o’clock, so we must be close.
“I wanted you to see it before it went on the market. You should get to see the fruits of your labor,” he says, looking over at me from the driver’s side of the car. He reaches over to my lap and takes my hand in his.
As soon as the house was in good enough shape, I got to start the fun part of remodeling—well, what I call the fun part.
Electrical and foundational things are boring to me, but picking out paint, hardwood, appliances, all of that was really fun.
And Miles is terrible at it, so it took absolutely zero begging for him to agree to let me be the designer. It was a fun side project for me.
The transition going back to school was as hard as I thought it would be, but now that I’m more settled, I have more space in my life than teaching allowed for, and my migraines are under control in a way they haven’t been in years, so getting to work on Miles’s flip project, even from a distance, has been a welcome change of pace.
The scenery around us shifts from residential small town to more coastal, and by the time we park in the driveway of the massive house, my jaw is nearly on the ground.
“Oh, Miles. This is…”
Beach house is a generous term given that the house is on a cliffside facing the Atlantic Ocean.
It’s massive, two stories at least, maybe three if the top turrets aren’t just a windowed attic.
There’s a two-car garage with black doors, and the house is painted white.
I recognize them as suggestions I made and feel secretly pleased with myself for the choice.
The landscaping is neat and gives the house a more finished look.
“I love surprising you,” he says with a smile. He comes around to my side of the truck and opens my door, helping me out with a steady hand.
It took four months for me to beg Miles to be my boyfriend, but I only had to ask once.
From the time he left Mexico and moved back into his mom’s house in Pittsburgh, about three hours away from me, Miles was just always there.
Like he never left my life eleven years ago.
The distance was never an issue for us. He came to see me every weekend that he wasn’t in Rhode Island, took me on dates, and, true to his word, earned my trust.
Therapy was a big part of that. He started going weekly when he got back, and we talked a lot about what he was learning about anxiety and how to manage it. We talked more about his dad.
“How much did you pay for this house?” I ask.
“It’s not polite to talk about money,” he says and leads me up the driveway to the house.
I stop short when the front door comes into view.
“The door,” I gasp.
“Yes?”
I look up at him, my eyes glistening. “It’s yellow.”
“That’s the color you picked, baby girl.”
“I know, but it’s so much more beautiful in person.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
I point to the flowers on the way in. I can’t name a single one, but they are stunning. They look like they belong in some garden by a cottage in the English countryside, not a cliffside mansion in Rhode Island.
“Did you pick these out?” I ask. Gardening is not really my thing; I told him he could handle that.
“I let the landscapers do their thing. I gave them a little direction, but I leave the professionals to that usually.”
The porch is wide, and while it doesn’t wrap around the house, it is large with plenty of room for furniture.
It will be a cozy spot for mornings in spring, summer, and fall.
I pause to picture Miles and I sitting on the porch in some rocking chairs a few years from now and have to shake my head and remember that this place isn’t ours.
Maybe one day.
“Ready?” Miles asks as he types in a key code on the front door, opening it so we can step inside.
He takes off his shoes and I follow suit, trying to comprehend the size of this place.
He’d said it was nearly 7,000 square feet, and I’m trying to wrap my head around that as I take in the foyer and the open space to our right.
“That would be a dining area down there.” He points to more open space toward the back of the house.
“You went with the hardwood I suggested,” I say, delighted to see the light pine I’d picked from the options he’d presented me.
“You were right, it maintains the light, airy feeling of the house.”
“White walls in the living and dining room isn’t bad.”
“There’s more color in some other rooms. Let’s go this way first.”
Miles leads me to the left down a short hall that opens to a massive laundry room and a pantry. The laundry room has white cabinets and a white countertop. Another suggestion of mine. And the bathroom has some color, a seafoam green that’s part of the paint scheme I’d chosen for Miles.
“It’s so cool to see my vision in real life,” I say.
That’s been one of my favorite parts of my graphic design program, as it’s always been one of my favorite things about art.
Seeing the images in my mind come to life with my own hands.
Flipping a house has to feel similar. You buy a place, set a vision, and make it come to life.
That I got to have a hand in all of this is thrilling.
I lace my fingers through Miles’s and squeeze his hand.
“Thank you for letting me be part of this,” I say, and when he smiles at me, I swear my knees go a little wobbly.
“Ready to see the upstairs?”
“I want to see the kitchen.”
“Upstairs first, then kitchen.”
I feign indignance. “Why did you make it seem like I had a choice about what we were seeing next?”
“Because it’s cute when you think you’re in charge,” he says with a wink.
