Epilogue #2
I just smile and head for the door. We'll see about that.
The drive from Boston to Millbrook Falls takes exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes if I stick to the speed limit, which I definitely don't. My BMW eats up the miles of Interstate 95, September afternoon sunshine streaming through the sunroof as I let muscle memory guide me along roads I've traveled countless times over the past year.
My phone buzzes with a text just as I'm taking the exit for downtown Millbrook Falls, and I risk a glance at the screen when I stop at the red light.
Maya said yes to helping your friend. Apparently, his situation sounds "professionally interesting”
I laugh out loud, typing back quickly: Should I warn him or let him figure out what he's gotten himself into?
Definitely let him figure it out. More entertaining that way. How was practice?
Good. Missed you. On my way home now.
I have a surprise for you. And I'm making your favorite pasta.
What kind of surprise?
The kind you'll have to come home to find out about. Drive safely. Love you.
Love you too.
The light turns green, and I tuck my phone away, grinning like an idiot. Almost a year later, and Delaney still makes my heart race like I'm seventeen years old with my first crush.
Main Street looks exactly the same as always—Victorian storefronts with their painted signs swaying in the ocean breeze, tourists wandering between shops with ice cream cones and shopping bags, the kind of postcard-perfect New England scene that used to make me feel claustrophobic and now feels like home.
I park behind Rosewood Books and let myself in through the back entrance, breathing in the familiar scent of old paper and the vanilla candles Delaney burns near the register.
The shop is closed for the day, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the front windows and illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
"Del?" I call out, dropping my gear bag by the door.
"Upstairs!" Her voice drifts down from our apartment above the shop, warm and bright with excitement.
I take the narrow stairs two at a time, anticipation building in my chest. Delaney's surprises range from new books she thinks I'll like to elaborate scavenger hunts that end with homemade cookies, so I never know what I'm walking into.
I find her in our kitchen, stirring something that smells incredible on the stove while wearing one of my old Howlers practice jerseys and nothing else.
Her honey-brown hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she's humming something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like the song that was playing during our first dance at the Valentine's festival.
"Hey, beautiful," I murmur, wrapping my arms around her from behind and pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. She melts back against me immediately, fitting perfectly against my chest like she was designed to be there.
"Mmm, hi," she sighs, tilting her head to give me better access to her throat. "How was your first day back?"
"Good. Better now." I rest my chin on top of her head, looking over her shoulder at whatever she's making. "The guys are excited to see you again. Fair warning: They're planning to interrogate you about your romance novel recommendations."
"I can handle a few hockey players," Delaney says, but I can hear the smile in her voice. "I've had plenty of practice with the difficult ones."
"Hey," I protest, spinning her around to face me. "I was never difficult. I was charmingly stubborn."
"You told an entire podcast audience that romance was dangerous bullshit," she reminds me, raising an eyebrow. "I'd call that difficult."
"That was the old me," I tell her, cupping her face in my hands. "The new me knows that all this is..." I pause, pretending to think. "What did you call it? 'The brave choice to believe in happy endings even when life gives you reasons not to'?"
Delaney's smile could power the entire Eastern seaboard. "Look at you, quoting my own words back to me. I've created a monster."
"You've created a believer," I correct, leaning down to kiss her properly. She tastes like chocolate and possibilities, and I'm just getting properly lost in the feel of her mouth against mine when she pulls back with a mischievous grin.
"Not yet," she says, pressing a finger to my lips when I lean in for another kiss. "I told you I had a surprise."
"I thought the surprise was pasta and you wearing my jersey."
"That's just Tuesday night," Delaney laughs, taking my hand and leading me toward our living room. "The real surprise is over here."
She stops in front of our coffee table, where a familiar leather-bound journal sits next to a bottle of champagne and two glasses. It's the same journal we used for our pen pal letters during our bet, now worn soft from months of passing back and forth between us.
"What's this about?" I ask, settling onto the couch and pulling her down next to me.
