Epilogue
Four Years Later
It feels like I’m always signing important shit in diners. I’m not sure what it is about these places, this one in particular, but it’s my business office of choice, I guess.
Dante’s Diner in Flagstaff is where I signed on to break free of my father and the lies I’d been carrying for years, so it seemed fitting to be the place where I plan to put down roots. Real roots.
“What do you think? You ready for this?” Mig signs his portion of the contract, then passes it to me. I sign without hesitation.
“Hell yeah, I’m ready.” I push the done deal across the table to the broker and the notary, then fall back against the orange vinyl booth with a massive exhale.
Four years ago, Mig, Jersey and I were treading water to keep our garage open.
We were working our asses off, me often twenty-four-seven.
It never felt like we were going to make it to that magical plateau where we could close on the weekends and pay ourselves real salaries.
But it turns out when the love of your life is two hours away and busy, you find ways to fill the time.
I filled it with business outreach. My dad might be a criminal, but he had a good nose for business.
The legitimate ones he invested in all had something special.
Our garage had that, too. I knew it. So, I sucked up my pride and made some amends with my brother.
Turns out Caleb is kind of the shit at investing—legitimate investing.
He found us some partners who not only loved our brand but wanted to see it flourish.
Better yet, being that they were in the high-end auction world and traveling most weeks, they wanted to remain hands-off and simply reap the rewards of our connection.
We own the Phoenix shop outright now. Every brick paid for.
Every repair on us, too, but we have the contingency funds to pay for things.
Contingency funds . . . ha! That’s something Caleb got me on board with.
And now we’re expanding up north, near the university where my girl is planning to coach next season.
Turns out this town is full of rich people with massive garages, and people like that want their toys to run well, and they want to swap them out often.
“Mr. Anderson, here are your keys,” our broker says.
I hold them in my palm, letting the weight sink in before curling my fingers around them.
“Thank you,” I utter, shaking with my other hand.
Mig and I follow the real-estate guys out of the diner, and I walk Mig to his new truck. He’s a solid friend and gave me his old one for a dollar. We wrapped them both in the business branding, so I’m advertising while driving around.
“I’m gonna take off and get back before rush hour.” Mig grasps my hand, and we give each other a bro hug. “I’ll head up next weekend, and we can start the demo and get with the contractor, yeah?”
“Sounds good, man. And hey, thank you.” My friend’s gaze settles on mine for a moment, a hint of surprise in his expression. Being grateful is something I’ve worked hard on over the last four years, and I think it still shocks him when I show my feelings.
“Of course, dude. I believe in you. I believe in us!” He points between his chest and mine. “I mean, plus we have Jersey. But I don’t really believe in that fucking guy.”
We both laugh at our wanderlusting friend, who is currently learning how to retool German cars in Munich, and racing on the actual fucking Autobahn!
“Hey, he gives us our niche,” I tease, repeating words Jersey used when he sold Mig and I on the idea of sending him to the Munich program.
“He’s a niche in my ass,” my friend grumbles, and I laugh as he climbs into his truck and holds up a hand for goodbye.
I wait for Mig to pull out before heading to my truck to text Saylor and see if she’s done setting up her office.
She officially graduated a week ago, and the school offered her the head coaching gig the next day, with the blessing of her coach, who had just retired.
I could tell she wanted to say yes when she called me with the news, and I promised her we’d make it work.
I’ve managed to keep the new shop a secret for ten months, so I sort of already knew it would work.
I wanted to keep a secret for a good reason, for once, to surprise her and get to see her eyes light up when she sets foot into a space that she and I fucking own.
Both of our names will be on this deed soon, assuming she says yes when I pop the question in about thirty minutes.
I’m never fucking nervous, but I can’t seem to stop sweating now.
The damn ring in my pocket is wedged so deep into the denim from my constant checking that I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull it out when the time comes.
I suppose that’s step one hundred in this whole thing, though, and I’m never gonna get there if I don’t fire off this text and take step one.
ME: Made it to town. You ready to get picked up?
My leg bops with nervous energy as I wait for her to text back.
She thinks we’re loading up her studio apartment and moving her things to the one-bedroom we talked about renting.
