Epilogue
Dusty
Six Months Later
The reporter from Chicago Art Review had been asking variations of the same question for twenty minutes, circling around what she wanted to know without quite asking it.
“The aesthetic you've curated here,” she said, gesturing at the gallery walls where Marisol Rosas's desert landscapes glowed in the afternoon light, “it feels personal. Like you're not just displaying art but telling a story about West Texas itself.”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as movement caught my eye through the gallery's back windows. Cord's SUV pulling into the alley behind the building, a couple hours earlier than expected from his ESPN gig in Austin.
My chest tightened with want, but I kept my attention on the reporter. Professional. Focused.
“That's the goal,” I said, watching Cord disappear from view as he headed toward the back entrance.
“These artists aren't just capturing landscape.
They're showing you what it feels like to live here—the particular quality of light, the way distance changes your perspective, the resilience required to thrive in a place this unforgiving.”
“And the pieces you've chosen for the main exhibition space,” she gestured toward Nico's bronze sculptures, “there's a progression. Can you walk me through your curatorial thinking?”
The back door opened with its familiar creak. Footsteps on the stairs leading to our upstairs apartment, so careful and deliberate, trying not to disturb the interview happening below.
My body knew those footsteps. Three weeks apart while he'd been doing a college football broadcast series. Three weeks of late-night phone calls and video chats that weren't the same as having him here, solid and warm and real.
“The bronzes anchor the space,” I explained, pulling my focus back to the reporter.
“Nico captures human form in ways that echo the landscape—weathered, enduring, shaped by forces beyond our control.
When you pair them with Marisol's paintings, you get this dialogue between figure and environment that reflects the West Texas experience.”
She scribbled notes, engaged now that we were deep in actual art criticism rather than surface-level questions. “And your business partner handles the commercial side? Former NFL quarterback, correct?”
“Cord manages business operations and our guest house,” I said, the practiced answer coming easily now. “He's got strong organizational skills from years of reading complex plays. Turns out that translates well to managing reservations and contractor negotiations.”
“Interesting partnership. How did that come about?”
“We met through mutual connections. Realized we had complementary skills and a shared vision for what this space could be.” True enough, if carefully edited.
“He handles what I'm terrible at, like spreadsheets, vendor management… the business logistics. I focus on curation and artist relationships.”
The reporter asked a few more questions about upcoming exhibitions, the partnership with my brothers' adventure business, how we were positioning ourselves in Marfa's competitive art scene. I answered on autopilot, the words coming from years of practice reading what people needed to hear.
She closed her notebook. “This has been wonderful. The piece should run next month. I'll send you the draft for approval.”
“Perfect.” I walked her to the front door, shook her hand with the appropriate level of professional warmth. “Thanks for making the trip out here.”
I watched her rental car pull away before closing the door. Six months since Cord walked into my yoga studio at The Ranch with that business plan, and of us learning how to build something together.
The building purchase closed in early December, faster than expected when Cord's advisor pulled strings.
Then came two months of renovation hell.
Contractors who didn't show up, surprise electrical problems, me fighting to preserve every original detail while Cord argued about budget overruns and building codes.
We handled most of the work ourselves, which saved money but cost time and at least two major fights about proper drywall technique.
Jake never paid back the money. How could he?
Gail had recommended legal action, and I spent two weeks researching fraud charges, talked to a local lawyer who said I had a case.
But pressing charges meant destroying what was left of the family business, putting Mom in the middle, making Sam choose sides.
So I didn't. The trust was gone anyway, broken in ways lawsuits couldn't fix.
Sam handled Jake's removal from business operations. I just stopped returning his calls.
The gallery opened soft in March, hard launch in April.
Marisol's desert landscapes sold within two weeks—three to collectors, one to a museum in Santa Fe.
Nico's bronzes took longer, but when they moved, they went for prices that made him quit his day job.
I brought in two photographers, a fiber artist, and a sculptor whose work with reclaimed materials fit the space perfectly.
The guest house apartments stayed booked most weekends.
Cord handled reservations between ESPN gigs, making the three-hour drive to Midland to catch flights to Dallas for broadcasts, or the six hour drive to Austin, always coming home wired and exhausted.
I managed the gallery, taught yoga workshops twice a month at Sam's outdoor center, painted when I could find time.
We fought about him traveling too much, about me working until midnight three days straight before an opening, about accepting a commission from a collector whose politics made my skin crawl.
Normal couple shit. The kind that meant we were real, not performing perfect.
Money stayed tight those first months. The business plan was solid, but reality always costs more than projections.
We made it work—guest house revenue covered mortgage and utilities, gallery sales funded operations and artist payments.
Cord's ESPN contract carried us through the lean patches.
By month five, we broke even. Month six, we turned an actual profit.
I flipped the sign to “Closed” and locked it. The gallery could wait. The world could wait.
I took the stairs two at a time.
Our apartment was small, converted from what used to be storage space, all exposed brick and original hardwood. The main room served as a living room, kitchen, and studio space, with a tiny bedroom barely big enough for the bed and a bathroom that required strategic maneuvering.
