Epilogue
The theater buzzed with energy, a potent mix of excitement about the movie premiere blended with all the regular people freaking out that they were surrounded by celebrities.
I fought to keep my cool, hiding the nerves crackling beneath my evening gown.
I smoothed the deep-emerald silk to keep myself busy while I tried not to stare at the woman two rows ahead who I was ninety percent certain had won an Oscar last year.
Or the man several seats to my left who definitely had.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Roxie grabbed Marge’s arm, her voice climbing. “Is that… That’s… I can’t even—”
“Breathe, baby.” Marge patted her wife’s hand. Then she straightened her fringed vest—the same vest Buck had worn in the movie—and grinned. “Though yeah, that’s definitely him.”
Roxie made a sound that didn’t have words in it.
“How much you wanna bet it’s him asking me for an autograph after this movie premiere?” Marge gave a slow, confident nod. “He’s gonna want a piece of Buck, for sure.”
“I still can’t believe you wore a costume to the premiere. We’re supposed to be dressed nice,” I said to Marge, though I was smiling.
Unbeknownst to us, she’d made a deal with Roger to buy the entire Buck outfit after we left the movie set and had it shipped home.
The vest. The chaps. The hat. The spurs.
Everything.
She claimed she wanted Buck to be at the premiere to see her work, which was Marge-speak for I want everyone to know I’m in this movie, and also, I think I look badass.
“I think you look amazing,” Roxie crooned, her attention pulling from the A-lister and turning to Marge, her fingers playing with the fringe on the vest.
Marge slung an arm around her. “Well, Buckshot definitely has a thing for you, purdy lady.”
Roxie lowered her head onto Marge’s shoulder, and I smiled at them, then pushed a little closer to Tom.
“How you doing, baby?” he asked.
I inhaled a deep breath and let it out through my nose. “I’m okay. This is just… a lot.”
“Well, it may be a lot, but you look beautiful.” He kissed the top of my head. “Although, I am a little disappointed you didn’t show up in your costume like Marge. I heard you looked like a schoolmarm. I never told you I have a fetish for schoolmarms, but… well, I do.”
“Shut up!” I burst into laughter, the moment easing the tension coiling through my stomach like snakes had descended on my entrails.
Doris leaned across Axel, her face glowing. “Can you believe we got to walk the red carpet? I still can’t believe it. Me. Doris. I walked the actual red carpet and there were photographers and everything!”
She looked stunning in a floor-length pink gown that I had helped her pick out, her hair swept up, makeup professionally done. Axel looked equally sharp in his tux, and the way he kept looking at his wife with awe in his eyes made my chest tighten with happiness for them.
“You were beautiful out there,” Axel said softly, and Doris blushed.
“Just wait for awards season,” Marge announced to no one in particular, turning in her seat to survey the crowd.
“I’m hearing Oscar buzz. Lots of it. Best Picture, probably.
Maybe Best Actor for Jackson. Probably for me too.
Supporting at least. You never know. Buckshot could really pop out in her scene. ”
“We were extras. We aren’t getting Best Supporting Actor awards, Marge.”
She shrugged. “Well, even if the Academy doesn’t recognize my genius, it still sounds like it’s definitely in the running. Can you believe we could be in an Oscar-winning film?”
The absurdity of that statement hit me fresh. We’d stumbled onto a movie set in Louisiana, we’d become extras in a Western, and now we were sitting in a packed premiere theater in Los Angeles, waiting to watch ourselves on-screen.
My gaze drifted to the empty seat beside me.
The lights would dim soon. The movie would start. And that seat—
I looked away, swallowing against the tightness in my throat.
Tom’s hand found mine. He leaned over, his lips brushing my temple. “I love you. And I’m so proud of you.”
I managed a smile. “It’s been a crazy year since we filmed this.”
“It has.”
“One of the hardest of my life.”
Tom squeezed my hand but didn’t say anything.
“But tonight,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice, “tonight we celebrate.”
Movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see Marge standing, waving both arms over her head like she was trying to signal a rescue helicopter.
“Anders! Clarice! ROGER! DAN!” She made finger guns, shooting them repeatedly at them while they tried to navigate the aisle. “Hey! Over here! It’s me! Buck! Buckshot! It’s me!”
