Epilogue — Tessa
Epilogue
Tessa
The first thing Rhett did when I returned to Lakeview was set off the smoke alarm.
Not intentionally.
That distinction mattered to him.
It mattered less to the rest of us.
I stood in the hockey house kitchen holding my suitcase while Cam waved a dish towel beneath the alarm and Noah carried a smoking pan toward the back door.
Rhett stood beside the stove wearing an apron that said:
KISS THE COOK
I looked at him.
Then at the pan.
Then at the smoke gathering near the ceiling.
“You had one job.”
He pointed at the oven.
“The appliance became hostile.”
“You put aluminum foil beneath the broiler.”
“That seems like a design flaw.”
“It is explicitly warned against.”
“In very small print.”
“The print is normal size.”
Cam coughed dramatically.
“Can you two complete the reunion after we survive?”
Noah opened the back door.
Warm August air rushed inside.
Eli walked into the kitchen, assessed the situation, and walked back out.
Reasonable.
I set down my suitcase.
Rhett smiled.
Not the marketable one.
Not the campus one.
Mine.
“You’re home.”
The words changed everything.
The noise.
The smoke.
The terrible apron.
Ten weeks of video calls, missed calls, delayed trains, altered plans, exhaustion, two arguments, four visits, and one disastrous weekend when both of us pretended we were fine until we absolutely were not.
All of it narrowed into three words.
You’re home.
I stepped toward him.
“You nearly burned down the kitchen.”
“I was making dinner.”
“You were committing negligence.”
“For love.”
“Not a legal defense.”
“Good thing you chose economics.”
I reached him.
His hands settled at my waist.
Warm.
Familiar.
Real.
The summer had changed him.
His hair was shorter.
His shoulders broader from training.
There was a faint scar near his chin from a practice collision he had described as minor and Cam had described as a preventable tragedy.
But the way he looked at me had not changed.
Or maybe it had.
Deeper now.
Less afraid of being seen.
“I missed you,” he said.
The words were quiet beneath the alarm.
I touched his face.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That is my line.”
“I wanted to use it once.”
“Never again.”
“I missed you too.”
He kissed me.
No question this time.
Not because questions no longer mattered.
Because my arms were already around his neck and I had crossed half the kitchen to reach him.
The kiss felt like every goodbye reversing.
Every screen disappearing.
Every night we had ended a call because one of us needed sleep while both of us wanted five more minutes.
Rhett pulled me closer.
Someone cheered.
Probably Cam.
I ignored him.
The smoke alarm stopped.
The kitchen fell quiet except for Rhett’s breathing and my heartbeat.
When we finally separated, he rested his forehead against mine.
“You’re really here.”
“For senior year.”
“And after?”
The question remained.
Of course it did.
Boston had offered me a post-graduation position during the eighth week of the internship.
A real one.
Full salary.
Benefits.
A start date in June.
I had not answered yet.
Rhett knew.
He had not asked me to reject it.
He had not pretended it did not scare him.
We had learned better than both.
“Still deciding,” I said.
His expression tightened.
Barely.
Then eased.
“Okay.”
The word no longer meant distance.
It meant room.
I kissed him again.
Shorter.
“Still real.”
His smile returned.
“Always.”
Cam lowered the dish towel.
“Are we pretending dinner is salvageable?”
“No,” I said.
Rhett looked offended.
“You haven’t tasted it.”
“The pan was on fire.”
“Briefly.”
Noah returned from the yard.
“The chicken is black.”
“Caramelized,” Rhett corrected.
“It has structural damage.”
I looked at Rhett.
“You planned a welcome-home dinner.”
“Yes.”
“And told no one you could not cook.”
“I can cook.”
Cam pointed toward the back door.
“The evidence has left the building.”
Rhett ignored him.
He took my hand.
“There is a backup plan.”
I stared.
“You made a backup plan?”
His expression became smug.
“Growth.”
He led me toward the dining room.
Takeout containers covered the table.
Thai food.
Blueberry muffins.
Three bottles of sparkling cider.
A small cake with uneven icing.
Across the top, someone had written:
WELCOME HOME, TESSA
The final A leaned dangerously close to the edge.
The entire team stood around the table.
Coach Mercer too.
Paige leaned against the far wall, smiling.
My father stood beside her holding a pie.
Elena Callahan sat at the head of the table with the framed magician photograph propped beside her plate.
I stopped.
The room blurred slightly.
Not tears.
Close.
Rhett watched my face.
“Nobody told me.”
“That was the concept.”
“You cannot keep a secret.”
“I delegated.”
Cam raised one hand.
