Epilogue
RHETT
It was Sunday, our designated day of rest, no business calls, no design meetings, no distillery emergencies. Just us, together in the home we’d created from the bones of an old farmhouse and the promise of a shared future.
“Mail came yesterday,” Moses announced, padding into the kitchen with bare feet and sleep-tousled curls.
He’d started letting his hair grow longer since we’d moved in, the tight, professional cut giving way to something wilder, more reminiscent of the boy I’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. “I forgot to bring it in.”
He dropped a small stack of envelopes on the counter, making a beeline for the coffee pot with single-minded determination. Neither of us functioned well before caffeine, a compatibility we’d discovered early in our cohabitation.
“Anything interesting?” I asked, sorting through the pile as I waited for my toast to pop.
“Bill, advertisement, alumni newsletter,” Moses listed, pouring coffee into the mugs I’d set out. “Oh, and something from the Gomillion High Alumni Association. Probably fundraising.”
My curiosity piqued, I located the envelope in question, cream-colored with the school’s milliped logo embossed in blue. Inside was indeed a donation request, but attached to it was something more interesting: a printed newsletter with the headline “Milliped Moments: Catch up.”
“Look at this,” I said, spreading the newsletter on the counter for Moses to see. “Our class updates.”
Moses leaned over my shoulder, coffee mug in hand, close enough that I could feel his warmth, smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. “Anything good? Or just the usual ‘married with 2.5 kids, working in insurance’ updates?”
I scanned the neatly organized columns, each featuring a small block of text and occasionally a photo. “A bit of both. Tom Jenkins is running for school board, that’s concerning. Sarah Kilmore is a paediatric surgeon now. And... oh, this is interesting.”
My finger stopped at a familiar name: Soren Hayes. Unlike most entries, his didn’t include a photo, just a brief paragraph about returning to studies after ‘a period of personal reflection and growth.’
Moses read it over my shoulder, his body tensing slightly. “Seems he’s taken some time,” he murmured. “I hope it helps him.”
He leaned in for a coffee-flavored kiss, one hand warm against my cheek. When he pulled back, the newsletter was already forgotten, left on the counter as we moved to the porch with our breakfast to enjoy the morning sunshine.
Our beach wooden chairs sat side by side facing the garden, positioned to catch the morning light while providing a view of the rolling hills beyond our property. It had become our favorite spot for weekend mornings, peaceful, private, and perfectly ours.
“I had an email from Vanessa yesterday,” Moses mentioned as we settled into our chairs. “The museum is sending her to an international art fair in Venice next month. She’s going to extend the trip, make a proper vacation of it.”
“Good for her,” I replied sincerely. Since her move to Chicago, Vanessa had flourished professionally, her career advancement was a testament to the talent that had been underutilized in Gomillion. “She deserves it.”
Moses nodded, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. “She said her mother has started calling more regularly. Not her father yet, but... it’s progress, I suppose.”
“More than you’ve had with your parents,” I observed gently, aware of the lingering pain their continued distance caused, despite Moses’s outward acceptance.
He shrugged, a gesture I’d come to recognize as his way of acknowledging hurt while refusing to dwell on it. “Their choice. I’ve made mine.”
The simple statement contained volumes, about chosen family versus biological ties, about prioritizing authentic relationships over obligatory ones, about the life we were building together, free from the constraints of others’ expectations.
It was a philosophy we both embraced, though arrived at through different paths.
“Any word from Maxwell about their adoption process?” I asked, changing the subject to something more hopeful. Our friends had begun the journey toward parenthood several months ago, a complex and often frustrating bureaucratic maze that tested even Cole’s legendary patience.
“Still waiting,” Moses replied. “But he sounds optimistic. The home study went well, and they have an excellent support network in place with the guys in New York. I mean they have enough aunts and uncles to support and help them if they need the support at all. Imagine keeping Hardin or Kellan away. Or us for that matter.” He chuckled. “It’s just a matter of time now.”
I nodded, trying to imagine Maxwell and Cole as parents, it was both terrifying and heartwarming as a concept. They would make excellent fathers, I had no doubt: supportive, loving, and grounded in the kind of security that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what matters most.
