Epilogue
Summer, three years later…
Checking myself in the mirror, I half-heartedly approve the emerald green dress with scalloped sleeves and a light collar. It will have to do. My wardrobe goal is simple—to look friendly. Surely, the four outfits I tried first accomplished that. It’s nerves making me so indecisive. A universal truth about teachers (and anyone, really) is that we all have first-day jitters.
I return the discarded dresses to the walk-in closet and tidy the unfinished books on Jack’s bedside table. Edgar Allan Poe and Harper Lee trail behind me, meowing curiously—they know something’s up.
I give the bedroom a final once-over. So much has changed since I first moved in. Jack insisted on upgrades—recessed lighting, a walk-in closet, and, of course, a gorgeous, extra-large shower. But the main difference to my cozy bedroom retreat is that Jack and I share it. That, and everything else.
The changes in the rest of the house are much more drastic.
Edgar and Harper skirt around my feet as we take the short hallway next to Sara’s old room, which will either be a nursery or another guest room, depending on where life takes us. I step into what used to be my living room and take a soothing breath. It’s a massive study now—a book lover’s dream. Jack writes on a desk in the corner by the fireplace. Scattered cushy chairs invite all-day reading. Small tables are equipped with study lights, notebooks, and, of course, good pens. I do my homework around the kitchen banquette—I had to keep it—and refuel on snacks and drinks from the small kitchen. Like a cool, cozy library, every free space in between is filled with books.
The little house no longer has a converted garage or screened-in porch. Instead, Jack built what we affectionately call the book tunnel—a long, wide hallway of floor-to-ceiling books broken up only by window seats for reading. The tunnel links our two houses into one—a plan I never thought would work. But Jack had a vision—and few things show true commitment than literally joining properties.
Well, that and getting married, which we did last fall.
A stranger to the neighborhood wouldn’t know it had been two separate homes looking at it from the street as the tell-tale signs are gone. No divisive hedges. No separate driveway. Even the bricks have been whitewashed to match. We merged houses like we did our lives—relatively seamlessly—at least once we were together.
Jack crosses the living room, fiddling with remotes and gaming systems. “Honey, what do you think? Mario Kart or Luigi’s Mansion? Or, wait, would Super Mario Galaxy be better?”
My head spins. “You’re playing video games?”
“No, I’m setting something up as an icebreaker.”
“What if he doesn’t like Mario?”
Jack’s eyebrow shoots up. “Rowan, everyone loves Mario. If he doesn’t, we should worry.”
I ease the remotes from his hands and slip my arms around him. “Don’t worry. He’ll love you. Let’s try to relax, huh?”
“Says the woman who’s changed her clothes again.” His lips curve into a smile as he kisses me. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m sure he is. You look gorgeous.”
What begins as a peck deepens as he lingers. A familiar heat rises between us that time hasn’t softened. Rather, it’s grown more intense—we are always desperate for each other.
Even so, he breaks away. “I almost forgot… I have something for you.”
He dashes across the kitchen, pulling a wrapped box and a bouquet from the pantry. With a giddy grin, my high-energy husband practically jumps over the couch to present the gifts.
My words from ages ago filter through my thoughts. That’s how you’ll know… when you want to buy a woman flowers. And that’s what he’s done every week since. No plastic-wrapped gas station roses, either. He drives thirty minutes to a wholesale distributor and handpicks the arrangement. Although I’ve told him a thousand times that he doesn’t need to go through the trouble, the flowers keep coming, and I adore it. It’s another one of our things.
Today’s bouquet is an understated arrangement that fits easily in my hand, short-stemmed, and tightly wrapped in brown paper. Deep purple Gerber daisies and sprigs of lavender create an artful contrast to bright orange lilies and bold yellow mums. I lean into the blossoms, catching their soft scents.
“They’re beautiful. You may have missed your calling.”
“I’m only a florist for you. It’s one of many services I provide.”
As I laugh, he tugs the flowers from my hand and gives me the box. I open the lid to find the second edition of Love Story by Dominic Martinez, Julio’s grandfather and a classroom favorite for sharing during our Inspiration Project years ago. Thanks to Jack’s influence with his publishing company, the first edition came out over a year ago, launching Mr. Martinez’s late-in-life career as a great American poet. This new edition features Hispanic artists to tell his story in art alongside his words.
“It’s an ARC.” He grins.
“No annotating, then. It’s… breathtaking.”
Jack opens the hardcover to reveal a message scribbled on the title page. Rowan, To teach is to love. And love is a gift. Always Give, Dom.
A tearful sputter emerges as my fingers trace his message. “A signed ARC… Thank you, Jack.”
