Bonus Epilogue
Gerald
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stand outside the darkened windows of Rosie’s Diner, indecision wracking me.
The street is quiet; most of Mount Pella is already tucked in for the night.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate, wondering if this whole idea is just another mistake in my long history of mistakes.
But I’ve come this far. Taking a deep breath that still feels restricted despite what the doctors tell me about my recovery, I rap my knuckles against the door before I can talk myself out of it.
For a moment, nothing happens. The diner remains dark except for a sliver of light coming from somewhere towards the back of the restaurant.
I’m about to turn away when movement catches my eye.
A small figure emerges, and even from here, I recognize her immediately.
She’s shorter than I remember, but there’s something unmistakable about the way she moves.
Her hair, once a rich brown, is now dyed lime green. Some things change; some things don’t.
Iris approaches the door, an annoyed expression on her face until she gets close enough to see who’s standing outside. I watch recognition dawn in her eyes, followed by disbelief. She freezes for a second, then unlocks the door and cracks it open just enough to speak through.
“We’re closed,” she says, though her tone lacks conviction. “Hours are clearly posted.”
“I know,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended. “I was hoping to talk to you. Just for a few minutes.”
She studies me, her eyes still the same penetrating blue, taking in every detail of my appearance. I resist the urge to straighten my jacket or smooth what remains of my hair.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she finally says, a slight smile playing at the corners of her red lips. “I would have thought hell would freeze over before Gerald Kelley turned up on my doorstep again.”
“I think Iowa winters are close enough,” I attempt a joke, but it falls flat.
She steps back, opening the door wider. “I can give you a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say, relief washing over me as I step inside.
The diner smells like coffee and grease and something sweet — pie, maybe. The red vinyl booths gleam under the low lights she’s left on, and the wood floor has been polished to a shine. Iris has always been meticulous about her space.
“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to a booth near the counter. “I’ll make some coffee.”
I slide into the booth, my knees protesting at the movement. Everything protests these days. I watch as Iris moves behind the counter, her hands sure and quick as she sets up the coffeemaker. She was always efficient, even when we were young. Some things never change.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her back still to me as she measures coffee grounds. “I heard about your heart attack.”
“Better,” I say, adjusting my position on the seat. “The doctors have me on a new diet and exercise plan. I walk a mile every day now.”
“Good for you.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
A snort of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “I wouldn’t die before I had the pleasure of divorcing Paula Kelley.”
Iris’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a moment I glimpse the girl I knew, the one who didn’t take anything from anyone, least of all me. “Well, well,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips. “Wonders never cease.”
She brings two mugs of coffee to the table and slides into the booth across from me. Her movement is still graceful, though I notice a slight stiffness about her as she sits down. We’re both getting older, though she wears it better than I do.
“You take it black, if I remember correctly,” she says, pushing one mug toward me.
“You remember correctly.” I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. “Thank you.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I search for words, all my carefully planned speeches evaporating now that I’m actually sitting across from her.
“How are your kids?” Iris asks, breaking the silence. “The gossips say that Adam was spotted back in town recently, and Caitlin was with him.” Her voice softens when she mentions their names. “If they found their way back to each other, I’m glad. Assuming he treats her right, of course.”
“They are working things out,” I tell her, grateful for something to say. “They both came to see me in the hospital. Adam’s… different now. Happier.”
“So he finally stood up to his mother. Good for him.”
I nod, taking a sip of coffee to hide my discomfort. It’s good coffee, strong and rich, just how I like it.
“I’m glad at least one Kelley man woke up before it was too late,” Iris continues, her gaze direct and challenging.
The words hit their mark, and I look down at my coffee, watching the steam rise and dissipate. She’s right, of course. Adam had the courage to walk away from a toxic situation while he still had a chance at happiness. It took me forty years and two heart attacks to find the same courage.
“Iris?” I wait until she’s looking at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t defend you that day at the church picnic when my mother said your dress looked cheap. And for every other time I didn’t defend you.”
Iris sits back, surprise flickering across her face. She takes a long sip of her coffee before responding. “That was over forty years ago, Gerald.”
“I know,” I say, the words feeling inadequate. “But I still owe you that apology. I was a coward.”
She studies me over the rim of her mug; her gaze thoughtful. “I forgave you a long time ago,” she says finally. “Had to. Carrying around that kind of anger isn’t good for a person.”
Relief washes through me, though I know I don’t deserve it. “Thank you,” I say simply.
“You’re welcome.” She sets her mug down with a decisive click. “Though I have to say, I’m curious what brought this on after all this time.”
