Epilogue
Cole
Itake the exit into Glenmire a little too fast.
Not reckless. Just… impatient.
She scowls at a spreadsheet that is about to discover it’s met its match.
“We’re close, Stopwatch,” I say, reaching over to nudge her knee. “Put that data down before those Joshua trees take it personally.”
“Almost done.” Tap. Tap. Swipe.
“The sun’s bleeding over the Sierras. You’re missing it.”
“I’ve got a deadline.”
“That was your excuse when I suggested we pull over at that abandoned hotel for a quick tour… of my favorite positions.”
“That place was a tetanus party waiting to happen. And—” She looks up, eyes widening. “Wow. Okay, this is gorgeous.”
“Told ya.”
“If you gloat, I’m tossing the new lingerie I packed out the window for the coyotes to enjoy.”
“You think I’d risk the chance to see your perfect body in it first? Nuh-uh. My imagination would never forgive me.”
She slides her hand into mine like it’s second nature, fingers warm, grip sure, and then leans back, her eyes drinking in the view.
One year of this.
Of us.
Of Ivy Ellison running Dare4Change campaigns like she was born for it. Of work-closet quickies that are definitely not in the employee handbook. One year of this woman turning my chaotic life into a meticulously labeled system.
My keys have a home now. With a designated hook.
My shirts are organized by “how well they showcase my forearms.” When we moved in together after six months, she presented me with a Google Doc titled Co-Habitation: A Survival Manual For The Cute But Organizationally Challenged.
I deleted it immediately; she dug it out of the trash, reshared, and restricted my editing permissions.
She even labeled me once. A Post-it note on my chest while I slept: “Property of Ivy.” Known defects: Snores like a grizzly. Blanket thief. Thinks the trash takes itself out. Known assets: Makes me coffee before I wake up, argues like a lawyer, kisses like sin, and hugging him feels like home.
I tucked it away in my one messy drawer she hasn’t found yet.
The highway narrows. Glenmire appears gradually, then all at once.
Bleached storefronts, crooked signage, and rusty pickups on both sides of the street.
Mr. Delgado works outside the local hardware store, drowning some petunias with a hose.
He waves like I was just here yesterday instead of a year ago.
I pull onto Main Street, and my chest glows warm.
The diner sits at the same corner. Same red hand-painted sign over the door, the H in Hartwell’s a little faded from the summer my dad skipped the second coat. Same striped awning. Same front window where my mom scribbles in the daily specials.
Home.
I park and hop out, beating her to the passenger door. I open it, and she gives me a soft smile as she steps down. She shields her eyes to look up at the sign.
“Hartwells,” she says, like she’s filing it away. “If the pie is as good as you claim, I owe you twenty bucks.”
“You’ll owe me more than that.”
I waggle my eyebrows, earning me a slap on the shoulder.
“Just keep an open mind today, okay, Stopwatch?”
She straightens. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I bring her hand up, press a kiss to her knuckles, then tug her toward the diner.
“Come on, tell me. What is it? Is your family weird?”
“Extremely weird.” I chuckle. “But that’s not it.”
I feel her grip tighten as I push open the door. The diner bell overhead rings with a sharp, nostalgic jingle. Ivy can’t even blink before the air explodes.
“SURPRISE!”
Noise slams into us—cheering, clapping. Someone whistles like we won the Super Bowl.
Ivy stops dead when she reads the banner: Thank you Ivy… The Salty Old Sea Hag Renovations Are Complete!
Ivy gapes, piecing together the purpose of my surprise.
One year ago, her hard work at the Hotel Bellwether raised $6.
2 million for a research vessel most people had never heard of.
That money brought the Salty Old Sea Hag back to her former glory.
And now, the Saltwater Saviors are back on the water, saving more sea lives every day.
I watch the awe move across her face.
She turns to me. “Cole.”
“Open mind,” I say.
She grabs my face and kisses me shamelessly.
Until—
“YO YO, PAUSE the PDA love birds! Content first, tongues later. We’re LIVE!”
Blaze appears, camera first.
“FAM! She’s here! Look at that face! That’s the face of a GAL who JUST GOT AMBUSHED by gratitude! SMASH that like button to show some love!”
“Blaze,” she says calmly, “Before you went live, tell me you ran backend metadata. Tags. A pinned comment. Accessibility captions.”
He staggers back, hand over his heart. “WHAT’S THIS? No ‘Hey, Blaze my bestie’? No ‘We missed you, you magnificent menace’?”
“Metadata?”
“I did the tags. I think.” He grins. “Either way, Boss, I SLAPPED A MEME of you as a mermaid on the thumbnail. You’re welcome.”
