Epilogue ~ One Year Later
Noah · June
I watch through the window painted with blueberries outside of Main Street Coffee as my wife creates trenches, pacing around the tables set up for the book launch event. She tugs at the ends of her straight brown hair, worry coating her face as she bites her bottom lip.
I’ve been standing here for over a minute, and I should have entered and put her at ease by now, but she’s adorable when she’s fretting.
When she stops in her tracks and leans against the table like she’s about to vomit, however, the doting husband side of me resurfaces, and I push open the glass door.
Esme spins on her sparkling orange heel, her off-white skirt fluttering around her.
Her tense shoulders drop as relief washes across her tanned face.
“You’re late,” she says on an exhale, but we meet each other in the middle of the room, and she wraps her petite arms around my waist. I kiss her on the forehead while relishing in her floral, feminine scent.
“And you’re a strung-out mess.” I stare into her soft brown eyes, fingering flyaways out of her face and tucking them behind her ear.
She is so beautiful; it stuns me every time I gaze upon her.
Thank You, Lord, I silently pray, for bringing her back to me.
Aloud, I say, “But I come bearing a gift.”
I reach into the back pocket of my white linen pants and pull out an orange Sharpie. But not just any orange Sharpie—it’s a specific sunset orange hue that matches our book cover perfectly. I’ve been searching for two days for this specific color simply because my wife wanted one last-minute.
My wife. I still can’t get over those two words.
Meeting her in Bora Bora was nothing short of God’s perfect timing, but losing her to the intricacies of the human mind was pure hell, the darkest moments of my life outside of losing my mom.
I shake the thoughts, not wanting to put a damper on this day.
“You found one?” Esme’s eyes widen as she snatches it from my hand.
She stares down at it as if it’s a relic worthy of protection, and then she throws herself into my arms again, causing me to stumble backward a few steps until I gain my footing and wrap my arms around her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her.
She lets out a squeal, and I can’t stop the smile sweeping across my face at her joy.
I live for every smile. I would scour the ends of the earth for every sunset orange Sharpie if she wanted me to.
If it made her this happy. After all we’ve been through to get to this moment…
“You’re the best, babe,” Esme says as I set her down. She kisses my cheek, her eyes sparkling.
“Better than fictional Noah, my little author?” I quip, raising an eyebrow and tracing circles on her lower back.
She once confided in me that a fictional version of me, the one she wrote about in the book, often talked to her.
She said she thinks that’s when she started to fall in love even though he was somewhere between the real and the reverie.
She winks and steps out of my grasp. “Always.”
“Even when I’m late?” I grab her hips and pull her back into me as she half-heartedly tries to squirm away.
It’s impossible not to touch her when she’s near.
I had trouble keeping my hands to myself when we first met, not to mention when we reunited and started dating.
Now that we’re married? Yeah, no. I choose to be that annoying handsy couple.
I want the world to see how much I love this woman.
“You’re better than fiction because of when you’re late.” Esme boops my nose while wrinkling hers. “Being with you has taught me that real life is better than fiction because of the messiness.”
My heart thumps wildly at her statement.
She does this now and then. Stares at me as if she’s contemplating life itself, and then says some statement about how I’m so much better than the version of me she created in her head.
I think she tends to forget that the version she crafted of me came straight from her memories, with tweaks here and there.
Finishing this book alongside her has been a godsend.
It’s allowed me to dig deep into her brain and her heart under the guise of work.
Her chapters have been a step-by-step guide on how to romance her and love her well.
She’s taken notes on the chapters I’ve written, too, and puts my scenes into practice.
What a glorious year it’s been. Especially after that season of utter darkness and depression.
I drag her lips to mine, relishing in the taste of her mango lip gloss while my mind is swept away to memories of Bora Bora and mango fish tacos and our very first kiss. Esme playfully pushes me away, saying, “Okay, babe. I’ve got to make sure everything is perfect for this evening.”
“Breathe, sweetheart. You don’t need to have a panic attack before your big night.” I slip my arm around her, massaging her hips. My body hums with the contact, and I have half a mind to find a closet in this coffee shop.