I stare into my coffee, searching for the right words. “That was the day you ended things with me after that picnic. For a long time, I was hurt. I felt like the victim. You knew what my mother was like. She had no filter, but she didn’t mean anything by it. Why couldn’t you be more understanding?”
I scoff at my own youthful delusions. “Let’s just say that having a brush with death strips away all of your illusions. Makes you think about the things you regret. The mistakes you’ve made.”
“Was I one of those mistakes?” Her tone is light, but there’s a challenge in her eyes.
“No,” I say quickly, then correct myself. “Well, yes. But not in the way you mean. You weren’t a mistake. How I treated you was.”
I take a deep breath, then admit what I’ve never said aloud to anyone. “I only started dating Paula because I was sure it would make you jealous. I thought you’d come crawling back.”
For a moment, Iris just stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, she throws back her head and laughs, a full-bodied sound that fills the empty diner. “Oh, Gerald,” she gasps between laughs, “that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”
Her laughter is infectious, and I chuckle along with her, even as warmth creeps up my neck. “It wasn’t my finest moment,” I admit.
“That’s putting it mildly,” she says, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “And how did that work out for you?”
“About as well as you’d expect,” I say dryly. “Forty years in an unhappy marriage, three wonderful children — well, two wonderful children,” I correct myself, thinking of Hailey who has too much of her mother’s mean streak, “and a heart attack or two later, and here I am.”
“Here you are,” she agrees, still chuckling. “Your mother was probably thrilled. She was always pushing Paula at you when we were still together.”
“She was.” I agree with a wince.
“Well,” her laughter has subsided into a gentle smile. “I’m glad you got Lauren and Adam out of the deal. They seem like good people.”
“They are,” I say, warmth filling my chest when I think of my children. “Though I can’t take much credit for that. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a good father. But I’m trying to be better now.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Iris says softly. “It’s never too late to do better.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping our coffee. The diner is peaceful at this hour, the night pressing against the windows, the rest of the world held at bay.
“You never had children,” I say, not a question but an observation.
Iris shakes her head, a sad smile on her face. “We found out I couldn’t soon after we got married. But we had a wonderful marriage, anyway. Traveled a lot. Had adventures. Made a life that was ours.”
I think about my own marriage, about the constraints and expectations, about the slow death of any joy or spontaneity. “Robert treated you well?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
“Yes,” she says, and her face softens with memory. “He was the very best husband. He loved me exactly as I was. Never tried to change me, never made me feel like I was too much or not enough.” She meets my eyes, understanding in her gaze. “I’m guessing that wasn’t your experience.”
“No,” I admit, looking down at my hands, at the wedding ring I still wear out of habit though the divorce papers are already filed. “No, it wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Iris says, and I can tell she means it. “Everyone deserves to be loved for who they are.”
The words cut deeper than I expect, touching a wound I’ve carried so long I’ve forgotten it was there. “I’m glad you had that,” I tell her honestly. “You deserved it.”
We fall silent again, contemplating the weight of paths not taken, choices made and unmade. I drain the last of my coffee and set the mug down with a sigh. “I was a young, arrogant fool,” I say finally. “And now I’m just an old fool.”
Iris reaches across the table and pats my hand. “You can stop being a fool anytime, you know.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I admit. “Stop being a fool. Start being… I don’t know. Someone better.”
“It’s a good start,” she says, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. She glances at the clock on the wall and stands, collecting our empty mugs. “It’s getting late, and I still need to finish closing up.”
I nod, understanding the dismissal for what it is. I’ve taken up enough of her time. I slide out of the booth, my body protesting with various aches and twinges. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say. “And for listening.”
Iris smiles, a genuine one that reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. “You’re welcome. It was… surprisingly nice to see you.”
I nod at her and turn to leave, but her voice stops me. “Gerald?”
I turn back to find her watching me, her head tilted to one side. “We run daily lunch specials. And our pie is still the best in town. Maybe you’ll stop by sometime.”
“I’d like that, Iris,” I tell her, unable to stop the smile from breaking out on my face. “I’d like that a lot.”
As I step back out into the night, the cool air feels clean in my lungs, like the first real breath I’ve taken in years. Behind me, I hear the lock click as Iris secures the door. I don’t look back as I walk to my car, but I feel lighter somehow than I have in decades.
It’s a small thing — this conversation, this tentative peace made with the past. But as I drive home, I think perhaps it’s a beginning. A chance to stop being a fool, as Iris put it. A chance to be someone better before it’s too late.
The end. Or is it a beginning?