Epilogue
Five years later. Pittsburgh.
The garage still smells exactly the same: motor oil and all the things Richard collects and never throws away. Some things just don't change.
Abigail has Eleanor pinned against the wall, one of Eleanor's legs propped on the edge of the shelving unit Richard put up years ago for his tools, and she's been taking her time proving that a wedding dress is no obstacle when you know what you're looking for.
She has two fingers inside Eleanor, her other hand wrapped around her throat.
Eleanor holds the back of her head, though this time the difference is that she does it with a tenderness so plain it isn't worth hiding.
"Don't come yet," Abigail says against her neck.
Eleanor cries out and squeezes her eyes shut. When she speaks, her voice comes out in pieces.
"You think I'm thirty and can hold back like I used to?"
Abigail bears down and moves her hand faster.
"Forty-five," the lawyer reminds her. "And you're still a mess."
"You make me a mess," Eleanor gasps, and Abigail bites her jaw, because this woman is going to be the death of her and she loves it completely.
Eleanor comes against the wall of her parents' garage on her own wedding day, dress shoved up, updo half undone, heels still on—because some things haven't changed in twenty-five years either, especially the last five, which became so many things.
They became Abigail Lawson's law firm, which now takes up a bigger space in downtown Pittsburgh with three lawyers she hired herself, one by one, carefully and without rushing, because Abigail had learned what it costs to build something and wasn't about to put anything up on a foundation she hadn't checked herself.
She works just as hard as she always has, but it's no longer sixteen-hour days or back-to-back weekends.
She knows Eleanor is waiting for her at home now, and that—something she didn't have for years—is the first thing she thinks of when the clock hits seven and there are still files on the desk.
They became the offers from Mercer she turned them all down without hesitating.
On Abigail's advice, she held a press conference the two of them put together themselves: agreed-upon questions and a narrow window of time to announce her permanent withdrawal from active politics.
She wouldn't hold any public office, but her career would stay pointed toward the issues she'd known her whole adult life.
Advisor and speaker, because she didn't want to seem presumptuous, but she was pretty sure her experience could be useful to others—and that, she discovered, felt like reason enough to keep going.
Eleanor Montgomery has advised leaders, candidates on the campaign trail, and local governments in the middle of a crisis.
She's lectured at universities coast to coast, especially the ones training the future politicians who still believe that politics is clean if you practice it with enough conviction.
Daniel disappeared—and he really did. Once the house was sold and the papers were signed, he simply never surfaced again. From what Abigail heard through sources she didn't bother tracking too closely, he'd settled in Miami.
Five years are also the fights, and there have been plenty.
Because Eleanor is still Eleanor and Abigail is still Abigail, and two people with personalities this strong and this fully formed don't build a life together without moments where things crack under the pressure.
They've had fights that started over something small and ended up dredging up something deeper, and they've had the uncomfortable conversations afterward, too, because they both know by now that what they have is the kind of thing that doesn't break over small stuff—not unless you let it.
Over these years they've changed the curtains—six times, exactly—though they've only repainted the walls twice.
They planted jasmine in the garden because it smells like the home they grew up in, like every Christmas, every birthday, every Thanksgiving and Halloween when they'd disappear into some corner while Carol kept their husbands busy.
Five years of Carol and her knee surgery, which gave them both a scare neither will ever forget, and which reminded them exactly why they chose Pittsburgh.
There's Richard, retired now, finally with time for all the things he put off for years—who called Abigail just the other day to ask if she could swing by Saturday to help him put up some new shelves in the study.
Five years. So many things. And yet here they are.
The garage lights are still off, and what little light there is slips through the high window.
Abigail straightens the dress on Eleanor's shoulder with the same gesture she always uses, and Eleanor looks at her the way she did the day Richard officially introduced them at that restaurant, when she didn't understand why her heart had started beating like that. Now… now she knows.
When Abigail is done, Eleanor reaches out and their fingers lace together—that gesture that started on a Halloween night and marked them both forever.
They look at each other and smile; this time will be the first that, after slipping off to a dark corner, they walk out holding hands with nothing left to hide.
The garden at Richard and Carol's house is full of people and the smell of jasmine.
There are tables with white linens, flowers, and string lights glowing over the guests.
The music plays soft, and the laughter of Richard's sister drifts through the air.
Cousin Sophie was the first to accept the wedding invitation and has shown up with a new man Abigail hasn't seen before, one who's already eyeing everyone with a little too much interest—just like that Connor from a few years back.
"The brides finally showed up," someone says when they spot them coming through the side gate.
They both smile, and out of pure instinct Eleanor glances at her mother. Carol is standing beside Richard with a glass in her hand, and when their eyes meet, she winks.
"Girls, where have you two been?" Richard asks, moving toward them.
"Women's business, sweetheart," Carol answers, taking her husband's arm to walk over to the newlyweds. "It's rude to ask."
Carol winks again, and this time Abigail winks back. In some ways, what they have has been possible because Carol always knew the truth of what they'd once called their worst secret.
Someone presses a glass into each of the newlyweds' hands.
"To the brides!"
Abigail hears it, but her gaze is fixed on her wife's face, and when Eleanor Montgomery turns to meet her eyes, they both know that what they have is forever.
"It's always been you and me," Eleanor says, turning her whole body toward Abigail.
"I love you, Ellie," Abigail whispers, and kisses her on the lips.
They both turn and raise their glasses to toast with their family, because at last they each wear a ring on the finger they'd wanted one on since they were teenagers.
Not for the jewelry itself, but for everything it means—because sometimes our worst secret is, in fact, the only thing that ever kept us alive.