Epilogue One Year Later #2
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice low. “How are my girls doing?”
Stella grins, “We’re just talking about DP, Dad. You want to weigh in?”
Thomas goes very still. His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the three of us.
I cover my face with my hand. “Oh my god.”
He shrugs, deadpan. “I’ll leave you to your plotting. Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”
Stella nudges me. “She needs a ring, Dad.”
I punch her in the arm, and Thomas just smiles—a real smile, with teeth—and says, “Noted.” Then he slides the door closed, but not before giving me a look so full of heat and promise I nearly drop my glass.
Stella leans in, mouth at my ear: “You are so fucked. In the best way.”
I can’t even argue.
We stand there, arms linked, watching the city change color. Behind us, the party swells and crests; ahead, the future is as wide as the river and twice as deep.
And for the first time in forever, I don’t want to run.
I want to stay.
I want to see what happens next.
After the last glass is emptied and the last guest gone, the penthouse echoes with its own afterimage.
The ice in the bar trough is mostly water now; the white linen on the tables is wrinkled and spattered with gold; the air is strange, half-lit, full of the smell of sugar and citrus and something else—maybe the ozone of anticipation.
I wander, bare feet on slick tile, feeling the apartment exhale with relief.
The party was a performance, and now the set has gone dark, the actors scattered to rideshares and late-night diners and, in Mary Kate’s case, apparently, to the halls of her stepdad’s mansion.
Kayleigh finally got her text from her stepbrother, and Simone and her hot professor ducked out an hour ago, her arm looped through his.
Even Stella is gone—vanished to an afterparty, or maybe a rendezvous with one of her two men, but she leaves a note for me, scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin: “You got this, boss. Don’t let my dad chicken out. xoxo, S.”
The living room is quiet, a few lamps still on.
The city beyond the glass is a galaxy of office windows and sodium vapor, the bridges burning pale in the night.
I find Thomas at the window, his back to me, the cut of his shirt a hard line against the soft drift of city glow.
He has his hands in his pockets, looking every inch the mogul, but when he hears me pad in, he turns and his face is younger, unguarded.
“Hey,” I say, voice small. It’s all I can manage.
He holds out an arm, and I go, settling into the curve of him, my head on his chest. There’s a faint whiff of aftershave, and under it, the raw salt of his skin. His heartbeat is steady, unhurried. I close my eyes and let the hum of the city fill the quiet between us.
“You survived the party,” he says, amused.
“Barely. Your daughter is trying to get me to join her next bet.”
He laughs, the sound a rumble under my cheek. “She’s a terror.”
“She’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. “I’m glad we’re all on good terms again.”
We stand there for a minute, maybe five, watching the city. I feel the air shift as he turns to look at me, and when I meet his eyes, they’re so blue they resemble sapphires, but also soft, almost shy.
“I got you something,” he says, and for a second I think it’s a joke. But he means it.
He breaks the hug, moves to the bar, and pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He hands it to me, pours another for himself, then leans against the ledge, arms crossed.
I take a sip, and it burns all the way down, sweet and mean.
Thomas watches me, then looks away, as if rehearsing a line. When he turns back, his jaw is set, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
“So,” he says, “you ever heard of the Writer’s Room on Fifth?”
I think, then shake my head. “Is that the place next to the butcher shop? With the weird old-school sign?”
He nods. “That’s the one. Used to be a medical office, now it’s rented out as workspace. I got you a membership. Desk, bookshelves, north-facing window, coffee on tap. No one allowed in but you.” His eyes flick away, embarrassed. “I figured you’d want somewhere… I don’t know. Yours.”
I stare at him, glass forgotten in my hand.
He shifts, nervous. “You can use it or not, but I thought—well, you’re a writer, Andie. And you need the quiet, sometimes. And I know my place is big, but you deserve a space of your own. Separate and apart to concentrate.”
My throat goes tight, but I force words out. “I can’t believe it. You did this for me?”
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny blush on his cheekbones. “I want you to have it. You’ve earned it, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you for graduating, and with honors too. You’re going to be a star.”
I set my glass down, stepping into his space, so close he has to look at me. I take his hand, winding my fingers through his, and the heat of him is real and electric.
“You’re an idiot,” I say, but I can’t keep from smiling.
