Epilogue 3 #2
“Well, you’re getting a crash course today,” my father declares, already heading for the garage to retrieve the equipment. “Nothing too complex. Just the Carter version.”
The Carter version of baseball involves one pitcher, one batter, and one fielder per team, a wiffle ball, and highly contested rules that change depending on who’s losing.
Our backyard isn’t exactly regulation size, so we use the oak tree as first base, the hydrangea bush as second, and Dad’s garden gnome collection as third.
When it’s Matteo’s turn, he takes the plastic bat I hand him, weighing it like it’s a potential weapon rather than a toy. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”
I quickly explain the rules, and for once, without cheating. It’s a proud moment for me.
“Simple enough,” he says, though his expression suggests otherwise.
My dad’s pitching stance is deceptively casual, but the man has a wicked curveball that’s taken down many an overconfident opponent.
“Ready?” he calls to Matteo, his smile pure evil behind its paternal warmth.
Matteo nods, setting his feet and raising the bat with perfect form, like his body instinctively knows what to do even if his brain doesn’t.
Dad’s first pitch curves right past him as he swings too late.
“Strike one.” Ollie crows from the outfield.
I step up behind Matteo, wrapping my arms around him to adjust his stance. “Bend your knees more,” I murmur, my hands on his hips. “And swing earlier than you think you need to.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised. “Is this an excuse to feel me up in front of your parents?”
“Maybe,” I whisper back. “Is it working?”
His grin is the answer.
The next pitch comes in fast, but this time Matteo connects—a solid crack that sends the ball sailing into the neighbor’s rosebushes.
“Holy shit, run!” I yell as Ollie scrambles to retrieve it.
Watching Matteo—deadly, graceful, lethal Matteo—sprint awkwardly around my parents’ backyard, tagging each ridiculous base while my family cheers and shouts contradictory advice, might be the single most surreal moment of my life.
The game escalates quickly. Mom proves she can still run the bases faster than any of us. Ollie hits the gnomes, resulting in a heated debate about whether the decapitation of Grumpy counts as interference.
Dad makes a diving catch that sends him rolling into the hydrangeas, emerging with leaves in his hair and a triumphant grin.
By the time we call it quits—my team won by two runs, thank you very much—we’re all sweaty, grass-stained, and laughing.
Matteo’s hair is sticking up at odd angles, his designer shirt now has a dirt smudge on the shoulder, and he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him outside of bed or setting something on fire.
“Present time,” Mom announces after we’ve all caught our breath and cleaned up.
We gather on the patio where wrapped gifts wait on the side table. Leo and Ollie go first, presenting Dad with a beautiful handcrafted tackle box that Ollie’s craftsman uncle made, already filled with fishing lures.
“These are gorgeous,” Dad says, examining each one with reverent fingers. “Thank you, boys.”
Mom’s gift is next—a leather-bound first edition of Dad’s favorite Ernest Hemingway novel that makes him kiss her right there in front of us, prompting Leo and me to make identical gagging noises.
“My turn,” I say, handing over my carefully wrapped package.
Dad unwraps it to reveal the vintage pocketknife I bought before everything went to hell. For a moment, I’m back there, cold concrete against my skin, the drip-drip-drip of water marking time.
Then Matteo’s hand finds mine, warm and solid, anchoring me to the present.
“This is exquisite,” Dad breathes, turning the knife over in his hands. “German steel, pre-war by the look of it. Where on earth did you find this?”
“I have my sources,” I say. “Figured it was time to upgrade from that rusty Swiss Army knife you’ve been carrying since dinosaurs roamed the Earth.”
He tests the blade against his thumb, nodding appreciatively. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Then all eyes turn expectantly to Matteo, who hands Dad an elegantly wrapped box.
“This isn’t much,” he says with uncharacteristic modesty, “but Raven mentioned you appreciate good scotch.”
Dad unwraps it carefully, his eyes widening when he reveals the Macallan 18 Sherry Oak bottle nestled in velvet.
“This is… exceptional,” he says, voice dropping to a reverent tone I’ve only heard him use for top-shelf liquor and particularly good fishing spots. “We’ll have to open this tonight.”
“I’d be honored,” Matteo replies.
