Epilogue
Brooke
The plan to have a picnic actually made it out of the group chat, miracles do happen.
We’re camped out in Central Park, each of us holding a baby, sipping orange juice out of champagne flutes like we’re sipping the most expensive mimosas in Manhattan.
The sun’s warm but not punishing, a breeze rolls over the grass, and, so far, not a single baby meltdown.
Which, if you’ve ever met an infant, is basically a small blessing from the universe.
I raise my glass, which is already half empty. “To community centres,” I say.
“Here, here,” everyone yells, clinking our glasses together.
Becks eyes me with a grin. “Someone’s glowing.”
I can’t help it, I smile. “I don’t know if it’s the honeymoon phase, but wow.” I fan myself dramatically.
They all laugh. Zara points at me with her free hand. “Careful or Penny’s going to get a little brother or sister soon.”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’s not happening. She’ll have to make do with the babies in this group because they’re the closest thing she’s getting to siblings. Oh, and Stella’s kids.”
Becks snorts. “Shane wants another baby.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m still recovering from birthing this one and he’s already ordering another.”
Zara leans back on her elbows, grinning. “Do you want one?”
Becks softens. “Of course. Just… not yet. I’m still breastfeeding.”
“You’re a better woman than I am,” I say, shaking my head. “One birth was more than enough.”
We all laugh. I glance at Sheera, who’s been unusually quiet. “You’ve had three,” I say to her gently. “You’re the strongest of all of us.”
Sheera laughs, but there’s something a little distant in her eyes. “I think I just forgot the pain,” she says softly.
Before I can respond, a man on a bike drops it a few feet away and walks over. Messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He pulls out some papers, comes right up to our little circle.
“Sherlyn Kendal?” he asks.
Sheera looks up, wary. “Yes?”
He hands her a thick envelope. “You’ve been served.”
And just like that, he’s gone, sprinting back to his bike and pedalling off like some messenger from a bad soap opera.
We all stare at the envelope in Sheera’s lap. She opens it slowly, carefully, her fingers stiff. The second she reads the first page, she freezes, like all the colour drains from her face at once.
Zara leans forward. “Sheera? What is it?”
Sheera lifts her eyes to us, pale as a ghost. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Byron’s divorcing me.”
Matthew
I grab our order just as Brooke walks up, stroller in hand, cheeks a little flushed from the walk. I hand her the cup and take the stroller handle from her.
She lets out a sigh of pure relief. “You’re a saint.”
I grin, nudging her lightly. “You just love coffee.”
She wraps her free hand through mine resting on the stroller handle. “I don’t know if it’s because I couldn’t drink it for nine months or what,” she says, taking her first sip like it’s a religious experience, “but yes.”
She leans up and pecks me on the lips, warm and easy. “And I love you.”
I smile against her mouth. “So… how was virgin mimosas with the ladies?”
She exhales dramatically. “I wish we’d brought the real stuff.”
I tilt my head, confused. “Why?”
Brooke leans closer, lowering her voice. “Sheera got served divorce papers right in the middle of the park.”
I stop dead for a second, blinking. “What?”
I’ve met Byron exactly once, when he came by our apartment to pick Sheera up after a moms’ night. He seemed like a solid guy. Reserved, but decent. “Why?” I ask.
Brooke shakes her head slowly, still a little shell-shocked. “They’ve been struggling, yeah, but she didn’t see it coming. She thought he was just… struggling with being a dad this late in life. She had no idea.”
We keep walking, the stroller wheels clicking softly against the sidewalk. Penny’s little hands wave sleepily from under her blanket, the picture of calm in a world that rarely is.
“Damn,” I mutter after a beat.
Brooke takes another sip of her coffee and says, almost casually, “It actually made me glad for all our fights.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “No, really. Apparently, they didn’t fight. He just… went quiet. Like completely. Didn’t say if he was happy or sad or angry. I mean, how the hell do you fix a relationship if you won’t even say what’s wrong?”
“Communication is the key to relationships,” I say, without even thinking about it.
She looks at me with that face. The one she always makes when I start unintentionally dropping therapy phrases, lips pursed, brow slightly raised. A mix of affection and mild judgment.
Something shifts in her expression, and then she snaps her fingers lightly. “You should ask him out.”
I nearly choke on air. “What?” I laugh at the absurdity.
She rolls her eyes. “Not like a third date. Like a friend. Ask him to grab a coffee or… I don’t know, golf or fishing or whatever men do when they leave home.”
“I don’t fish,” I deadpan.
She blows a raspberry at me.
I keep pushing the stroller, but the idea sits there, annoyingly reasonable. I don’t have his number, and I’ve been thinking lately that it wouldn’t hurt to have more actual guy friends, especially since Lenny moved to the Paris branch. Asshole.
“It’ll be weird if it’s just the two of us,” I say finally.
She shrugs. “Then invite Shane too. But don’t let him convince you to have a second kid. That’s between me and my uterus.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Considering I saw the last one born, that’s all your decision, baby.”
She smirks, bumping my shoulder again, and we keep walking. The path curves ahead of us, trees swaying softly in the breeze, leaves and twigs scattered across the ground like a quiet reminder that everything changes, and somehow, everything keeps moving.
People mill about, couples, joggers, parents chasing after toddlers, but through it all, Brooke doesn’t let go of my hand.
We walk side by side, our steps falling into that familiar rhythm that’s become ours.
And honestly… that’s all I can hope for.
That she doesn’t let go.
That we keep walking through life like this, side by side, through the mess, through the joy, through everything.
Together.
The End… is it?