He growls, all teeth. “Takes one to know one.”
The silence blooms between us, heavy and soft.
Then, from nowhere, he produces a tiny brass key from his pocket. It’s nothing—small, plain as a penny, on a keyring so cheap it’s barely gold. He drops it in my palm, the weight of it shocking.
“It’s the key to your work space at the Writer’s Room,” he says, voice gruff. “For you.”
I stare at the key, then up at him, then back at the key. It’s real. He’s real. All of it is real.
Thomas’s hand comes up, cradling my jaw, thumb at the hinge of my chin. He doesn’t rush. He just looks at me, drinking me in.
“Andie,” he says, voice low and level, “I don’t have a ring. And I’m not going to do a big speech, because I’d fuck it up. But I want you. I want all the mornings and all the fights and all the nights with you. Even when you drive me crazy, and honestly, especially then. Will you marry me?”
The question lands between us, simple and huge. My throat closes, and for a second I’m fourteen again, sitting on the bank of the Mississippi, wishing for a way out. But here it is, right in my hand: a future, a room, a life.
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I’m so happy I could break. “Yes,” I say, too loud and too fast. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He pulls me in, and the kiss is slow, sweet, nothing like the first time or the thousand after. He tastes like whiskey and hope and everything I want.
When we break apart, the world feels brighter. The city is still out there, shining, but in here, I’ve found my place.
I hold up the brass key between us. “You said you didn’t have a ring, so is this key actually my engagement ring?” I tease.
Thomas shrugs, mouth twitching. “If you want it to be.”
I laugh, dropping my forehead to his chest. “You’re impossible.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I let myself go. We stand like that, pressed together, while the city pulses below.
After a while, I say, “I want to see the studio.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Tomorrow. I’ll take you there.”
“Promise?”
He nods, lips against my hair. “Promise.”
I close my eyes, holding him. The key is warm in my hand.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.
I don’t remember exactly when the city outside stopped mattering, only that the moment Thomas lifts me off my feet and kisses me against the cold glass, the world contracts to just the two of us and the echo of our breathing.
There’s still a low noise from the hallway, a scattered laugh or a glass chiming in the sink, but none of it comes within a mile of what I’m feeling.
After a long minute, I break the kiss, pressing my palm to the center of his chest. I feel the quick skip of his heart beneath the fabric, and I know he feels it too—how much I want him, how close I am to just taking what I want, right here on the goddamn floor.
Instead, I slide my hand down his arm, knotting our fingers together, and tug him toward the master bathroom.
He goes, wordless, always a little stunned when I’m the one in charge.
He’s so much taller, broader, but the effect of dragging him behind me is electric.
The en suite is huge, all white marble and chrome, the glass shower bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in.
The air inside is already humid, as if the room’s been waiting for us.
I let go of his hand just inside the door.
For a second, I just stand there, soaking in the space, the heat, the impossible fact of my life now.
Then, slow and deliberate, I turn to face him, tug the thin straps of my dress off my shoulders, and let it slide down.
It pools at my feet in a dark ribbon, leaving me nude and lush, but for the key still pressed in my palm.
I set it on the counter, then step closer, shameless.
Thomas watches, his eyes burning into me, the color wild. He takes in every inch: the flush on my cheeks, my big breasts, the way my nipples are already hard. He looks like he wants to devour me, but he waits.
I cock a hip, rest a hand on the marble counter. “You’re overdressed, Mr. Moreland.”
He laughs, then strips his shirt off in one practiced move, tossing it onto the vanity.
His chest is ridiculous—sculpted, covered in a light dusting of hair that I want to rake my nails through.
I can’t help but stare at the way his body moves, all sinew and tension, and then at the thick bulge in his dress pants.
He catches me looking, and his mouth twitches.
“Let me switch off the bathroom camera,” he says, voice a low rumble. “It’ll just take a sec.” It’s something we do now. We still have the security cams for safety and insurance purposes, but when we’re intimate, Thomas turns off the relevant cameras.
But before he can reach for his phone, I catch his wrist, stopping him. “Don’t,” I whisper, the word so soft I barely hear it. “I want you to record us. Just this time. Well, maybe a few more times in the future too.”
He blinks, thrown. “You’re sure?”