The stairs lead up from the living room to a hallway that leads to the primary bedroom off to the left and a sitting area and more bedrooms off to the right. Each room has windows with incredible views of the water. I point out every suggestion I made that he took.
The look on Miles’s face is pride, and I feel that in myself.
The graphic design program I’ve been part of has given me that.
Every time I complete a project, I feel accomplished in a way I didn’t feel while teaching.
I show Miles everything I make, and every time, he oohs and aahs like it’s the best thing I’ve ever made.
Miles has given Hazel a run for her money as my biggest supporter. Not just about my art, but about everything. He’s always encouraging me to use my voice, to advocate for myself, and if I say I want to do something, it’s always yes.
Except for a second cat. He keeps vetoing that, insisting that Captain is perfect and we shouldn’t mess with perfection. And Captain does love Miles, to everyone’s surprise. I don’t think Captain would want to share.
The upstairs is just as expansive as the downstairs, but the crowning jewel is the primary bathroom. A deep bathtub sits next to a huge window, with a view overlooking the water. From the tub, a person could watch the waves crash against the rocks for hours. I climb into the tub and kick my feet.
“This is incredible,” I say. “Whoever gets this place is going to be so lucky.”
Miles just smiles at me adoringly. Something he’s done a lot of in the last year. I don’t think anyone has ever loved me as well as he has in the last four months. Not even College Miles loved me this well.
He still hasn’t said it, but I know he feels it. And I know it’s coming.
He leads me back down the stairs and through the empty living room to the kitchen, where, to my surprise, there’s a bouquet of fresh flowers on the counter—a beautiful mix of pink and purple florals that look like they might grow in the front yard.
Tucked in the flowers is a note with my name on it.
I look to Miles. “These are for me?”
He nods, a knowing smile on his face.
“This is so sweet, thank you,” I say. I bury my nose in the bouquet and then lean toward him for a kiss, which he obliges. “Is this your way of thanking me for helping you pick the designs for this place?”
“Read the note,” he says with a head tilt toward the bouquet. His hand rests on my lower back.
I pick up the note and flip it over, reading the words once. Then twice. I look at Miles and then back down at the note.
Brow furrowed, I read the note a few more times, my heart starting to beat a little harder. A little faster.
“This note says, ‘Welcome Home,’” I say.
Miles takes the bouquet and the note out of my hands and sets them on the counter, sliding his arms around my waist, pulling me toward him.
“I’m not flipping the house,” he says.
“What do you mean? What does that mean?”
“I’m keeping it.”
“You’re…”
I’m hearing the words he’s saying, but they’re not fully registering.
“I’m keeping this house. For us.”
“But the money—it costs so much money. I think. You won’t tell me. You can’t do that, you can’t keep it.”
“I can, and I will.”
“Why?” My voice cracks, rising emotions making it harder to get words out.
“Because once upon a time, I was a twenty-something boy in love with a twenty-something girl and I couldn’t tell her that I loved her, so instead I promised her a Rhode Island beach house so she would know how much I love her.”
My lips are quivering. It’s too much—all the love in my heart for this man and the overwhelming information that he’s keeping the house that I helped design.
“Are you still that boy?” I ask.
Miles shakes his head. “The Rhode Island beach house is yours. And I love you, Abby.”
My eyes well and spill over with tears. The words I’ve been waiting to hear—not just for the last few months, but the words I deserved to hear all those years ago.
It’s as meaningful as I thought it would be.
Not just for me, but for twenty-two-year-old Abby, who deserved to be told how loved she was.
“I love you so much, Miles.”
I try to swallow back the emotion, but there are too many of them, and I let my tears drip onto his shoulder as I wrap my arms around his neck in a hug. I bury my nose into his neck, inhaling the familiar spicy vanilla scent of him. He holds me tight, his thumb stroking my back.
“Question for a question,” he prompts, his words spoken right into my ear.
“I don’t have a— Wait, what are you doing?”
He pulls away from me and lowers to the ground to kneel, one leg propped up. “Getting down on one knee,” he answers. “My turn.”
“Your turn,” I say, breathless as he digs into his pocket, withdrawing a small navy velvet box and cracking it open to reveal a stunning vintage diamond ring.
“I said I’m keeping the house, but the truth is that this house isn’t for me.
It’s for us. It’s for you. And right now it’s in my name, but everything that is mine is yours.
This house, my heart, everything, Abby. You knew this day would come, that I’d finally ask you to be my wife, and today is that day.
Let me love you forever, Abby. Marry me. ”
“You didn’t ask a question,” I say, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Do I need to?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, you don’t need to ask.”
I cup his face in my hands and plant a soft kiss on his lips.
“Is that a yes?” he asks.
“It’s a yes.”