Something passes between them—a look of mutual respect that makes my throat suddenly tight. My father has never reacted this way to anyone I’ve brought home before. Then again, Matteo is my first actual boyfriend, a fact that Leo hasn’t stopped needling me about all day.
“Who wants cake?” Mom asks, breaking the moment before I can get embarrassingly emotional over what is essentially two men bonding over expensive alcohol.
As she heads inside to retrieve Alina’s masterpiece, Dad leans over to Matteo. “You picked a good one, Matteo. Not just the scotch.” His eyes flick to me. “My daughter’s never brought anyone home before. That means something.”
I pretend to be deeply fascinated by a nearby butterfly to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
The afternoon mellows into early evening, the summer sun casting long shadows across the lawn as we demolish the masterpiece cake.
I watch Matteo lick frosting from his fork with the same precise attention he applies to everything, and have to physically restrain myself from climbing him like a tree right there.
Instead, I steal a bit of icing with my finger and deliberately lick it clean, maintaining eye contact. His eye darkens, a promise written in the slight tightening of his jaw. Two can play this game.
“More cake, anyone?” my mother offers, completely oblivious to the silent filth happening across her pristine tablecloth.
“God no,” I groan, leaning back in my chair. “If I eat another bite, you’ll have to roll me back to the hotel.”
Nodding, Mom agrees and suggests we clear the table and go for a walk, which everyone’s onboard with.
We stroll along sidewalks I’ve traveled since I was old enough to walk, past houses where I learned to ride bikes, skinned knees, and planned teenage rebellions. Every crack in the concrete feels like an old friend, each street sign a bookmark in the story of growing up.
Dad leads our little procession, gesturing as he points out new additions to Mr. Peterson’s garden or the Thompsons’ controversial choice to paint their shutters teal. Leo and Ollie walk ahead with him, their laughter drifting back to us in comfortable waves.
Matteo’s hand is warm in mine, his thumb occasionally brushing over my knuckles in a gesture so casually possessive it makes my heart stutter.
“This is surreal,” I murmur, just for him. “You, here, in the land of HOA regulations and neighborhood watch patrols.”
He glances down at me, the streetlight catching the edge of his eyepatch. “Afraid I’ll corrupt the local soccer moms?”
“God, I hope so. They could use a little corrupting.” I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Mrs. Abernathy at the end of the block has been clutching her pearls since nineteen-ninety-two.”
Matteo chuckles, the sound low and private. “Your dad’s been pointing out potential security weaknesses in every house we’ve passed.”
I blink in surprise. “He has?”
“Mhmm. Sliding glass doors, insufficient porch lighting, unsecured basement windows.” His mouth quirks. “I think we might have more in common than you realized.”
The thought warms me from the inside out—my overprotective, spreadsheet-loving father finding kinship with my arson-enthusiast boyfriend. There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m too content to dig for it.
My mother falls into step beside us, looping her arm through mine. “So, Matteo, I hear you own a nightclub?”
“I do,” he confirms smoothly.
Dad turns back to us. “I’ve been meaning to visit Cleveland properly. Last time was just that business conference years ago, remember Vicky? Terrible hotel but excellent steakhouse.”
“Oh yes, with the bread pudding you wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks,” Mom agrees.
I’m about to chime in when Leo and Ollie suddenly go rigid ahead of us. They stop so abruptly that Dad nearly collides with them.
I follow their frozen stares to a figure approaching from the cross street—broad-shouldered, swaggering gait, and instantly recognizable even in the fading light. A low, involuntary snarl escapes my throat.
Rick Hartwell. Leo’s high school tormentor. The walking embodiment of toxic masculinity in khaki shorts. The fucking asshole who spent four years making my brother’s life hell for being gay.
Matteo’s hand tightens on mine, his body shifting subtly into alert mode. “Who is that?” he asks, voice dropping to a dangerous register I know too well.
“Rick,” I say, the single syllable loaded with fifteen years of hatred. “Leo’s bully.”
Understanding dawns in Matteo’s eye. He knows the story, and his posture changes instantly, the casual boyfriend persona sliding away like a discarded coat, revealing the predator beneath.
