Epilogue Part Two Ivan
Jay falls asleep four hours into the long drive, his head resting against the window. I don't mind at all. He was up half the night, too wired from the wedding to sleep. And then he was up again at dawn because old habits die hard.
He needs the rest. And besides, I don't want him to know where we're going yet. I've kept the honeymoon destination a secret from him.
I told him we'd be gone four days and to trust me completely. He did, because that's who Jay is now—someone who can trust without spiraling.
It took us a long time to get to this point in our lives.
But we made it.
The drive to Destin, Florida, is supposed to take about six hours. I glance at Jay when we cross the Florida state line, but he isn't awake to notice.
Jay finally stirs awake when we cross a long bridge going over a bay. "Where are we?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "We're on a bridge."
"Almost there," I say, grinning at him.
He sits up straighter, looking out the window with growing interest. There's nothing remarkable to see now that we're off the bridge. Just a highway with businesses and restaurants. He looks at me questioningly, but I just smile mysteriously.
A few miles later, I turn off onto a smaller road. Jay watches the scenery change—condos and beach shops replacing the strip malls. Then I make one more turn, and suddenly the road dead-ends.
And there it is. Right in front of us.
The beach and the gorgeous Gulf of Mexico.
The beach stretches out wide in front of us with white sand so bright it's almost blinding in the sunlight.
The water color shifts from brilliant turquoise to deep emerald to dark blue as it stretches toward the horizon.
And overhead, seagulls are squawking, their calls mixing with the rhythmic sound of the waves.
This is Jay's safe place.
The one he described to me when we were kids—the beach he'd never been to but imagined anyway, the place he went in his mind when everything else was too much to bear.
White sand. Blue water. Blue sky. Seagulls.
I brought him here and made it real.
"Ivan." He's gripping the door handle so hard his knuckles are white. "How did you—where—"
"I've been planning this for months," I tell him. "I wanted to take you to your safe place for our honeymoon. To let you see that it's real. To let you stand in the sand and swim in the water. And know that you're finally safe with me."
He turns to look at me, and there are tears streaming down his face unchecked.
"I've never seen a beach," he whispers. "Ivan, I've never—I've never been to a beach. Not once in my entire life."
"I know." I reach over and take his hand. "Me either. That's why we're here. Four days, just us, nothing to do but swim and eat and fuck. No responsibilities. No work. Just us."
He's out of the truck before I can say anything else, walking toward the water like he's being pulled by something he can't resist. I watch him stop at the edge of the parking lot where the sand begins, looking down at it.
He doesn't know what to do. Then he crouches and rolls up his pants to his calves, steps out of his shoes carefully, and takes his first step onto the beach.
"It's soft," he shouts at me. "Hurry! Come here! Ivan, the sand is so incredibly soft. And it's warm. It's exactly like I imagined. It's exactly—"
He can't finish. He just stands there, barefoot in the white sand, staring out at the endless water, crying openly.
I get out of the truck and go to him. I wrap my arms around him from behind, my chin on his shoulder, and we stand there together watching the waves roll in and break on the shore.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for bringing me here. It's perfect."
"Happy honeymoon," I say, and kiss the side of his neck.
We stay at the beach for a while, just taking it in, before I drive us to the condo.
It's a small complex right on the water, nothing fancy—three stories, weathered by salt air and time, balconies overlooking the Gulf.
The unit I rented is on the second floor.
It's small—a living room that flows into a kitchen, a bedroom with a king-size bed, a bathroom with a shower that's seen better days.
But the balcony opens right onto the beach, and when Jay steps outside and leans on the railing, the wind ruffling his dark hair, I know I made the right choice.
"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," he says. "The water is sparkling like diamonds. I can't believe I've never seen a beach before."
I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. "It's just like you described, and the way I always imagined it, too."
He turns around and kisses me, slow and deep. I feel the tension that's been living in his shoulders for as long as I've known him finally start to unwind completely.
We spend the first afternoon on the beach.
The October sun is warm but not brutal, the air carrying just enough breeze to keep comfortable.