“I threatened everyone.”
“Emotionally,” Noah added.
Paige crossed the room and hugged me.
“You survived.”
“So did you.”
“Barely. Your color-coded cleaning schedule became authoritarian in your absence.”
“You ignored it.”
“Immediately.”
My father stepped closer.
He hugged me next.
Not awkwardly this time.
Not carefully.
Just tightly.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
The words still mattered.
Maybe more because they were no longer connected to the choice he preferred.
“Thank you.”
He released me.
Then looked at Rhett.
“The smoke alarm?”
“Technical issue.”
My father nodded toward the takeout.
“Good recovery.”
Rhett looked pleased.
Approval remained valuable.
Even when he pretended otherwise.
Elena opened both arms.
I hugged her.
She whispered, “He drove us insane.”
“I expected that.”
“He called me after every disagreement.”
Rhett looked across the room.
“Family confidentiality.”
Elena patted my cheek.
“There is none.”
I believed her.
Everyone sat.
The team ate enough food to suggest they had been starved for days.
Cam gave a detailed account of Rhett’s behavior during my absence.
According to him, Rhett had become:
Emotionally unavailable during FaceTime hours.
Hostile toward the city of Boston.
Suspicious of public transportation.
And personally offended by my workload.
“All accurate,” Rhett said.
I looked at him.
“You said you respected my workload.”
“I did.”
“Respectfully offended.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It was extremely real.”
Noah nodded.
“He argued with a calendar.”
“The calendar was unreasonable.”
I smiled.
The summer had been difficult.
Not romantically difficult every moment.
Mostly ordinary difficult.
Schedules.
Fatigue.
Missed connections.
The strain of trying to stay close while building separate lives.
The first month, we overcommunicated.
The second, we nearly stopped saying anything meaningful because both of us were tired of turning every conversation into a relationship evaluation.
Then we fought.
Really fought.
I had canceled a visit after staying late on a case.
Rhett said it was fine.
It was not.
I accused him of punishing me with silence.
He accused me of treating every visit as optional.
Both of us were partly right.
Neither of us handled it well.
The old version of me would have converted the fight into evidence.
Proof that distance was failing.
Proof that wanting both had been careless.
Instead, I called the next morning.
Rhett answered.
We said the difficult things.
Rewrote the plan.
Again.
And kept going.
Not perfectly.
Honestly.
That was better.
After dinner, Coach Mercer stood.
Conversation quieted automatically.
He looked at me.
“Ms. Monroe.”
“Coach.”
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
Then looked at Rhett.
“Callahan.”
“Yes?”
“Never cook for the team again.”
The room erupted.
Rhett pressed one hand to his chest.
“Public humiliation.”
“Safety protocol.”
Coach left before Rhett could argue.
My father followed soon after.
Then Elena.
Then Paige, after confirming I would be back at the apartment the next morning and not disappearing into the hockey house permanently.
Eventually, the team drifted toward the living room.
Cam carried the magician photograph with him.
Rhett noticed too late.
“Put that down.”
“No.”
“Cam.”
“You have a mustache.”
“It was an artistic choice.”
I followed Rhett into the hallway.
He turned toward me.
“You are not supporting me.”
“I made three copies.”
His mouth fell open.
“You said one.”
“I revised the plan.”
He pointed at me.
“Boston changed you.”
“It improved my strategic thinking.”
He smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“You did change.”
The teasing faded.
I looked at him.
“So did you.”
“Better?”
“Different.”
His eyebrows lifted.
I stepped closer.
“And better.”
His hands returned to my waist.
The house remained loud behind us.
Cam shouting.
Noah laughing.
Someone turning on music.
Found family filling every room.
Rhett looked toward my suitcase.
“Are you staying tonight?”
“Yes.”
His gaze returned quickly.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
I folded my arms.
“I can still go home.”
“No.”
His hand closed around mine.
“Absolutely not.”
“Possessive.”
“Selective.”
“Convenient distinction.”
“Accurate.”
He picked up my suitcase.
Then stopped.
“I have something for you.”
“That sentence has caused problems before.”
“No appliances.”
“Continue.”
He led me upstairs.
His room looked cleaner than usual.
Not clean.
Cleaner.
The bed was made.
Mostly.
A stack of textbooks had been moved from the chair to the floor.
A framed photograph sat on the desk.
Us at the community rink.
The first date.
The night before everything became official.
Beside it was a small wooden sign.
Hand painted.
The words were uneven.
YOU ASK. I SHOW UP.
I touched the edge.
“You made this?”
“Noah did.”
“Of course.”
