Epilogue
HOW DID THE promo turn out?
Better than I ever hoped for, honestly. Chef’s kiss.
All those things Cole had wanted me to capture? I captured them and more. The excitement. The adrenaline. The beauty. The stakes. The courage and self-sacrifice.
It’s all there and then some.
Read between the shots, and you can also tell that the videographer was falling madly in love with the subject. But, as with everything else, all that love just makes it better.
And what about the ‘Day in the Life’?
I finished that, too. And if you think you can see the love in the official video, just wait until you’re watching shots of Hutch walking by the water with George Bailey at sunset. And doing the jump-rope-boxer-skip shirtless. And swatting at his videographer with a towel when he should be washing the deck.
It’s a little time capsule, for sure—of the Rue the Day before she was lost, of Hutch and me before we knew who we’d become to each other, of the joys of getting started.
When it was done, I posted it for three days to my YouTube channel set to public. This was so Sullivan could watch it, and show it to whomever she needed to, and make a decision about whether or not to give me the axe.
The plan was to toggle it to “private” as soon as Sullivan had made her decision, but then Hutch asked to see it.
I’d explained to him—clearly—that I barely had any subscribers, and hardly anyone would see it except Sullivan and her cronies. That once she’d made her decision, I’d delete it forever. But Cole had told Hutch all about the details of his original plan—that a viral video could make me too big to fire. At my current job and at future ones. And so guess who Hutch emailed the link to, while it was live?
Jennifer Aniston.
Turns out she sent him occasional updates on how her dog was doing. And they kept up, as Hutch put it, a friendly, occasional correspondence .
In a move that must have pained every self-effacing cell in his body, he sent it, and he asked if she’d be willing to share it. And so she posted a clip to her Instagram and encouraged her forty-five million followers to go watch it. Pretty sure her caption read, Go watch my Puppy Love jump rope shirtless!
And so they did.
Did it save my job?
Like you wouldn’t believe.
EXCEPT IT WASN’T my job for long.
In the wake of Sullivan’s trip to Key West, she changed her mind about downsizing me. Maybe it was because I took care of her when she was drunk. Or her sudden romance with Cole—and how falling in love can make you a lot less cranky.
Or maybe it was all Jennifer Aniston.
But not only did she not fire me. She offered me a promotion.
But I didn’t take it.
Instead, I went in another direction.
I moved to Key West.
Not for a man , of course. God forbid.
For Rue.
Rue—who had decided to semi-retire in the wake of her diagnosis—had a job for me. She needed a manager for the Starlite, which included rent-free residence in the Starlite cottage of my choice, all the poolside dinners I could eat, and unlimited conga line opportunities.
What can I say?
I didn’t just take it. I grabbed it with both hands and then clutched it to my chest.
Why would I move back to my sad, gray apartment in Dallas when I could live in one of Rue’s fabulous, colorful cottages in the keys? Why would I live alone when I could live with The Gals? And, fine: Why would I live a thousand miles away from Hutch when I could live… a whole heck of a lot closer?
I sold all my gray furniture on Craigslist before I left.
But guess what I took with me?
Beanie’s Coast-Guard-orange throw pillows.
Maybe they were some kind of foreshadowing, and maybe they weren’t. But, either way, Beanie takes full credit.
AS DAY JOBS go, working for Rue is as good as it gets. She thinks I have a good head for business , so she’s showing me the ropes of her real estate empire. When we’re not relaxing by the pool.
But I didn’t give up making videos.
I guess there are many industry people among Jennifer Aniston’s infinite followers, because I got so many offers to collaborate and do projects in the wake of her post that I had to get a manager. Of all things.
As we speak, I’m working on a documentary about shipwrecks for HBO.
When I’m not doing my scuba lessons, of course.
RUE TURNED OUT to be a medical team’s dream.
She did everything they suggested—times ten.
They told her not to do any exercises that involved holding her breath, so she started walking laps in the pool instead of swimming. She bought one of those motivational water bottles marked with encouraging phrases like Time to hydrate! and Halfway there! and Get quenched! She cut out all alcohol and switched to virgin sangrias. She started a morning walking group with The Gals, reduced her sodium, bought a cookbook called One Hundred Salads , and started going to bed before the double digits.
And it all seems to be working.
Really, to sum up: she’s doing great. She made the absolute most of that diagnosis—and she’s grateful for the reminder to be grateful.
We all need those once in a while, I guess.
But as far as I can tell, Rue and her lady friends do a better job of appreciating their lives than anyone I’ve met. Their days might get busy like everybody else’s, but they gather at sunset for dinner almost every night—cooking out and then eating and chatting in the breeze until it’s time to turn in. They look after each other, they keep each other company, and they crack each other up in waves. They’ve taken my understanding of friendship to a whole new level.