His arms wrap around me, smushing the book between us. “You’re my favorite person.”
“But what about Mario?”
The doorbell interrupts our sweet giggling moment. Our eyes meet, and we take a simultaneous breath as our nerves rise again.
Jack leans in, resting his head against mine. “I will love you forever, Rowan.” His words come slowly, in a whisper.
“And it won’t be long enough,” I finish with a kiss. “I have something for you, too. Later.”
His brow peeks in interest, but the doorbell chimes again, luring us to the door. I expect Mira, but it’s Mom and Reggie, carrying tote bags and iffy expressions.
“I couldn’t wait.” Mom pushes inside.
“The more, the merrier,” Reggie spouts cheerfully, following behind her. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Jack and I share a glance—Mom showing up on a whim has become a welcome norm since she and Reggie married and moved to Wrightsville.
“Ah, Mario,” Reggie observes, motioning toward the TV screen. “Excellent idea.”
Jack jumps into his previous question with someone who clearly is better informed to give him an opinion while I meet Mom in the kitchen. She sorts through the totes on the expansive island, pulling out everything from chocolate chip cookies to Legos to three different types of apples.
“What’s all this? Did you raid Target?” I reach for a vase and fill it with water.
She sighs, her shoulders bobbing. “I got a little carried away.”
“Definitely. We have groceries… and toys. We even have flowers.” I set the arrangement in the middle of the island.
“Yes, but you heard what Mira said. He’s had it rough, and he’ll be here a while. We should do extra to make him feel at home.”
I couldn’t fault her logic, though I worry he might find us overwhelming. Since we finished construction, teenagers like Sara have come and gone from the Mackey-Graham household. Some stay only a week or two before relatives step in. Others stay a few months as their parents sort themselves out. We consider ourselves a haven for teenagers in transition.
But Mom’s right—Adam is different. For one thing, he’s not a teenager but a child—the youngest we’ve fostered. Rescued from an abusive household with charges pending against his parents, Adam isn’t in transition but recovery with a long road of healing ahead of him. He’ll likely be here for the rest of his childhood—we expect, hope, that fostering leads to adoption.
“Definitely Mario Kart,” Reggie says with authority.
The doorbell chimes. We all go still.
Jack and I lock eyes across the room, and I’m unsure who smiles first.
He claps with celebrity-level excitement. “Let’s meet Adam.”
We hold hands as we open the door—a subconscious comfort that’s become another one of our things.
Mira greets us with an uneasy smile. She has first-day jitters, too. I understand why—Adam’s blue eyes are angry slits, and his lips form a pinched line as he stares straight ahead.
“Adam, say hello to Rowan and Jack,” she says with her soft Mom voice.
“We’re glad you’re here, Adam,” I say.
Jack extends his hand to encourage a low-five or a handshake. “Put her there, Adam.”
He hugs his chest, looking toward Mira unsurely.
“Let’s go inside, huh?” she suggests.
We move aside, letting them go first. We give Adam space as he looks around. Mom and Reggie wave from the kitchen like giddy schoolchildren spotting their friends on the playground.
Adam doesn’t respond to that either. He’s eight but doesn’t look like it. His body is lanky and thin, and a head shorter than children his age. His blond hair is flat from improper washing. His arms are littered with unruly scars—wounds that have gone untreated. Long, lumpy slashes stand out on his cheeks as if someone Zorro-ed him, and my heart swells with empathy. I suddenly understand why Mira fought so hard to place him with us.
“Well, I’m Christine, and this is Reggie,” Mom says, unable to tolerate the silence. “We’re your foster grandparents. Are you hungry?”
They rummage over her Target raid, opening cookies and snacks.
Adam ignores them. His eyes fix on me, and his anger switches to curiosity. He follows my scars with a tilt of his head. Instinctively, I want to hide, but I hold my hand out instead, like a discovery for him to examine. Then, I tuck my hair behind my ear so he can see the unusual terrain of my neck.
We have scars in common, after all.
His anger returns, glaring at Jack beside me. “Did he do that to you?”
The tension in the room upticks with the outrageous suggestion, but I focus on Adam and offer a warm smile. Sadly, it’s a reasonable question from his perspective.
“No.” I ease into the chair beside him, bringing us eye level. “When I was fifteen, a disturbed person took his anger out on me. For a long time, it made me angry, too. We can’t help how people hurt us. We can only hope to be better people and for something good to come out of it. Like you… being here. It might be hard to believe, but most people aren’t violent. No one here will ever hurt you. I promise.”
