Epilogue
GAGE
About Four Months Later
Beale
Hey, everyone! Sorry to hijack the group chat, but I’ve got a little limpkin over here who needs some extra love this weekend. Anyone wanna volunteer to help me out?
When my brother’s text hit my phone, I was already sitting outside The Bugle, Little Pippin Hollow’s most beloved town bar, with my breath fogging in the air as I tried to get a cell signal.
Since all my family and friends got together for football games every Saturday (and Sunday, plus the occasional Monday and Thursday), text chatting or FaceTiming at halftime meant I could talk to all of them at once, which was handy.
Since Ernest, the owner of The Bugle, happened to serve the best collection of hard cider in all of New England, this meant I could be adequately prepared to converse with the strange collection of personalities on the Key, which was even handier.
Still, when I read Beale’s text, I had to wonder if the half glass I’d drunk before coming outside was a little stronger than usual, because I couldn’t fathom what the hell he was talking about.
It turned out I was not the only one.
Dad
Beale, son, we’ve all been there. But maybe the Whispering Key Party Planning Committee Group Chat isn’t the best place to talk about your limpkin. Have you and Toby talked to Doc Mason? Maybe he could prescribe something.
Dale Jennings
Nooooo. Don’t let Big Pharma anywhere near your limpkin, buddy! I’ve got a guy who can hook you up with some supplements that’ll get your limpkin saluting the flag. Gel coated STEEL, my man. (Gel coating helps the digestion.) Call me.
I laughed out loud. Dale Jennings and his questionable supplements were a Whispering Key legend.
Lorenna McKetcham
Beale, you were right to ask for an assist—sometimes getting some volunteers to help out is exactly what a man needs to recharge the old limpkin! It’s Senior Discount Night at The Crab Emporium, otherwise me and George would be over to help. Man’s been frisky ever since his hip replacement.
I snorted. If I ever needed a reminder of what I loved and missed about the little Florida island where I’d been born and raised, all I had to do was open the group chat.
It was also a really important reminder of why I lived far from Whispering Key. Here in the Hollow, people were every bit as neighborly and supportive, but not nearly as interfering or as eccentric.
I mean, unless they were conspiring to make Knox stay in town. Or to prevent me from leaving…
Okay, yeah, they could possibly be considered interfering. Hmm.
I looked down the hill at the snow-covered Town Square with its spindly-branched trees and empty gazebo and frowned. Someone, somehow, had shoveled perfect concentric rings around the gazebo maybe six feet apart, forming a snowy crop circle.
Then I remembered Katey Valcourt, who’d knitted Webb a pair of homemade socks for Christmas even after Webb had explained that he didn’t return her feelings because, she’d informed him happily, everyone needed a hobby and having a crush on him was hers.
And Helena Fortnum, with her hooch and her, um, apple décor.
And Lonnie Duncan, the so-called Pumpkin Carving Champion, who had a chicken called The Matron that made most of his life decisions. (“Sorry, Sheila. I really like you, but The Matron says it’s not gonna work out.”)
Hmm again.
Okay, evidence suggested that Hollowans were also, in their own way, every bit as eccentric as the Whispering Keysters I’d grown up with. Maybe the only difference was that they were my brand of strange, which was why I’d grafted myself into life here so seamlessly.
Beale
A limpkin is a majestic BIRD, people. Goodness!
Ahhh. This made total sense, since my brother was all about wildlife rescue. It also happened to be the perfect setup for a joke, and I couldn’t resist.
You’re saying your limpkin is… majestic? Weird flex but okay.
Toby
Gagelet!! Precious, how are you?? How is your delightful lumberjackian paramour?? (Yes, I am deliberately turning the conversation, and the first person who changes it back will be dis-invited to the Super Football Day Feast at Beale’s and my house. Do not test me. *staring eyes emoji)
I’m doing great! Knox is doing awesome! And I think you mean the Super Bowl?
Dad
Hahaha. Yeah, he means Super Bowl.
Fenn
Super Football Day. *laugh-cry-emoji
Mason
He definitely means Super Bowl. But at least he knew it was football?
Toby
I’m referring to the football-themed Hors d’Oeuvres Banquet so extensive that it will be enshrined in legend and, indeed, become part of the collective consciousness of our island, so that generations from now, the names of those who were disinvited will be spoken in voices of hushed pity.
But please, you guys, keep talking about how I don’t know sportsball. It’s totes fun!
Dad
Do you know, I’ve always privately thought it should be called Super Football Day?
Jay
Same! Exact same. Mason and I were just talking about that the other day.
Rafe
Toby, are you making that artichoke feta dip?
Toby
A double batch.
Rafe
Then as mayor, I’m officially declaring it Super Football Day on Whispering Key.
Jay
(You guys, he just banged the kitchen counter at your dad’s house like he had a gavel!!! *laugh emoji The mayor thing has officially gone to his head.)
I snorted. But to be fair, I’d had Toby’s feta artichoke dip when we visited the island last month, and I’d declare a holiday for it, too.
In fact, I was planning to make a batch for our Super Football Day party back at the orchard, and I’d told Marco I might or might not be willing to barter if he ponied up his precious shortbread recipe.
“Gage?” Knox stepped out the front door and immediately clocked me where I was perched on the porch railing. “You okay, baby? It’s fucking freezing out here and you don’t have a coat.”
I slid my phone into the front pocket of my sweatshirt—the sweatshirt that Knox no longer even pretended was his—and leaned back against the porch railing.
I looked up at the love of my life, the man who made me smile each and every day, the man who was my home every bit as much as this town was, and scoffed loudly.