COLE IS ALSO doing fine, for the record.
He and Sully really did start dating. She’s ten years older, and at least twenty years wiser, but for some crazy reason, it’s working. And we’ll never know if it’s just a coincidence, but it certainly seemed like the intensity and pace of her corporate restructuring seemed to ease in the wake of Sullivan’s trip to the keys. Maybe that was the plan all along. Or maybe Sully and Cole both found something they’d been looking for with each other.
Did fighting with Hutch solve everything for Cole?
Nah.
He was self-focused and competitive before, and that’s still true after.
But something shifted that night—no question. He no longer talks about his brother as all exterior, no interior . He no longer picks fights with him, or looks for reasons to be angry. Maybe he goes easier on himself now. We all have parts of our pasts that we keep contending with, over and over.
I don’t know what shape time itself is, but I know our minds move through it in spirals—returning over and over to the mysteries that hook us, to the questions we’ve never been able to answer, to the pieces that don’t quite fit. It’s the same questions, over and over—and the only thing different is us.
Cole learned something new about his life that night. The old question got a new answer. It didn’t change his personality, but it did change his story of his own life.
He’s nicer now. That’s true.
And being nice has a lot of upsides.
Now, when Cole comes to visit Key West, he brings Sully—and The Gals converge around her like a flock of birds-of-paradise, while the boys go off fishing. Or to play pinball. Sometimes, Cole tries to join Hutch for his morning workout, until he gives up halfway through and collapses, splayed out in the grass, to recover.
Mostly, Cole and Hutch play in the Starlite pool like they’re kids. They set up a water polo net and talk The Gals into forming teams. Plus, they’re working on a whole compendium of nutty ways to jump into the water. Old standards like cannonballs, jackknifes, and forward-flips made the list, of course—but also made-up moves like the switchblade, the Hammer Time, the corkscrew, the Air Jordan, the flying squirrel, the break-dancer, and the hallelujah.
Cole still complains about Hutch being too perfect—but now it’s in a jokey way.
Mostly.
Before, he could only see his brother from the outside, as some two-dimensional antagonist. But one hard conversation—one peek inside Hutch’s perspective—was enough to flip on a switch of empathy that never flipped back off.
So, yes, Hutch is still perfect. But in a relatable way. In a human way. In a just trying to get through life the best we can way. Cole can’t oversimplify him anymore. And something about that just deflated all his anger like air out of a balloon.
I think it put an end to the lying, as well—at least, as far as I can tell.
Before the big talk, Cole really had told a disturbing number of lies for an adult person. It left me wary of him for a long time—like, was this guy just a liar ? Was that just how he lived his life?
But maybe it was situational.
Maybe when Cole revised the story of his life, he revised his story about Hutch, too. I guess, if you think your big brother resents you, and you always feel like you have to justify your existence, and your brother keeps on being unbeatably perfect, you might feel like he’s taunting you.
But once you understand that he’s trying to be perfect for you…
It kind of changes everything.
And you don’t have to compete.
Instead, you can both just relax, and—say—sneak up on your respective girlfriends at the same time and toss them both into the pool.
GEORGE BAILEY GOT eight stitches for that paw injury, but they healed up just fine.
And here’s something true about the aftermath of our trauma bonding: George Bailey never knocked me down again after that. He’d still gallop toward me—lips flapping and ears undulating—but as soon as he arrived, he’d screech to a halt and just lean against me, instead.
Much better.
After the sinking of the Rue the Day , Hutch and George Bailey, of course, needed a new place to live. They came to live at Rue’s, too—in the cottage next door to mine. George Bailey amiably split his time between dual residences. He stayed with me while Hutch was out working—making himself right at home, and sleeping diagonally across my bed with such confidence that I wound up sleeping curled into a little ball.
It was nice in theory to be next-door neighbors, but Hutch didn’t stay at his place much.
All the fun people, he kept saying, were next door.
HERE’S ONE MORE update from the rescue. Maybe the biggest shocker in this whole shocking story: Lucky the toad lived.
He didn’t go down with the ship, after all.
George Bailey was holding him in his mouth the entire time , and he hadn’t been on board the helicopter five seconds before he opened his mouth, dropped the toad between his crossed paws, and then sat protectively with his new little pal for the rest of the flight.
Proving once again that sometimes it’s worth it to take a risk on love.
DOES GETTING KISSED while trailing from a rescue helicopter Tom Cruise–style over the Atlantic Ocean answer every question in your life?
Weirdly, no.
After the rescue, Hutch had to get back to work, and I had to get back to Texas.
There wasn’t really time for chitchat.
I had a flight to make. And a cell phone to replace on the way to the airport.
And Beanie to apologize to.