Rick spots us too late to change course. He falters for half a step, then resumes his swagger. “Well, look who it is,” he calls, his voice exactly as obnoxious as I remember. “The Carter twins. Back in the old neighborhood?”
My mother immediately turns around. “We’re heading back now.” She touches Leo’s arm gently. “Come on, honey.”
Leo hesitates, clearly torn between flight and confrontation, but Ollie makes the decision for him. “Let’s go, babe.” They turn, following my mother, leaving just me, Matteo, and my dad facing Rick.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. Dad’s hand goes to his pocket, where I know he carries his everyday knife. My own fingers find the small knife in my back pocket. And Matteo, despite all promises to the contrary, smoothly retrieves a gun from somewhere beneath his jacket.
We all move in perfect, unconscious synchronicity, like a family of wolves baring teeth at a threat.
I glance between my small knife, Dad’s medium knife, and Matteo’s very much not-a-knife, and can’t help but laugh. “Well, this is awkward,” I say dryly. “Dad and I apparently brought knives to a gunfight.”
Rick’s eyes widen comically as he registers what’s happening. His face drains of color so quickly I’m surprised he doesn’t faint right there on Mrs. Lawson’s carefully maintained sidewalk.
“Jesus Christ,” he stammers, backing up a step. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”
Dad steps forward, his expression calmer than it has any right to be given the circumstances. “Hello, Rick. It’s been a while. I believe the last time I saw you was at the principal’s office when you wanted my daughter expelled for sticking up for her brother.”
Rick swallows visibly. “Look, that was a long time ago—”
“Not long enough,” I cut in, twirling my knife between my fingers. “You know what’s interesting about memories, Rick? They stick around. Like how I remember exactly how Leo’s face looked after you had your fun.”
“I suggest,” Matteo says, his voice velvet-wrapped steel, “that you leave. Go somewhere that never, ever brings you within sight of any member of this family again.”
My dad nods in agreement. “I’ve lived in this neighborhood for thirty years, Rick. I plan to live here for thirty more. You, on the other hand, should consider relocating. Immediately and permanently.”
“This is insane,” Rick protests, though his bravado is crumbling by the second. “You can’t just threaten me on a public street.”
“I haven’t heard a single threat,” Matteo observes coolly. “Only a few friendly pieces of advice.”
I step closer, close enough to see the sweat beading on Rick’s forehead. “Let me make this painfully clear. If I ever—and I mean ever—hear that you’ve so much as looked in my brother’s direction again, what happened in high school will seem like a pleasant memory compared to what we’ll do.”
“We?” Rick manages.
“Oh yes,” Matteo says with a smile that would make sharks consider career changes. “Very much we.”
Something in his tone finally penetrates Rick’s thick skull. He backs away, hands raised. “Fine, fine. I’m going. Jesus. You’re all fucking crazy.”
We watch in united silence as he retreats, practically jogging by the end of the block.
Only when he’s completely out of sight does my dad turn to Matteo, eyebrow raised. “That’s quite a piece you’re carrying. I assume you have the appropriate permits?”
“Multiple,” Matteo replies without missing a beat. “International ones, even.”
Dad nods, then slaps Matteo on the back with enough force to make a lesser man stumble. “Welcome to the family, son. I can rest easy knowing my daughter is in excellent hands.”
With that, he pockets his knife and continues walking, heading back toward the house where Mom, Leo, and Ollie are undoubtedly waiting.
I stare after him, momentarily speechless. “Did that just happen?” I finally ask Matteo. “Did my dad just give you his blessing after witnessing you threaten someone with a firearm?”
Matteo tucks the gun away with practiced ease. “I believe he did.”
The moment Dad disappears around the corner, I launch myself at Matteo. He catches me effortlessly, hands gripping my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist and crash my mouth against his.
The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongue and pent-up everything, right there on the sidewalk where I played hopscotch as a kid.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his. “I fucking love you,” I tell him fiercely.
“And I love you, Little Thief.” He sets me down but keeps me close, one hand possessively at the small of my back. “Even when you keep stealing my lighter.”
I laugh, pulling the metal out of my pocket and flick it on. “But it’s so pretty,” I sigh. “I think I’ll keep it this time.”