Epilogue 1
Mel
Friday night. The Burning Tree. The whole crew, the whole table, and I’m sitting next to Graham instead of across from him.
His hand is on my thigh under the table. Not hidden, just quiet. The way Graham does everything that matters: without announcement.
The crew took the news the way crews take news, which is loudly, individually, and with varying degrees of subtlety.
Boone shook Graham’s hand. Nadia hugged me and nearly knocked over her drink.
Blake nodded once, which Poppy informed me is the Blake equivalent of a standing ovation.
Koda told the entire story of the shower incident to anyone who would listen, complete with hand gestures and sound effects, until Tate put her hand on his arm and said “Koda” in a tone that meant stop and he said “but the towel, babe” and she said “Koda” again and he stopped, but his face suggested the story would resurface at every available opportunity for the foreseeable future.
Sam leaned across the table when we arrived and said “told you. Entrance fee.” And that was that.
Connor is at the head of the table, relaxed, a beer in his hand, watching his crew the way he always does.
When Graham and I walked in together, Connor caught my eye and gave me a look that said I know, I’m glad, now sit down.
Sadie is beside him, her arm through his, talking to Poppy about something that has them both laughing.
It’s warm. It’s loud. It’s exactly what I drove a thousand miles for and didn’t fully know until I got here.
The door opens. Cold air sweeps in and a woman steps through, shaking rain off her jacket. She’s tall, dark hair pulled back, the kind of face that’s striking without trying. She scans the room, finds our table, and smiles, and the smile is aimed at one person.
Noah stands up so fast his chair scrapes.
“Leena. You’re back.”
“Got in this afternoon. Conference ran long. Did I miss anything?”
The table erupts. Koda points at Graham and me. “You missed EVERYTHING. Sit down. I need to tell you about the shower.”
“Koda,” Tate says.
“It’s relevant context!”
The woman, Leena, slides into the chair beside Noah that he’s pulled out for her without seeming to realize he’s doing it. She shrugs off her jacket and turns to me with her hand extended.
“Leena Dodson. I work with Sadie’s sister at the vet clinic. You must be Mel. Noah talked about you.”
“Noah talks about everyone,” Noah says, too quickly.
“He does not,” Leena says. “He talks about weather and timber and you’re the first new topic in months. Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
I like her immediately. The directness. The warmth that’s genuine. She has the energy of a woman who’s comfortable in her own skin and doesn’t need the room to confirm it.
“How was the conference?” Noah asks, and his whole body has shifted.
He’s angled toward her, his beer forgotten, his posture open in a way it hasn’t been all night.
Noah is always present, always listening, but this is different.
This is a man whose favorite person just walked in and every atom in his body has oriented to her like a compass finding north.
“There were three days of equine orthopedic panels,” Leena says. “I have opinions.”
“You always have opinions.”
“And you always want to hear them.”
“That’s because your opinions are usually right.”
“Usually?”
“I’m leaving room for growth.”
She laughs. He smiles. And the smile is the tell, the thing that says everything.
Noah Halston, the quietest man on this crew, the one who reads weather textbooks and speaks in observations and notices everything about everyone, is looking at this woman like she’s the only forecast that matters and he has no idea his face is doing it.
Leena turns to the table and asks about the week and Koda launches into the Graham-and-Mel saga (again) and Noah’s hand is on the back of her chair the way Cayden’s hand is on Sam’s, the way Blake’s arm is around Poppy, the way every man at this table touches the woman he belongs to without thinking about it.
Except Noah is thinking about it. I can see him thinking about it, the way his fingers rest on the wood and don’t quite touch her shoulder, the careful gap he maintains like it’s a buffer zone on a cut line.
Leena says something about the weather shifting and Noah’s eyes light up and they’re off, the two of them, talking about barometric pressure and cold fronts with the intensity of two people discussing something they both love, and the conversation is rapid and specific and full of a shorthand that only comes from months of having exactly this kind of conversation, and they are both completely oblivious to what the rest of the table can see plain as daylight.
I look at Sam. Sam is already looking at me. Then at Tate. Tate’s mouth curves just slightly.
Three women. One look. The same look Sam and Tate had at this table when Graham walked out of this bar because I sat down.
We don’t say anything. We don’t need to.
Some things you can see coming from a mile away, and the only people who can’t see it are the two standing in the middle of it.
Graham’s thumb traces a circle on my thigh. I lean into his shoulder. The Burning Tree is warm and loud and full of people I love, and across the table Noah Halston is explaining December storm patterns to a woman who’s watching his mouth while he talks and doesn’t know she’s doing it.
This might call for another meeting at Wylde Beans.