“He has unexpected craft skills.”
“I am learning that.”
Rhett set down my suitcase.
Then opened the top desk drawer.
He pulled out a key.
Held it toward me.
I stared.
“What is that?”
“A key.”
“I recognize the object.”
“To the house.”
My pulse shifted.
“Why?”
“So you can come in.”
“I understand how keys work.”
“You ask many follow-up questions.”
“This seems significant.”
“It is.”
He looked nervous.
Actually nervous.
No smile prepared.
No joke waiting.
“I’m not asking you to move in.”
“Good.”
“Not because I don’t want you here.”
“Rhett.”
“Clarifying.”
He took a breath.
“I want you to have a place in my life that doesn’t depend on being invited every time.”
The words settled deeply.
No public campaign.
No performance.
Only access.
Trust.
A place.
I took the key.
It felt small in my palm.
He watched me.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Too soon?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to stop asking questions?”
“No.”
His mouth curved.
I closed my fingers around the key.
“I love it.”
Relief moved across his face.
Then warmth.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He narrowed his eyes.
I smiled.
“I love you too.”
He kissed me.
Slowly.
His hands slid around my waist.
Mine rested against his chest.
No distance now.
No screen.
No train schedule counting down.
When the kiss deepened, I felt ten weeks of missing him in every touch.
Not urgency exactly.
Recognition.
His mouth moved along my jaw.
I closed my eyes.
“Tessa.”
The way he said my name had changed too.
Less question.
More reverence.
I touched his face.
He stopped immediately.
Looked at me.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The answer felt steady.
Not because every fear had disappeared.
Because I no longer confused fear with no.
I kissed him again.
This time, I chose the pace.
The closeness.
The next step.
And Rhett followed without taking the choice from me.
That was what safety had become.
Not predictability.
Trust.
Later, we lay together in the dark while the hockey house slowly quieted around us.
My head rested against his chest.
His fingers moved through my hair.
The key sat on the nightstand beside the wooden sign.
“Boston offered me the job,” I said.
His hand stopped.
“I know.”
“I didn’t tell you the deadline.”
“No.”
“Friday.”
Four days.
The truth entered the room carefully.
Rhett stared at the ceiling.
I waited.
Not testing him.
Giving him the same room he always tried to give me.
Finally, he said, “Do you want it?”
“I might.”
His chest rose beneath my cheek.
“And Lakeview?”
“I want this too.”
He looked down at me.
The old fear was there.
Not hidden.
Not controlling him either.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
He smiled faintly.
“Our favorite answer.”
“I thought coming home would make the decision obvious.”
“It didn’t?”
“No.”
I shifted closer.
“I loved the work. I loved the city. I also hated missing you. Both are true.”
“Both can be true.”
The phrase belonged to us now.
I looked toward the photograph on the desk.
“What do you want?”
The question mattered.
Not because his answer would decide mine.
Because partnership meant he was allowed to have one.
Rhett took his time.
“I want you here.”
My chest tightened.
“And I want you to choose the job if it is yours.”
“That sounds contradictory.”
“It is.”
“Welcome to my life.”
He smiled.
Then became serious again.
“I don’t want us to pretend the decision only affects you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“But I also don’t want my fear making it for you.”
I reached for his hand.
Our fingers linked above the blanket.
“What if we keep doing distance after graduation?”
“I would hate it.”
“Me too.”
“What if I get drafted somewhere else?”
“That could happen.”
“What if you find something closer?”
“That could too.”
“What if the plan changes twelve more times?”
“It will.”
He looked at me.
“Then we rewrite it.”
The answer felt simple now.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But ours.
I rested my head against him again.
“I don’t need to decide tonight.”
“No.”
“But you’ll be here Friday?”
“Where else?”
I smiled.
“You ask, I show up.”
“That is my phrase.”
“I improved it.”
He kissed the top of my head.
We stayed awake longer than necessary.
Talking.
Not solving.
The future remained wide open.
Boston.
Lakeview.
Hockey.
Work.
Every version of us we had not met yet.
Once, that uncertainty would have felt like danger.
Now it felt like possibility.
Because hope was not believing everything would work exactly as planned.
It was choosing to keep building when the plan changed.
And love was not a guarantee that nobody would leave.
It was the courage to stay honest enough that staying remained a choice.
Rhett’s hand tightened around mine.
“You home?” he whispered.
I looked at the key.
The photograph.
The ridiculous sign.
Then at him.
“Yes.”
Not forever.
Not only here.
Not a promise that life would never carry us somewhere else.
Just the truth of that moment.
The kind worth trusting.
“I’m home.”