Epilogue 3
Raven
The suburban Philadelphia streets look exactly the same as they did when I left—trim lawns, sensible cars, and an aggressive amount of American flags that would make Uncle Sam himself say, “Dial it back.”
I glance at Matteo beside me, a six-foot-four living weapon dressed in black designer everything, and suddenly realize I’ve brought a shark to a goldfish convention.
“You’re fidgeting,” Matteo observes as we pull into the driveway, his voice low and amused.
“I am not,” I lie, immediately stopping the nervous tap-tap-tap of my fingernails against the cake box on my lap. “I’m just making sure Alina’s masterpiece doesn’t slide around.”
His mouth quirks in that half-smile that still makes my stomach flip. “You’ve been adjusting your eyepatch every thirty seconds since we crossed state lines.”
I roll my eyes, which—fine—he can’t fully see because of said eyepatch, but the sentiment stands. In solidarity, I’m wearing a pink one, while Matteo’s donning his usual black one.
I’m not sure why I’m wearing one. Other than it was an idea I had in Finn’s basement of horrors, and somehow, I decided to follow through with it. But now it feels a bit like we’re auditioning for a hipster pirate crew.
Matteo kills the engine and reaches over to tuck a strand behind my ear. “I’m on my best behavior, remember? No fires, no threatening your brother, and almost no weapons.”
I eye the slight bulge at his hip where I know a gun is hidden. “Almost no weapons.”
“A man has to have standards, Little Thief.” Then he chuckles. “You’re carrying your knife as well, aren’t you?”
Before I can reply, the front door flies open and my mom emerges like she’s been watching through the window for the last hour, which, knowing her, she absolutely has been.
“They’re here,” she calls over her shoulder before practically skipping down the front steps. Mom with her perfectly highlighted blonde hair and tasteful summer dress, looks amazing.
I barely have time to exit the car and put the cake on the seat before she’s enveloped me in a hug that can only be described as maternal enthusiasm.
“Oh my goodness, look at your hair.” She pulls back, her hands framing my face. “It looks awesome. And what’s this?” Her fingers brush my eyepatch, and she bursts into delighted laughter. “My daughter, always with the flair for the dramatic.”
“Good to see you too, Mom,” I say, leaning into her touch despite myself. “I brought cake and a boyfriend, not necessarily in order of importance.”
Her eyes shift to where Matteo stands. When he turns, and she spots his eyepatch, her smile widens. “And I see my daughter already has you matching,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Victoria, though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Matteo Russo,” he replies, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter.”
“Victoria, please,” she insists, giving him the full maternal inspection that somehow manages to be both subtle and completely obvious. “Henry’s in the backyard setting up for brunch. He’s been fussing with the grill since dawn.”
I exchange a look with Matteo. We’d strategically checked into our hotel first—our compromise after I’d explained that my childhood bedroom shared a wall with my parents’ room, and there was absolutely no way I was subjecting any of us to that awkwardness.
“We brought Dad’s cake,” I say, carefully lifting the box from the car.
My mom peers at the box with undisguised curiosity. “Is this the famous baker you’ve been raving about? The one with the magical cream cheese frosting?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm as we head inside. “It’s German chocolate, Dad’s favorite. Complete with a tiny fishing rod made of fondant.”
The house smells exactly the same—lemon furniture polish, fresh flowers, and something baking that will definitely contain raisins because my mother remains convinced they’re a food group rather than Satan’s desiccated droppings.
Matteo’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying. His thumb traces a small circle against my spine—a silent I’m here that makes me want to turn and kiss him senseless right in my parents’ foyer.
“The garden looks beautiful, Mom,” I say instead, following her through the house toward the back door.
Dad stands at the grill, turning knobs and whatnot. He turns when he hears us, his smile reaching his eyes in that way that always makes me feel like the most important person in the room.
“There’s my girl,” he says, setting down his spatula and opening his arms.
I hand the cake box to Matteo and step into my father’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave and charcoal. “Happy birthday weekend, Dad.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, then pulls back to assess the hair situation with an amused smile. “Very punk rock. Your grandmother would have had a stroke.”
“That’s half the appeal,” I reply with a grin.
Dad’s attention shifts to Matteo, his expression curious but open. The two men regard each other with careful assessment. “Henry Carter,” my father says, extending his hand. “I hear you’re the man brave enough to date my daughter.”
“Matteo Russo,” he replies, transferring the cake box to one arm to shake my dad’s hand. “And I’d say it takes more courage to raise her.”