I canceled that shit as soon as the realtor cashed our check for the shop, though.
It comes with Saylor’s dream apartment on the second floor.
It’s a one-hundred-year-old building made of red brick and iron, and the downstairs used to be a bar up until the fancy clubs started moving in near the college.
The apartment’s been empty for years, so I’m sure we’ll have our work cut out for us, but we’ll get to make it ours.
SAYLOR: Yep! I’ll be outside.
ME: On my way.
I blow out my nerves and toss my phone in the console before shifting into drive.
I practice every word I plan to say on my way to the athletic complex, then promptly forget them all when I spot Saylor standing just outside the doors with two duffels in her hands and the world’s best smile on her face.
Somehow, my pulse settles into a steady rhythm just at the sight of her. It’s still pattering at a good clip, but more like a train and less like a jackhammer.
“Showtime, Rowan,” I mutter to myself, hopping out of the truck at the curb and racing around to help Saylor with her bags.
“I still have packing to do. I’m so sorry I’m not more prepared. It’s been . . . ooof!” She blows up at her loose hairs, and I tuck them behind her ears as I cradle her head and pull her into me for a kiss.
“No worries at all. We’ve got time.” More time than she knows.
I help her into the truck, closing the door and feeling my pocket for one more display of OCD. Ring is there. Way in there.
I hop in and pause for a moment before shifting into drive. I had so many versions I practiced, but now that I’m in the moment, I can’t think of a single one of them.
“Something wrong?” Saylor drops her phone to her lap and turns her attention to me.
She’s so cute in her cut-off shorts and sockless sneakers.
Her T-shirt is tied at her back, probably to keep her cool because she’s been busting her ass all day.
I bet she’d love a shower right now, but I don’t think I can wait for her to take one.
I definitely can’t wait while she packs the rest of her things.
I know how much shit she has. It could take days, for all I know.
My head swivels to face her as I chew at the inside of my cheek.
“I want to show you something. It won’t take long. Promise.” I hold up two fingers like a scout, and she narrows her gaze with suspicion. Her smile curves into one cheek, too.
“Am I going to like this surprise?”
I threw her a party for her birthday at the pub in town in March, which is how I learned that she’s not a big fan of surprise parties or a lot of people. Lesson learned, and damn are we destined to be together. Two hermits for life.
“It’s not a party. We’ll make it quick.” That part’s an exaggeration, though I suppose if she throws the ring in my face and bolts, it won’t take very long.
“Okay, 007. Show me your special something.”
My mouth ticks up and I nod.
“Alright.”
I pull out of the campus lot and take the back route to the building, mostly to try to deter her from guessing before we get there.
Once parked in front of the rounded bay window, Saylor grows incredibly quiet and still.
I think she’s starting to imagine a bigger surprise when I let her off the hook by handing her the keys.
“Wanna see our new place?” I quirk a brow, and she stares at me with an open mouth.
“No fucking way.” Her voice is low, laced with caution.
I pull her face to me and press my mouth to hers, her lips fumbling to form a kiss after being frozen in shock.
“Yes, fucking way,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat before hers drifts behind me to the polished concrete steps she has commented on every time we walk by them.
“Come on,” I say, hopping out of the truck and zipping to her side to help her onto the curb.
She shuffles her feet at first, her head tilted up as she looks up at the tiny details of the kind of architecture that simply doesn’t exist anymore.
I’m able to get her to focus when we reach the steps, and she puts the key in and opens the small hallway that leads to a door on the right and a set of stairs to our new home.
“It’s all ours. Well, this part is Old 66 North, but the upstairs .
. . that’s just you and me.” I push open the downstairs door, and it creaks as I push it wide.
The bell hanging above still rings, most of the dust having fallen off from the various walk-throughs Mig and I have made in the last few weeks.
“You’re expanding?” Her wide eyes swing to me, then scan the wide-open space waiting for our rebuild.
“We are. I’ll run this location while Mig handles Phoenix, and Jersey will just bounce between the two.”
“Jersey,” Saylor mutters through a raw laugh. “If he shows up at either of them.”