Chapter 24 #2
“For fifteen years, this person has published twenty-three novels under the pen name V. Langley. Romance novels that have sold millions of copies worldwide and have touched countless hearts, including mine.” She dabs at her eye with a handkerchief.
“And tonight, for the first time ever, V. Langley is going to reveal their true identity.”
The murmurs become excited whispers. I see people looking around, trying to guess who it might be. A few glances land on Jessica, probably wondering if she’s V. Langley.
“Please join me in welcoming to the stage...my dear friend...Scott Avery.”
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the whispers become gasps.
Then the gasps become—
“What?” Penelope half-rises from her seat with an expression of pure shock.
“The grumpy landlord?” someone says in the back.
“Scott Avery writes romance novels?” Mrs. Ziegler sounds delighted.
I walk to the podium on legs that don't quite feel like mine. The crowd is still buzzing, a hive of shocked whispers and excited chatter. Jessica is beaming at me, her eyes bright.
“Hi,” I say into the microphone. “So. Surprise?”
Laughter. Some of it nervous, some of it genuine.
“I've been lying to all of you for fifteen years, and I'm sorry about that. Well—” I glance at Grandma Hensley. “Not lying, apparently. 'Maintaining a pen name.' Very different.”
More laughter.
“The truth is, I started writing because I didn't know how else to process my feelings.” I pause. “They were right because it did help, and somewhere along the way, the writing became became a way to believe in what I was too scared to believe in out loud. Love. Hope. Happy endings.”
The crowd has gone quiet now.
“I hid behind V. Langley because I was afraid that people would think I was weak for writing about feelings.
That the businessman who wore suits and made tough decisions couldn't also be the person who cried while writing reunion scenes.” I shake my head.
“I was wrong. Being vulnerable isn't weakness.
It's just...hard. And I've spent a lot of years choosing the easy path instead of the honest one.”
Michelle has her arm around Jessica, and they're both crying, and Hazel is passing tissues down the row like she came prepared for this exact scenario.
“But I'm done hiding, pretending to be someone I'm not. So—” I gesture at the covered easel. “I'd like to show you something.”
I pull the velvet cloth.
The cover is beautiful—a lighthouse at sunset, a couple on the beach, the title in elegant script: Between the Lines, named after Jessica’s penpal name.
“This is my new book. It's the most honest thing I've ever written.
It's about a man who's so scared of being vulnerable that he almost misses the love of his life.
It's about learning to let people see you—really see you—even when it's terrifying.
And it's about...” I take a breath. “It's about a woman who changed everything.
A woman who read my books and saw through my walls and made me want to be braver than I've ever been.”
Jessica's hand lifts to cover her mouth.
“It's about you, Jessica,” I say directly to her. “It's always been about you.”
The crowd makes a collective “awww” sound. Penelope looks like she's swallowed a lemon.
“Preorders go live tonight,” I add, because I'm still a businessman somewhere under all this emotion. “Twenty percent of proceeds go to the Twin Waves Library Fund.”
Mrs. Ziegler cheers.
“And that's—” I step back from the podium. “That's it. That's the reveal. I'm V. Langley. I write romance novels, cry at my own happy endings, and I'm desperately in love with the woman in the front row who's probably going to kill me for doing this publicly.”
The crowd starts to applaud. Then someone stands up. Before long, everyone is standing and the applause becomes a roar. Grandma Hensley is dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, and Grayson is doing that slow-clap thing that looks sarcastic but is actually sincere.
But my main focus is on the woman I love, who's pushing her way to the stage with a look on her face that I can't quite read.
“Jessica—”
She climbs the steps. The crowd goes quiet again, sensing drama.
“This—” She stops. Takes a breath. “You writing about me and donating the proceeds to the library is the most romantic and terrifying thing anyone has ever done. And I already told you how I feel in private, but I think the whole town deserves to hear it too.”
“You don't have to—”
“Scott.” She takes my hands. “Shut up.”
I obey.
She turns to face the crowd, still holding my hands, and raises her voice so everyone can hear.
“For months, I've been falling in love with this man.
First through letters I didn't know he was writing.
Then through arguments I didn't know I was enjoying. Then through moments of kindness he tried to hide because he was scared of being seen.” She squeezes my hands.
“Well, I see all of you, Scott Avery—the grumpy businessman and the secret romantic.”
“Jessica—”
“You hush. I'm not done.”
The crowd laughs softly. I shut up again.
“Has everything been perfect? Absolutely not. But has it made me happier than I’ve ever been? A thousand time yes.”
She turns back to the crowd.
“I'm in love with Scott Avery, who is apparently V.
Langley, which explains so much about those letters.
I love that he writes about feelings and cries at his own books and can't tie a tie when he's nervous.
And I'm choosing him—publicly, permanently, in front of all of you—because that's what you do when you love someone. You stand beside them.”
She turns back to me. “I love you,” she says, softer now, just for me. “And I'm done being scared.”
And then she kisses me.
Right there on stage, in front of the entire town, with Grandma Hensley cheering, the book club sobbing, and Penelope furiously recording everything on her phone.
It's a kiss like a promise and a beginning and every happy ending I've ever written, except better, because it's real.
When we finally break apart, the crowd is going absolutely wild.
Someone—I think it's Mr. Sanders—is whistling with two fingers.
Mrs. Ziegler is fanning herself with a program.
The entire book club is on their feet, hugging each other and crying and looking at us like we've just personally validated every romance novel they've ever read.
“So,” Jessica says, slightly breathless. “What now?”
I look out at the crowd—my neighbors, my friends, the family I never knew I was building. “Now we stay for the party. We all sign some books, and let Grandma Hensley take approximately seven hundred photos.”
And standing there on that stage, surrounded by people who somehow became family when I wasn't paying attention, holding hands with the woman who saw through every wall I ever built—
I finally understand what I've been writing about all these years.
Love isn't just a feeling. It's a choice you make every day. It's showing up even when you're scared. It's letting people see you, really see you, even when you'd rather hide.
It's finding your people and holding on tight and trusting that they'll catch you when you fall.
“I love you,” I say to Jessica after we’ve left the stage and found a more private area to speak on the side of the house. I want to tell her every day for the rest of my life.
“I know,” she says. “You wrote a whole book about it.”
“I'll write you a hundred books.”
She bites her lip, suddenly looking almost shy. “Speaking of books...I've been working on mine. More seriously this time.”
My heart stutters. “Jessica.”
“It's still rough. Probably terrible. But I'm hoping to finish by next spring.” She shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the vulnerability underneath. “Maybe you could read it when it's ready.”
“I would be honored.” I pull her closer. “I mean it. I've been waiting to read your words since you told me you were writing.”
“It might be garbage.”
“All first drafts are garbage. That's what revision is for.”
She laughs. “You've said that before.”
“Because it's true. And because you're going to be brilliant.”
“Start with redecorating your apartment. We can discuss my literary career later.”
She pulls me back toward the crowd, where the book club is waiting with champagne and tissues.
And for the first time in my life, I don't feel like hiding.
I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Home.