Cord stood at the sink, filling a glass with water, still in the button-down and slacks he wore for broadcasts. His hair was mussed, tie loosened, jacket draped over the back of a chair.
He turned when he heard me, and the smile that spread across his face made my chest ache.
“Hey,” he said.
“You're early.” I crossed to him, hands already reaching for his waist. “I thought Austin wasn't done until Friday.”
“Finished the last segment this morning. Couldn't stand being away anymore.” His arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.” I buried my face against his neck, breathing him in. Three weeks. Too long.
His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin. “How'd the interview go?”
“Fine. She wanted to understand the curatorial vision. Asked good questions.” I pulled back to look at him. “You could've called. I would've wrapped it up faster.”
“Didn't want to interrupt.” His thumb brushed my jaw. “Besides, gave me time to unpack. Put groceries away. Start dinner.”
I glanced at the stove where a pot was already simmering, filling the small space with the smell of garlic and tomatoes. “You drove six hours and started cooking?”
“Wanted everything ready when you came up.” He kissed me, soft. “Thought we could have dinner later. Much later.”
Heat pooled low in my belly. “How much later?”
“However long it takes.” His hands slid lower, gripping my hips. “I've got weeks of missing you to work through.”
I kissed him harder this time, months of practice teaching me what he liked—firm pressure, slow exploration, the promise of more. His mouth opened under mine, tongue sliding against my tongue as his hands gripped on my hips.
We moved toward the bedroom, shedding clothes between kisses. His shirt hit the floor, then mine. Belt buckles jingling as we worked them open, jeans pushed down and kicked away.
The bedroom was barely big enough for the bed, afternoon light streaming through the single window. We fell onto the mattress together, my weight settling over him in a way that was like coming home.
“God, I missed this,” he breathed against my throat. “Missed you. Three weeks is too long.”
“Way too long.” My hands mapped the familiar territory of his chest, feeling the slight ridge of surgical scars under my palm, healed now, barely visible, but I knew where to find them. Evidence of the gamble that had paid off, the choice that had brought him here.
I traced the pale lines with my fingertips, remembering how they'd looked fresh and angry those first months. Now they were just part of him, part of the story of how we'd found each other.
“Still thinking about the surgery?” he asked, voice soft.
“Just grateful it worked.” I leaned down to kiss the scars, then his collarbone, his jaw. “Grateful you're here.”
“Nowhere else I'd rather be.” His hands slid into my hair, pulling me down for a deeper kiss.
We moved together with the easy familiarity of six months of practice, learning each other's rhythms and preferences. I worked him open slow, careful, watching his face as pleasure built.
“Ready?” I asked when he was relaxed and wanting.
“God, yes.” He pulled me down. “Need you.”
When I pressed inside him, we both groaned at the sensation of perfect friction, perfect fullness, perfect connection after too long apart.
The sex was slow, deliberate, making up for lost time. I set a rhythm that built, each thrust deliberate and deep. His eyes held mine, dark and intense, watching every reaction cross my face.
“Love you,” I said, voice rough. “Love you so fucking much.”
“Love you too.” His hands gripped my shoulders as I found the angle that made him gasp. “Right there—don't stop.”
I didn't. Kept the rhythm, kept the angle, kept watching him fall apart beneath me. When he came, it was with my name on his lips, body arching up to meet mine. The sight and sound of it pulled me after, orgasm rolling through me as I buried myself deep.
We stayed like that for long moments, just breathing, coming back to ourselves. When I pulled out, I rolled him against my side, both of us sticky and satisfied and content.
“Better than phone sex,” he murmured against my chest.
I laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Definitely.”
The afternoon light shifted toward evening as we lay there, wrapped up in each other, the apartment quiet except for our breathing and the distant sound of someone walking past on the street below.
“This place is smaller than your old living room,” I said, looking around at the cramped bedroom. “In the Denver penthouse.”
He was quiet for a moment, and when I glanced down at him, his expression was soft, open in the way it only got when we were alone.
“You know what I see when I look around this place?” he asked.
“Exposed brick that needs repointing? That water stain on the ceiling we keep meaning to fix?”
“I see home.” His hand found mine, interlacing our fingers. “I see the studio space where you create. The kitchen where we cook together. The bed where I get to wake up next to you every morning.”
He shifted to look at me, those dark eyes holding mine. “Everything I ever wanted is in this room, Dusty. The penthouse was just a place to sleep between games. This is where I live.”
My throat tightened. “You mean that.”
“Every word.” He kissed me, slow and sweet, and I could taste the truth in it. “Best decision I ever made was walking away from what everyone expected and building something real instead.”
I settled back against his chest, fitting there like I belonged. “Love you,” I murmured.
“Love you too.” He pressed a kiss to my hair, arms wrapping around me. “Always.”
We lay there as the room darkened, neither of us willing to move, content to just exist together in our small, perfect space.
Everything I ever wanted, I thought as my breathing evened out. Right here in this room.