Epilogue #2
And even if he doesn’t, this is still the right thing to do.
Tattoo Spectacle
There he is.
I finally see Hale for the first time in years, and the breath leaves my body like I’ve been punched. He looks… incredible. Healthy. Taller. Broader through the shoulders, muscles filling out a frame that used to be all sharp angles and defiance. Puberty was kind to him.
He’s standing toward the back, talking animatedly with a large man I recognize immediately as Eric, his roommate, his coworker, his protector. Hale’s laughing, head tipped back, eyes bright, and the sight of it twists something deep in my chest.
Gods, I’ve missed him.
I can already picture the moment he realizes I’m here, really here, competing alongside him. The anger. The shock. The fire in his eyes. I used to live for getting a rise out of him, and part of me still does.
The announcement crackles over the loudspeaker, calling us to begin the first day.
I force myself to turn away from Hale and focus on the work in front of me.
Hours blur together as I tattoo nonstop, channeling everything I’m not letting myself feel into my hands.
I do good work, and by the end of the day, I know I’ll make it through to the next round.
More time.
More chances.
That’s been the goal since the beginning.
Ever since the PI I hired told me Hale had been accepted onto the show, I’ve counted down the days to this moment.
Keeping tabs on him was easy. When he left Texas, he didn’t go far, a couple of long bus rides into Louisiana.
Knowing he’d rather sleep in his car than go back to his parents nearly broke me.
When he finally started staying with Eric, I let myself breathe again.
That’s when I focused on building something solid, on becoming someone who could stand beside him…
or support him, if that’s what he wanted.
When time is called, and I finish with my last client, I clean my station faster than I ever have. My hands are steady, but my pulse is not. I make my way toward Hale’s booth slowly, savoring the seconds before he notices me.
He’s sitting now, relaxed, laughing at something Eric said. The sound hits me square in the chest.
I almost hate to interrupt. Almost.
I stop close enough for him to hear me and let the word fall from my mouth, soft and familiar and dangerous.
“Fylgja? That you?”
Finale
Gods damn it. I’m not going to finish in time.
I check the clock again, like it might magically give me more minutes if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t. I’m furious with myself. At my planning.
At my optimism. At the fact that I didn’t account for my client hating the first sketch.
I should’ve known better. I’m nowhere near done, and the final minutes of the competition are slipping through my fingers.
Disappointed doesn’t even begin to cover it.
When I’m officially disqualified, the shame hits fast and hot, curling deep in my chest. I paste on an easy smile anyway and walk toward the bleachers where my parents are sitting. I refuse to let anyone see how badly this stings.
Then I meet Hale’s eyes.
He looks disappointed, too. Not angry. Not judging. Just… sad. Like he wanted this for me almost as much as I wanted it for myself. The sight hurts worse than the loss. I wanted to be better for him.
My mom reaches for me immediately, rubbing my arm in slow, steady circles. “It’s okay, kaer,” she says softly. “You did your best. That tattoo was beautiful.”
She knows me. She knows how much I hate losing—how deeply it cuts when effort doesn’t translate into results.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, squeezing her hand.
My dad leans forward, his voice gentle but honest. “You did try your best, right, son?”
A low growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.
I love him, but subtlety has never been his strong suit.
“Shut it,” my mom snaps without missing a beat. “Of course he did.”
I send her a grateful smile and let the question go unanswered.
Because the truth is, I did do my best. I could’ve cut corners. Simplified the design. Dropped the color, reduced the detail, chased speed instead of quality. Plenty of artists would have.
But I’ve never been built that way.
I’m all in or not at all. Always have been. Always will be. That’s the curse of being a kraken, stubborn to my core.
I settle back into my seat, hands clasped tight, and hold my breath as I wait for my husband’s name to be called.
Thirty years later
I turn off the TV and look over at the older version of the man we just watched accept a million-dollar check.
His smile is slower now, a little more lived-in, but it’s the same one I fell in love with all those years ago.
I’m grateful, so deeply grateful, that his mom had the foresight to record the episodes, to preserve that moment so we could revisit it again and again as the years stacked up behind us.
We’re older now. Greyer. Softer around the edges.
But we’re no less in love.
We sit together on the couch, surrounded by grandchildren who sprawl across the floor and lean against our knees, half-listening, half-watching, entirely unaware that they’re living inside what once felt like an impossible dream.
When I met Hale in fourth grade, I couldn’t have pictured this exactly, but I always knew this was where we’d end up.
Even when he hated me. Even when distance stretched between us and we were in different states on the map. I never stopped believing in us.
I lean over and press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in like it’s still something new. The grandkids immediately gag and complain, loud and dramatic, and Hale laughs, soft and familiar.
My chest feels full in that quiet, steady way that only comes from a life well lived.
It doesn’t get better than this.