Beanie was, of course, my main guide for everything in life—and so as soon as I’d landed in Texas and been given the go-ahead to switch off airplane mode, I called her while walking to baggage claim.
First, we had to process her rage about not being told I was on a sinking boat while she was on the phone with me.
“You didn’t think that was an important detail?” she wanted to know. “That wasn’t worth mentioning?”
“I was getting to it,” I said.
“How?” she demanded. “Backward?”
“I knew that once I told you, you’d panic—”
“Reasonably!”
“—and then it would, you know, change the whole vibe of the conversation.”
“Yeah!” Beanie said. “For good reason!”
“But if it was my last conversation with you, I just wanted it to be a good one.”
“But it didn’t have to be our last conversation! If you would’ve helped me rescue you!”
“I was about to tell you,” I said. “But then my phone fell into the ocean.”
“That’s why you should have told me sooner!”
“What were you going to do?” I asked. “Call the Coast Guard?”
“Yeah! For starters!”
“I’d already called them. And they were busy, by the way.”
“I would’ve figured something out!”
“I’m sure you would’ve. But here’s the great news. I got rescued anyway.”
“Barely.”
“It counts.”
“The point is, if you have big news in your life, you’re supposed to tell me. And being adrift at sea on a sinking houseboat is big news!”
“Fine. Next time I’m on a sinking houseboat, I will tell you before my phone slides into the ocean.”
“Fine.”
She was a funny mixture of irritated with me and glad I was alive. All of which was fair.
“Next question,” I said then. “If I have other big news right now that I’m not sharing because you’re mad at me—should I go ahead and share it, or should I wait until you’re done being mad?”
“What other big news could you possibly have?” Beanie asked, as if life had a limited supply.
“It’s rescue-swimmer related.”
Beanie gasped. “Tell me.”
“Would you believe me,” I asked, “if I told you that of all the rescue swimmers in the entire US Coast Guard, the one who showed up to hoist me out of the ocean from the jaws of death in the nick of time just happened to be Hutch?”
“No,” Beanie said.
“Because I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.”
“ Hutch was the one who rescued you?”
“There’s a slight chance that I hallucinated it, but yes. Hutch rescued me. And then he kissed me midair between the ocean and the helicopter.”
“Now you have to marry him,” Beanie said, “so you can tell that story at the wedding.”
SO NOW I live at the Starlite. I bought a Dutch bicycle for tooling around town. And I hang out with The Gals in the evenings, and help cook dinner, and revel in the freedom of my newly conquered bathing-suit phobia.
More than that, I have fully given in to the Technicolor joy of a Vitamin Sea–based wardrobe. The horror I felt at my first sight of all those colors and prints and undulating fabrics? I barely remember it now. I’ve got a friends-and-family discount, and I walk around every day in colorful sundresses and skirts that flutter in the breeze.
Chromophobia conquered, too.
I’m like a tropical fish just floating along through my reef.
A tropical fish with all her black jeans and tees folded neatly in her bottom drawer just in case she needs them, but still.
Every now and then, a song about a younger version of me will come on the radio, and I’ll take a second to appreciate the contrast between then and now.
All that hard stuff turned out to be good for me, in the end.
It cracked me open. And you know that old saying about cracks: they’re how the sea breezes get through.
REMEMBER WHEN BEANIE teased me and said, “You’re afraid of a bathing suit?”
She knew what she was doing.
She was trying to remind me that I had a lot more power than I thought I did.
She was trying to get me to see myself differently.
The swimming wasn’t just about swimming. Nor was it just about letting myself love color, or reclaiming my right to splash in the water, or learning to be unapologetically alive in the world.
It was about the deep, enduring comfort that comes from looking at your life for exactly what it is, and exactly how it’s unfolded—and really seeing it. The past can’t hurt you now like it did then. The story of your life is always full of mystery. You can unfold it on a table like a map, and study it, and understand it in new ways.
It’s not different, but you are.
I can still hear Beanie saying, “You have to do the thing you’re afraid of.”
Bless her self-help-loving heart. She was right about that, too.
That’s what no one ever tells you. You can look around with your own eyes. You can find your own details. Notice for yourself what matters—and decide what it means.
It’s as true as it is life-changing.
But the only way to do it is to do it.
And now I have.
We’re here to be alive. To keep going. To find all kinds of ways to thrive anyway. We’re here to feel it all. To love and cry and love some more.
We’re here to rescue ourselves—and everybody else—in every way that we can.
What was it Rue said about courage? That no one’s born fearless?
It’s true.
EX-FIANCéE OF LUCAS BANKS HAS REALLY LET HERSELF GO , they said.
They were so infinitely wrong—but so accidentally right.
That’s the truth, and I’ll take it where I can get it.
She really has let herself go.
And as Rue would say: How glorious.