Esme grabs my hands and drags me behind her as we check the table set up in the corner. It’s long with a white cloth that has Prewitt Publishing’s logo—a rising sun over an ocean—on it. There is a sign with information about me and Esme, and then three stacks of Reveling in Reverie.
Written by Lorraine E. Jenkins and Noah A.
Prewitt. It’s her debut and my debut under my real name, as a solo author instead of with my twin.
I’ve known for a while Ashton was ready to step back from writing, but I kept pushing him to continue because his worldbuilding and plotting are unmatched.
A perfect pairing to my prose. But he saw the opportunity to tell me that he wasn’t going to write any more novels when Esme invited me into writing alongside her.
There was nothing I could say or do to dissuade him.
He’s made up his mind to stick strictly to the business side of publishing, and I wish he’d tell me why instead of the stupid excuse that he’s tired of writing.
I’ve watched him sit at his laptop and draft stories that he refuses to talk about.
I’ve seen the fire in his eyes as he types away.
There’s something he’s keeping from me, but I can’t push him.
Just like he never pushed me when I realized I’d lost Esme for good.
Which wasn’t the case, thanks to my meddling, amazing brother.
I can never pay back the debt I owe to him for being bold enough for both of us.
To go against Esme’s parents’ wishes and contact her on my behalf while I tried to piece my life back together in Alaska.
Looking back, I wish I would have fought harder for her.
But the pain of her forgetting me was crushing.
I was drowning in black waves of despair, and when her dad, Gregory, threatened the restraining order in his attempt to protect Esme, it was the tsunami that took me out.
I shake my head clear, remembering now is not the time to visit that faraway place once more.
Esme loops her arm around my waist as we stand in front of the book table. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I hear a quiver in her voice when she says, “We did it, babe.”
I spin her to face me, and sure enough, there’s liquid gold in her eyes. “I’m glad we get to share our story with the world.” I kiss the top of her head as she buries her face into my chest. “Now everyone gets to know just how head over heels in love with you I am.”
Esme pulls back, a smirk on her face. “As if you haven’t declared it to the town ten times over.” She places her hand on my chest, and I entwine my fingers with hers. I lift our hands and kiss her knuckles.
“I will never tire of letting you know just how loved you are, sweetheart.”
The door flies open, and Esme jerks away from me, but then as if she remembers she is perfectly allowed to be wrapped up in me, she steps right back to my side, once more slipping her arm around my waist. I rest my arm across her shoulders as we greet the owner of Main Street Coffee.
“Y’all ready to get this shindig started?” a spunky woman with sass and attitude for days asks as she struts inside. Danica Carnes wears a pink leopard-print cross T-shirt that matches the pink streaks in her cropped ash-blonde hair. Katie McBride, Esme’s former student, follows in behind her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Esme shouts, though I feel her grip on my orange linen button-down tighten.
We set to work to put the final touches on the coffee shop.
Katie curated a special menu for the night, full of orange, mango, and other beachy flavors.
Sam and Ethan show up, followed by Branda, Ashton, and Vance.
They help set up games and tables outside on the town green off to the side of the coffee shop because we expect overflow tonight.
Vance and Branda did a phenomenal job promoting the book, even if they bickered their way through it.
Before we know it, the sun is setting and the town green is popping.
I expected everyone in Whitney to come out and support Esme, and they didn’t disappoint.
It’s almost as crowded as the Blueberry Jubilee held in the area last weekend.
Or the Founder’s Day parade held the weekend before that.
I swear there is always something going on in this one-red-light town.
But as I watch Esme laugh with Sam, Branda, her mom, and other women from the community, I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Well, Son.” Dad approaches from behind, clapping me on the back. I embrace him with a full-on hug. “Proud of you.”
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say as we pull apart. Grandma Lois hobbles up beside me, and I hug her next. “Hey, Grandma.”
“Sorry we’re a little late,” she says, holding up a bedazzled cane that matches her own. “I forgot this at home and we had to turn around. Now where’s Bertha?”