His arms fall away from his chest, and with an uneasy breath, he latches onto me. His sudden embrace nearly pulls me from the chair’s edge, but I firm my position. He feels so small against me, but his relief is enormous, filling me up and spreading through the room.
Slowly, he pulls away and seems embarrassed, as if needing love is a weakness. I meet his sheepish look with an assuring smile. “Adam, you’re safe and exactly where you belong. Now, please, tell me you’re hungry.”
He allows a weak nod, and the room breaks into action.
“I’ll heat the pizza oven,” Jack says before hesitating. “You like pizza, right?”
Adam nods, staying close and observing the activity like a lost tourist in the wrong country by mistake.
“We have cookies and Cheetos!” Mom pulls bowls from the cabinets.
“Chex Mix, too. That’s my favorite,” Reggie says.
“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning near his ear. “They’ll calm down.”
A tiny smile perks his thin lips. I know then—I love him. He seems to know that, too. He grabs my hand as I stand like he doesn’t want me to get lost in the shuffle.
But as the evening continues, he drifts from my side in small doses. To Mom and Mira first. But eventually, to Jack and Reggie when they play Mario Kart. Adam has never played, but it doesn’t take long for him to adore that, too.
By ten, our guests are gone. Jack and I lead Adam into his new room—Devin’s old room—and though he seems a bit shell-shocked at his new reality, he’s also tuckered out. He’s fast asleep by the end of our first story—The Little House. As my students have taught me, everyone loves picture books.
Jack and I sweep through the house, switching off lights and checking doors, and I feel much like I imagine Adam does. How can this be my life? My husband is giddy with getting-to-know-you schemes, mostly involving a basketball or a game controller. Mom and Dad (yes, he’s the dad I was always meant to have) live less than twenty minutes away, as do Mira and her family. I’m the English department chair at school, where Julio will be my teaching assistant this year, and Sara will be in my class. We’ll be working on her college applications soon. Dr. Evelyn Tate-Kaine has moved on to the school board. Dean Maddix is officially a working actor—we spot him sometimes in police dramas, Hallmark movies, and the occasional insurance commercial. All the pieces have clicked perfectly into their proper places.
Bringing me to Jack…
His first two bestsellers since us, Bare and Strangers Together, created so much buzz at release that the film rights went up for auction. We would’ve been set for life even if he never penned another book.
But they keep coming. He’s more prolific than ever. He always understood love and how to capture it in his stories, even when he thought he was a fraud. But finding it himself reflects in his writing like a mirror to the strength and depth of our relationship. His stories are even more raw and heart-wrenching than before, but a nice side effect to us is that his books are also happier by the end.
I prop the baby monitor on my bedside table and increase the volume. Harper and Edgar curl into a single ball by the sliding glass doors. Jack pulls the covers back on his side, catching my eyes with his.
“I haven’t forgotten,” he says.
I give him a fake, puzzled look. “Forgotten what?”
“Don’t play games with me, Rowan. You said you had something for me.”
I can’t hide my coy grin, but I shrug casually. “Did I say that?”
His eyes narrow to dark slits. “Don’t make me resort to coercive tickling.”
I laugh, moving to his side of the bed. Standing in front of him, I shake my head. “Fine, you win. I got you flowers, too.”
“Flowers?” He looks confused. “Well, where are they?”
I hold my arms out. “You have to find them.”
He lights up in surprise. His eyes travel over my green dress like it’s the only barrier between him and a treasure. “Aw, Rowan. Did you… Are you saying… I mean, really?”
His stunned delight brings a chuckle. “You aren’t the only one capable of romantic gestures, you know?”
I reach behind my neck and unbutton the top clasp of my dress. Gently, he tugs the material over my shoulders and arms until it falls to my feet. All skin and black lace, I stand before him. He drops to his knees, taking in the tattoo across my left side, inches under my breast. In newspaper type, his name ends with a crooked heart and sits on a bed of strewn wildflowers in purple, pink, yellow, and blue watercolor hues.
His fingers trace the surface. Then, his lips. “I love it.” He looks up at me, sounding breathless. “It’s perfect. Does this mean you’re finally serious about us?”
I laugh. “I’ll tattoo your name all over my body to prove it.”
“No need. I like it right here, where it’s just for me.” He almost looks teary as he runs his fingers over it again. “Damn, Rowan, I will have to step up my romance game after this.”
“How about we get the next one together?”
His arms wrap around my midsection, pulling me closer. “I still fucking adore you… more every day.”
A coy smile stretches over my lips as I run my hand through his hair. “Better show me then.”
Between soft kisses, he whispers exactly what I’m thinking. “Always.”
***