The beach is mostly empty—a couple walking a dog near the water's edge, a few people fishing in the distance with elaborate setups, but otherwise we have the sand to ourselves.
Jay strips down to the swim trunks I secretly bought for him—dark blue ones that sit low on his hips—and runs straight into the water like a kid. I follow more slowly, watching him, unable to stop smiling.
He dives under the waves and comes up laughing and sputtering, salt water streaming down his face.
"It's so warm!" he shouts back to me. "And clear. I can see fish nibbling my toes. Ivan, get in here, it's absolutely perfect!"
I wade in until the water is up to my chest, and then Jay is there, wrapping himself around me, his legs around my waist, his arms around my neck. The waves rock us gently, and I hold him up, my hands on his back, feeling the solid weight of him.
He's gained weight this past year. Real weight, healthy weight, muscle and substance where there used to be sharp edges and visible ribs and bones. He eats like a man now—full meals, seconds when he wants them.
"You look so good," I tell him, running my hands down his sides, feeling the definition there. "Do you know that? You look healthy. Strong. I love seeing you now."
"I feel strong." He grins, and it's the open, unguarded grin of someone who isn't afraid anymore. "I feel like I could do anything. Like nothing could stop me."
"You can. You already have."
We float together until the salt water has made our skin tight, then stumble back to shore and collapse on the towels I spread out earlier. Jay lies on his back, arms spread wide, staring up at the endless sky.
"I used to imagine this," he says quietly, his voice almost lost in the sound of the waves. "I'd close my eyes and picture this exact thing. White sand. Blue water. Blue sky. Seagulls. I'd try to go here in my mind."
He turns his head to look at me, his dark eyes wet.
"I never thought I'd actually be here."
"You're here." I reach over and take his hand, lacing our fingers together. "You made it. We both made it."
"Yes, we did. I wish we could've known back then, that we would be right here one day. Together, safe, happy."
I let out a sigh. "Me too."
We watch the sunset from the beach, sitting side by side in the sand, as the sun sinks slowly into the Gulf. Jay leans against me, his head on my shoulder, and neither of us says anything for a long time. We don't need to. Some moments are too big for words, too perfect to interrupt.
For dinner, we walk to a seafood restaurant right on the water.
A casual place with picnic tables and paper plates and the freshest seafood I've ever tasted in my life.
Jay orders a massive platter of fried shrimp and devours every single bite with obvious enjoyment, then steals half my fish tacos without even a hint of apology.
"You're a thief," I tell him, but I'm grinning the whole time.
"You love me anyway."
"I do. I married you, remember?"
"Vaguely." He grins back mischievously. "Something about rings and crying?"
"That sounds about right."
We walk back along the beach as the stars come out, our shoes in our hands, the water lapping at our feet. The moon is nearly full, casting silver light across the sand and the water, and Jay keeps stopping to look at it.
"I keep waiting to wake up," he admits. "I keep thinking I'm going to open my eyes, and all of this will have been just a cruel dream."
"It's not a dream." I stop walking and turn to face him, taking both his hands. "We're married, we're on our honeymoon, and tomorrow we're going to wake up and watch the sunrise and drink coffee on the balcony and do it all over again."
Back at the condo, I barely get the door closed before Jay is on me.
He kisses me like he's starving, his hands fisting in my shirt, walking me backward toward the bedroom. We tumble onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter and the salt of the ocean still on our skin.
"Shower first?" I manage between kisses. "We're covered in sand and salt."
"Don't care." He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it somewhere behind him. "Want you now. Need you now. Shower later."
I can't argue with that logic.
We undress each other slowly this time, savoring every moment. No urgency. We have days. We have the rest of our lives. There's no need to rush.
Jay lies back on the bed, and I take a long moment just to look at him.
The bright moonlight coming through the window paints silver stripes across his body—the planes of his chest, the definition in his arms, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
He's always been beautiful, but now there's a solidity to him, a presence, that wasn't there before.
"What?" he asks, self-conscious under my gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Can't I admire my new husband?"
"Say it again."
"My husband." I lower myself over him, pressing kisses to his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat. "Mine."
"Yours," he breathes. "Always yours."