I point across the town green from my position against the red brick wall of the coffee shop. Bertha—who we all call Grannie—is tossing a cornhole bag while leaning on her original bedazzled cane. I hope to be that spritely when I’m her age.
Esme looks back at me from her circle of women, and when she sees I’m with Grandma and Dad, she walks over to us.
“Hey, Link! Lois!” Esme hugs them both, and they congratulate her on the book release, which she blushes her way through. We are still working on her ability to fully accept compliments.
I pull my wife by my side, tucking her close despite the humid June heat, as she catches up with my dad and grandma.
I love how easy it was for her to blend into my family and me into hers, once they realized I wasn’t a villain in their story, that is.
“This town really loves you,” I whisper into her ear during a lull in conversation.
“They love us,” she responds, leaning her head on my shoulder as kids rush past us in a game of tag.
Grannie hobbles our way, meeting up with Lois and receiving her new bedazzled cane with Southern flair—lots of “Oh, honey, you didn’t!” and “Bless my soul, Lois Marie.”
I don’t know if the women planned it or not, but they are mirrors of one another with their gray hair in buns, black dress pants, and sparkling orange shirts that match Esme’s heels. We will need a family photo tonight; we are all in various shades of orange, white, yellow, and pink.
I hug Grannie before passing her to Esme.
“Your title is still smutty, dear,” Grannie says in Esme’s ear, though it’s loud enough for me to hear. I can’t help the snort that erupts from me.
“It is not!’ Esme proclaims before turning to me. “Noah, tell Grannie our book title is not smutty.”
I smirk, shrugging. “Reveling?”
“All reveling means is to enjoy oneself, particularly in a lively way,” Esme retorts, folding her arms across her chest.
I raise a brow, meeting her challenge. “Quite a connotation it has, doesn’t it, Miss English Teacher? Connotation is sometimes more important than denotation. Have you heard the version where it means to get great pleasure from something… or someone?”
Esme groans, covering her face. “Why did you let me choose that title then?”
I cup my hands to her ear and whisper, “Because I like reveling in reverie with you, sweetheart.” I bite her lobe for good measure, and when I pull back, her face is flushed a pretty pink. Checking my watch, I say, “It’s time for the author to read a chapter from her book. Are you ready, Meme?”
Grannie lets out a loud, piercing whistle, and the crowd snaps to attention. Grandma proceeds to shout, “It’s time for a reading!”
Beside me, Esme trembles. I grab her hand and squeeze it three times, letting her know I love her and I’m here. She steels herself when our eyes meet and nods her head. I guide her to the sound system set up between the coffee shop and the town green as applause erupts around us.
“Thank You, Jesus,” Esme whispers as she steps onto the small, black stage. I take my place by her side, where I will reside forevermore.
“Glory and honor to Him,” I add. Esme smiles up at me.
Sam approaches with a copy of the book, and I take it because Esme’s hands are still shaking. I turn to Chapter One, which is written from Esme’s perspective.
She stares down at the words before clearing her throat.
I understand how important these words are to her. She told me once that they were the first words she thought when she awoke from her coma two years ago. She never understood what they meant until we found each other again, and she learned the truth of the night we were attacked.
Esme glances up at me one more time for reassurance, and I smile at my wife.
The woman I knew I wanted to choose from the moment I saw her drinking a mimosa and glaring at the sand and the sun as if they were Enemy Number One.
God whispered, “That’s her,” and when her heart stopped on that deck in Bora Bora, while I rested my head on her still chest after crawling to her, I begged God to let me join her on the other side.
I ripped my necklace from my neck and folded it into her hands as I lost consciousness.
And for a brief moment, God answered my prayer in the most unique way.
A way that led me to believe in quantum entanglement, because who’s to say God didn’t create us that way?
In a way I’ll never utter to another being.
She doesn’t remember our souls touching as we looked upon our beaten and bruised bodies, the medics who saved us both, but I do.
“If death soldered our souls, I’d die a thousand times over.”