My dad barks out a laugh, genuine amusement breaking through his composed exterior. “You’ve got that right. Come on, let me get you a beer.”
And just like that, the formal introduction phase dissolves into practical matters of food storage and drink preferences. I watch Matteo follow my father to the cooler, the two of them already discussing something that has my dad nodding appreciatively, and feel something in my chest loosen.
I’m helping my mother arrange pastries on a platter when I hear the side gate swing open, followed by the unmistakable sound of my brother’s laugh.
“The golden child arrives,” Leo announces, appearing with Ollie in tow. My twin looks absurdly healthy and handsome, his arm slung casually around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “And he’s brought bubbly stuff and wit in equal measure.”
“One of those things is welcome,” I call back, abandoning the pastries to cross the lawn.
Leo sweeps me into a hug that lifts my feet off the ground. “Nice hair, punk. Did you lose a bet with a flamingo?”
“Nice face,” I retort when he sets me down. “Did you lose a bet with genetics? Oh wait, we have the same face. Fuck.”
Ollie laughs, then gives me a gentler hug. “It’s good to see you. The hair is amazing.”
“Thank you, Ollie. This is why you’re my favorite Carter-adjacent.”
I turn to find Matteo watching us, beer in hand, his expression unreadable to anyone but me.
I recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders—the way he’s cataloging exits, assessing threats, evaluating my family dynamics for weak points.
It’s so fundamentally Matteo that I have to bite back a smile.
“Leo, Ollie, this is Matteo,” I say, gesturing between them. “Matteo, my twin brother Leo and his boyfriend Ollie.”
Leo extends his hand with the same assessing look our father gave earlier. “So you’re the reason my sister’s been unreachable on Friday nights. I was beginning to think she’d joined a cult.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Matteo replies smoothly, and I nearly choke on air.
“Leo is an architect,” I interject quickly. “And Ollie teaches kindergarten, which requires substantially more courage than anything the rest of us do.”
“True heroism,” Matteo agrees with a nod to Ollie.
The conversation might have stalled there—that awkward moment when nobody quite knows what to say next—but then Matteo glances at me and says, “Little Thief, did you put sunscreen on? Your shoulders are already turning pink.”
Leo’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he absolutely loses it—doubled over, hands on knees, wheezing with laughter. “Little… oh my God… Little Thief? That’s fucking perfect.”
“I hate all of you,” I announce to nobody in particular, but there’s no heat in it.
“Oh, we are going to get along just fine,” Leo tells Matteo, wiping tears from his eyes. “I have twenty-eight years of stories that explain exactly why that nickname is so accurate.”
Mom calls us to the table then, saving me from immediate humiliation. As we take our seats around the patio table laden with food, I watch Matteo slide naturally into the space beside me, his hand finding mine under the table.
“You good?” he murmurs, just for me.
I squeeze his hand. “Better,” I whisper back. “I’m perfect.”
The day unfolds in a parade of small moments that I mentally snapshot and tuck away. Mom fixing Matteo’s collar when she thinks no one’s looking. Dad quietly manning the grill, making sure there’s always food ready.
Instead of one big dinner, he wants us to just eat whenever we feel like it. And since it’s his birthday weekend, no one complains.
Leo shows off the architectural sketches for his latest project, and Matteo asks exactly the right questions that make my brother light up like a Christmas tree. It’s when Ollie starts clearing the plates that Dad makes the announcement.
“Perfect day for Carter Family Baseball,” he declares, clapping his hands together. “Teams of three. Losers do the dishes.”
“Oh, fuck yes,” Leo says, jumping up. “I call Ollie.”
“I call Matteo,” I counter automatically.
Dad looks between us and sighs. “You two still can’t be on the same team? You’re twenty-eight, not eight.”
Leo and I exchange glances.
“The Fourth of July Incident of twenty-eighteen,” I remind everyone.
“The Thanksgiving Debacle,” Leo adds.
“The Easter Egg Hunt that ended with a hospital visit,” Mom chimes in, shaking her head.
“Fine,” Dad concedes. “But partners aren’t allowed on the same team. Leo, Matteo, and your mom against Raven, Ollie, and me.”
Matteo looks adorably confused. “I’ve never actually played baseball.”
Five pairs of eyes swivel to him in perfect synchronized shock.
“What?” I ask, horrified. “Ever?”
He shrugs, the motion elegant even in its casualness. “Not exactly a common pastime in my family.”