"Open it," she says, practically vibrating with excitement.
I flip to the first blank page and find Delaney's handwriting, neat and careful in the way it only is when she's writing something important.
Mac,
A year ago, I challenged you to believe in love through ten dates and a stack of letters. You challenged me right back by showing me that real love isn't just about grand gestures and fairy tale moments—it's about choosing each other every day, even when it's hard.
It’s been almost one year since our bet ended and our real story began. One year since you decided to stay in Millbrook Falls instead of disappearing back into your old life. One year since I decided to stop protecting my heart and let you all the way in.
This journal holds our entire beginning—every letter, every doubt, every moment we fell a little deeper. I thought it deserved a proper ending.
So here's my final letter, hockey boy:
Thank you for taking my bet. Thank you for letting me prove that love exists, and for proving to me that it's even better than I imagined. Thank you for bringing laughter back to our town and for giving me a love story that's messier and more wonderful than any novel I've ever read.
But mostly, thank you for choosing us. Every single day.
All my love, D.
P.S. - Turn the page.
My throat feels tight as I flip to the next page, where Delaney has pasted a photo of us from last month. We're dancing in the middle of Rosewood Books after hours, surrounded by fairy lights and roses, looking at each other like we've discovered something magical.
But it's the words written below the photo that make my breath catch:
And they lived happily ever after... because they chose to.
"Del," I start, but she's already reaching for the champagne, hands shaking slightly with nerves.
"I know it's cheesy," she says quickly. "But I wanted to mark the anniversary somehow, and I thought–"
I kiss her quiet, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against hers. When I finally pull back, her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"It's perfect," I tell her, meaning it completely. "You're perfect."
"I'm really not," she laughs, but she's glowing with happiness as she hands me a glass of champagne. "I burn dinner half the time, I cry at commercials, and I still haven't finished unpacking all my books."
"Perfect for me," I clarify, clinking my glass against hers. "To one year of choosing us."
"To choosing us," she agrees, and we drink to the promise of all the years ahead.
The champagne is crisp and bubbles on my tongue, but all I can focus on is the way Delaney's looking at me—like I'm something precious and unexpected, like she can't quite believe I'm real.
"I love you," I tell her, setting down my glass and reaching for her hands. "I love that you believed in us before I even knew there was an 'us' to believe in. I love that you fight for what matters. I love that you made me remember how to hope."
"Mac," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
"I love that you wear my jerseys and make them look better than I ever did," I continue, tugging gently at the hem of the practice jersey she's wearing. "I love that you've read every romance novel ever written and you still think our story is worth telling."
She's definitely crying now, happy tears that catch the lamplight as they slip down her cheeks. "I love you too," she manages. "Even when you're being impossibly sweet and making me ruin my mascara."
I laugh and kiss her forehead, tasting salt and promises. "Sorry. I'll try to be more of an asshole tomorrow."
"Don't you dare," Delaney says fiercely, framing my face with her hands. "I like you exactly the way you are. Sweet and stubborn and mine."
"Yours," I agree, and something that's been tight in my chest since I drove away from Millbrook Falls this morning finally relaxes completely. "Always yours."
The pasta on the stove is probably burning, and I've got practice again tomorrow morning, and there are a thousand practical things we should be talking about.
Instead, I lose myself in kissing her in our living room while September rain starts pattering against the windows and the whole world narrows down to the feel of her mouth against mine and the sound of her sighs.
"Bedroom?" Delaney murmurs against my lips, and the single word sends heat racing through my veins.
"Definitely bedroom," I agree, standing up and pulling her with me.
She laughs and lets me lead her down the short hallway to our room, her hand warm and sure in mine.
The space is pure Delaney—bookshelves on every available wall, fairy lights strung around the headboard, a reading chair by the window where she curls up with her coffee every morning.
It shouldn't work with my hockey gear scattered in the corner and my weight set taking up half the floor space, but somehow it does.
Like everything else with us, it's messy and imperfect and exactly right.