“And what about us?” I asked, the question emerging before I’d fully formed it in my mind. “Have you thought more about what we discussed last month?”
Moses turned to look at me, his expression thoughtful. “Marriage, you mean?”
I nodded, remembering the late-night conversation that had begun casually enough but quickly evolved into something more profound; a discussion about legal protections, shared assets, the formal recognition of what we both already knew to be true.
“I have,” he admitted, setting his coffee mug on the small table between our chairs. “And I think... yes. For all the practical reasons we talked about, but also because I want to stand up in front of the people we care about and make those promises formally. I want that moment with you.”
Relief and joy flooded through me, not because I doubted his commitment, but because the idea of marriage held significance for me that went beyond the legal benefits. It represented a declaration, a celebration, a milestone in the journey we were crafting together.
“But,” Moses continued, a hint of mischief entering his expression, “if you think this means I’m agreeing to a big, elaborate wedding with all the traditional trappings, you’ve severely miscalculated who you’re dealing with.”
I laughed, the sound echoing across our peaceful property. “Trust me, I know exactly who I’m dealing with. Something small, meaningful, and just the people who matter most to us. Here, maybe? In the garden next spring when everything’s in bloom?”
Moses reached for my hand, our fingers interlacing with practiced ease. “That sounds perfect. Though it does raise the question of who we’d actually invite. Our guest list would be... unconventional.”
“Bronwyn, obviously,” I began, playing along with the hypothetical planning. “Maxwell and Cole. Vanessa, if she’s available. My sister and her family. A few close friends from Boston, your regulars from the bar.”
“A motley crew,” Moses observed with a smile. “But our motley crew. The people who’ve supported us, individually and together. The ones who showed up when it mattered.”
The concept resonated deeply; our wedding, like our home, and like our relationship itself, would be built on authenticity rather than convention, on meaningful connections rather than obligatory invitations.
It would reflect who we were, separately and together, rather than adhering to external expectations or traditions.
“We could send an announcement to the Gomillion High Alumni Association afterward,” I suggested with mock seriousness. “For the next newsletter. ‘Rhett Callahan and Moses Morley, the unlikely pair, finally got their act together after twenty years of unnecessary separation.’”
Moses laughed, the sound warming me more than the morning sunshine. “I can just imagine Tom Jenkins choking on his coffee when he reads that thinking how the hell did Moses Morley end up with an architect.”
“Don’t you mean how I ended up with the owner of many fine bars?” I chuckled before winking. “Worth the price of a stamp, then,” I declared, squeezing his hand gently.
We fell into comfortable silence, watching as a pair of cardinals flitted between the trees at the edge of our property. The female settled on a branch near the porch, observing us with bright, curious eyes before rejoining her mate in the dappled shade.
“I never pictured this,” Moses said after a while, his voice soft with wonder. “Even in my most optimistic moments after we reconnected in Gomillion, I couldn’t quite imagine... this. This house, our businesses thriving, this life we’ve built. It felt too perfect, too much to hope for.”
I understood completely. Our journey had not been without challenges, the logistical complications of maintaining ties to both Boston and Atlanta, the occasional friction as two independent adults adjusted to shared space and decision-making, the inevitable stresses of running businesses while renovating a house.
But those challenges paled in comparison to the joy of waking up together, of sharing both burdens and triumphs, of building something lasting and real.
“I think that’s why it works,” I replied, watching a butterfly land on one of Moses’s carefully tended lavender plants.
“Because we don’t take it for granted. We know what it’s like to lose each other, to live with regret and unresolved questions.
Everything since then, every day together, every challenge overcome, feels like a gift rather than an entitlement. ”
Moses nodded, his expression suggesting he was turning the concept over in his mind. “That makes sense. Though I hope eventually we can just... relax into it. Trust that it’s real and lasting without constantly comparing it to what we lost before.”
“I think we’re getting there,” I assured him. “Each month, each project completed, and each routine we’ve established, they’re all the building blocks of that security, that certainty.”