For a hot second, it felt like he was growing up. But nope, this is classic Blaze—all charm and no follow-through. Then again, I didn’t think I’d ever change. Maybe all he needs is a woman stubborn enough to put up with him.
My mom doesn’t walk toward Ivy. She launches.
One second she’s behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron; the next, she has Ivy’s face cupped in both palms, her smile so bright it could power the neon sign outside.
She has the homing instincts of a sea lion, which, yes, are different from a seal.
Eleven months ago, I called home and said I met someone in a voice that apparently told her everything she needed to know.
“Ivy!” she gasps, hugging her like they’ve been best friends forever. “Look at you. Cole’s photos don’t do you justice. You’re even prettier in person.”
Before Ivy can respond, my dad steps in, catching my mom by the shoulders before she can go in for a second hug. He’s like a sun-aged version of me. Same build, same admiring eyes I recognize now, because I wear them too.
“So this is the girl who keeps our boy in check?” he says, chuckling.
“Oh, you know it.” Ivy smirks. “And it’s a full-time job.”
“Hey,” I speak up, “I still bring a healthy amount of chaos to this relationship.”
She leans in, kissing my cheek like it’s punctuation. “Exactly. That’s why it works.”
My mom squeals like she just won the lottery (honestly, same).
“You’ll have time to interrogate her later,” I tell my parents, steering Ivy forward. “She’s got people waiting.”
The familiar faces of marine biologists are scattered around the room. Orson is holding court by the window, already mid-lecture to a table of townspeople who definitely did not sign up for his “Seals vs. Sea Lions” TED Talk.
Dr. Echols found his tribe after the campaign: the internet, where no one is safe from his obsession. Blaze, ever the enabler, helped him start the account @dr.scepter.echols. Overnight, he grew to 400,000 followers, all of whom now know more about marine mammals than they ever wanted to.
Near the register, Sienna locks eyes with Ivy.
They collide like magnets, arms tight, laughing.
They became absolute besties after their shared time at the Saltwater Saviors’ weekend.
Ivy appointed herself Sienna’s personal Cupid, and so far, she’s had six setups and…
no successes. Still, Ivy’s got a shortlist (I’ve seen the spreadsheet) and God help whoever’s on it.
Hours later, at the corner booth, Ivy holds a fork in one hand and a slice of my mother’s key lime pie in the other.
She lets the first bite melt on her tongue and yeah…
she’s having a religious experience. It’s that damn good.
My dad shouts something over the roar of the crowd, the punchline swallowed by the chaos, and Ivy just loses it.
Head back, hand slamming the table, no filter, just pure, unbridled joy.
I feel that laugh in my chest like she’s rewired something permanent.
I scan the room. Blaze, still livestreaming. Orson, still correcting. Sienna shaking her head at both of them. This crew of unlikely heroes showed up for a weekend job and ended up rewriting my entire story.
Ivy catches my eye across the room.
She mouths: Your mom’s pie.
I mouth back: You owe me.
She winks, then takes a bite of her pie, slowly this time. Her tongue curls around the fork tines, licking the frosting clean with light, sensual laps. And fuck, I’m squirming in my seat.
She holds up her glass of water—eyes locked on me the entire time—and wraps her wet lips around the straw. She sucks hard and swallows slow, that faint movement in her throat driving me wild. Another long pull has me gripping the edge of the table. The vixen.
God, I love her. And the fact that she’s mine? Still blows my mind.
I catch her hand and steer her outside before my mother can offer Ivy a third slice of pie.
The screen door bangs shut behind us, muffling the room noise inside: Blaze’s running commentary, my dad’s booming laugh, and Orson’s nasal corrections. Out here, it’s just dry desert air, cooling fast, and the hum of the vent overhead.
We round the corner, and Ivy jerks to a stop, her heels kicking up a cloud of grit.
“Cole.” She tilts her head back, her gaze traveling up and up. “Is that the ball?”
“Yup. Eighth wonder of the world. And the only wonder in Glenmire.”
It’s a massive, tangled disaster of black and neon-colored extension cords all coiled into a ten-foot-high sphere of absurdity. It looks like a giant, electrified ball of yarn, and next to it a sign reads: The World’s Biggest Ball of Extension Cords.
“The campaign I told you about,” I say, leaning one shoulder against the siding. “The one that kept this town from going dark. People dug up cords from garages, junk drawers, under their damn couches…” I pause, rubbing my neck. “Yeah, it’s stupid. I know.”
“Don’t,” she says softly, her eyes still on the monument. “Don’t call it stupid. This is the heart of the town, Cole. You saved this place.”