“Pssht. You flatlanders with your sensitivity to the cold. Honestly. Ernest’s right about you. ”
Knox leaned against the railing beside me and folded his arms over his chest, which would have been a lot more intimidating if he hadn’t also been fighting a smile. “Oh, really. And what does the bartender have to say about ‘us flatlanders,’ pray tell?”
“That you can’t tell your applewine from your English,” I said smugly.
Knox looked up at the porch roof. “Nearly a billion gay men in the world, Jesus, and I had to end up falling in love with the one who can make apple cider varietals sound like dirty talk? Really?”
I snickered and tugged at the hem of his bulky sweater until he scooted close enough for me to lean my head on his shoulder.
“You had to end up falling in love with the one who got so excited about helping Uncle Drew with his retirement project that he became just the teensiest bit obsessed with cider. But on the plus side, Ernest says anyone who knows cider as well as I do is clearly a native of the Hollow, no matter where he happened to be born—”
“Oh, well as long as an authority like Ernest says you belong here.” Knox rolled his eyes even as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
“Unlike certain folk,” I interrupted, wrinkling my nose, “who had the ‘overwhelming good fortune’ to be born in the Hollow and then ‘absconded to parts unknown—'”
Knox snorted. “Boston is hardly parts unknown—”
“Which was like giving up your right to citizenship in the Hollow forever,” I concluded sadly. “According to Ernest.”
“That’s… fascinating, but it doesn’t actually work like that,” Knox said with the trademark grumpy expression I loved.
“Mmm. You sure?” I twisted my mouth to one side doubtfully.
“Ernest’s not just the bartender, he’s also the mayor, remember?
And his bar is the old town hall.” I nodded at the Historical Society plaque affixed beside the door which, aside from the “The Bugle, Est. 1767” sign on the front lawn, was truly the only thing that made the building look like anything besides an old, white clapboard Colonial house.
“So, like… I’m pretty sure Ernest would know, baby. ”
“I’m positive. Citizenship is about where you live and are registered to pay taxes, not some ridiculous cider-based eligibility test. And furthermore, you don’t get to ban someone forever just because—”
“Tell me more,” I whispered huskily, fluttering my eyelashes at him. “Educate me, Daddy.”
Knox closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hate you.”
“But not as much as you love me!” I laughed. “And, good news, Ernest says I can convey citizenship on my spouse, so when we… Uh.”
Shit. I had definitely not meant to say that.
I cleared my throat. “You know what? I think I hear the second half of the game starting. I was out here chatting with the fam, but I’m done now.
So weird how you can’t get a signal inside the building, eh?
But you’re right, we should go back inside.
Brrr. Chilly. Does it look like snow to you?
Hurry before we’re stuck out here in the blizzard.
” I pushed ineffectually at his muscular arm.
He refused to be budged. “Mmm. Wait just a minute there, Goodman. Finish your thought. Are you offering to marry me so I can… become a citizen of Little Pippin Hollow?”
“No. Ha! As if. No. We’ve only been together for, like, four months! A third of a year. And I’m only twenty-five, Knox. That’d be… it’d be…”
Crazy. Scary. Perfect.
My pulse increased with excitement and no fear whatsoever, but I forced myself to calm the fuck down. Before we got together, Knox had been unsure about getting into a relationship at all.
He was joking. Joke. Ing.
Sure enough, when he looked at me his eyes danced.
“Hey, if we did, would that make me a naturalized citizen of Whispering Key, too? Because your dad offered to take me out on the boat when we were down there last month, but I’m thinking maybe I should get my own boat since I’m a citizen.
Can I be part of the group chat? Should we ask the mayor? He’d probably know.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I see what you’re doing and you’re not funny.”
“Except I kind of am.” He smiled his happy-go-lucky smile and I melted into a puddle of Gage-goo right there.
“You kind of are,” I agreed. “And as my boyfriend, you can be part of the group chat whenever you want.” I patted his chest, mostly for the excuse to touch him. “Their shenanigans might piss you off constantly, though, fair warning.”
“Nah.” He leaned in and ran his cold nose against my jaw, making me shiver. “I’m calm as the orchard in winter these days.”
“Yeah.” I teased with a happy sigh. “And all because you found the love of a good man.”
He laughed. “I was gonna credit the weekly therapy sessions, consistent meditation practice, good coping mechanisms, total lifestyle change, and having a patient doctor who’s worked to get me on a good combo of medication even though it’s taken months.
” He turned and wrapped his arms around my waist. “But all of that has gotten me to a place where I can appreciate and return the love of a good man, and build a future with him, which is pretty crucial.”
“Aw.” I leaned into him. “I was joking and you got all serious. I love you.”
“I love you, too. And I appreciate you giving me that jokey out, but I don’t need it. You’re it for me. So if you ever do want to seal that deal, baby, and become an efficient Sunday for real, you just let me know.”
I gaped at him. “Wait. Wait. Seriously?”
“Serious as your newfound love of cows,” he vowed.
Knowing how fond I was of Diana, that… was very serious indeed.
He kissed me and it tasted like laughter. “I can see I’ve broken your brain, Goodman. It’s fine. We don’t need to decide anything tonight. We have forever, so there’s no need to rush to get—”
Hawk threw the door open, his face pale and his eyes huge. “You guys need to come inside. Webb accidentally got married!”
Accidentally?
Knox stared at Hawk in shock, but me? I grinned hugely.
“Come on,” I told Knox, tugging him by the hand. “This I have to see.”
It turned out that life in Little Pippin Hollow might actually be weirder than any other place in the world, and way more exciting than any big city.
And there was nowhere else I’d rather be.