They glanced over, faces registering something between recognition and panic, then sprinted for their seats.
Marge sat back down with a satisfied nod. “Probably got a lot going on tonight. Premiere nerves. Very busy.”
“Or they’re avoiding you,” I suggested.
“Why would they do that? They loved me. And they really loved Buck.”
Before I could argue, heads turned around us. A ripple of attention moving through our section, people shifting in their seats to look.
I turned too.
And there she was.
Alice walked down the aisle, leading Alejandro by the hand, and she was absolutely stunning.
The dress was midnight blue, fitted to perfection, reminding everyone she’d always known exactly how to dress her body.
Her makeup was flawless—dramatic eyes, perfect lips, the kind of glamour she’d always carried effortlessly.
And her wig—shoulder length, dark, styled in soft waves—looked so natural you’d never know.
My throat closed.
Thank God she got that mastectomy.
The thought came unbidden but fierce. Because that brave decision—choosing the double mastectomy, choosing the one percent over the twenty-five—had saved her life.
What the doctors had thought was Stage 0 DCIS turned out to be Stage 3 that had spread to the lymph nodes. The scans had missed it all. If she’d gone with the lumpectomy, if she’d chosen to keep her breasts...
I couldn’t finish the thought.
Instead, it had meant a double mastectomy. Then an axillary dissection surgery when the lymph node biopsy came back positive. Then the red devil chemo that turned her inside out. Then another round of chemo. Then radiation.
We’d held her while she threw up. Sat at her side through the tests, the recoveries, the pulmonary embolism that almost killed her.
Doris had kept her hydrated, filled her with soup when she couldn’t keep anything else down.
Marge had pushed her through the pain, refused to let her quit, barked orders until Alice dragged herself through each day.
And I’d organized every appointment, triple-checked every plan, made sure my friend got the very best care available.
And now she was here.
We’d rung the bell just a month ago.
Alice was cancer-free.
She slid into her seat, Alejandro settling beside her, and immediately she turned to me. “Is my wig on straight? Because Alejandro and I just went at it in the bathroom and I need to know if it shifted.”
Doris’s mouth fell open. “ALICE! Oh, you didn’t!”
“Of course I did.” Alice straightened taller, her eyes gleaming.
“It was a new first for us—banging in the bathroom at your own movie premiere. You know I want all the firsts I can get, and this…” She paused, her gaze slipping to Alejandro as he stared at her like she hung the moon.
“Well, this was a first I just had to check off the list.”
“Don’t say banging!” Doris hissed, glancing around like someone might report us to theater security.
Marge reached over and clapped Alice on the back. “Atta girl.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.
Because she hadn’t changed. Not one bit.
Her hair was still growing back beneath the wigs. She’d just gotten her new implants two months ago, and they looked fabulous. But underneath all of it—the reconstruction, the treatment, the year of hell—she was still exactly herself.
Tom leaned close to my ear. “Maybe we should hit the bathroom too.”
I elbowed him in the ribs, still laughing.
The lights dimmed.
The crowd settled into expectant quiet.
And then the opening credits rolled.
For the next two hours, we watched in awe. The film was incredible.
We’d known it would be good—we’d seen the cast, the director, the scale of production—but watching it all come together on-screen was something else entirely. The cinematography was gorgeous. The performances were raw and real. The story hit exactly the way it was meant to.
When we appeared on-screen—just extras in the background of the shootout scene—we all squeezed each other’s hands and tried not to squeal too loudly. But when Alice arrived on that screen, we were stunned into silence.
She appeared at the top of those stairs in the saloon, backlit, every inch the madam we’d watched her become.
And when she delivered her lines—calm, cutting, perfect—the entire theater leaned forward.
Her time on the screen was short, maybe two minutes, but the impact she left was as powerful as the woman herself.
I glanced at her in the dark. She was watching herself on-screen, her face unreadable except for the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
The other widows were watching her too. Marge with undisguised pride. Doris with wonder. All of us thinking the same thing.
She’s here to see this. She’s going to be here for many, many more years.
The ache in my chest wasn’t sadness. It was gratitude so sharp it nearly hurt.
After the movie, we spilled out into the cool Los Angeles night, the energy of the premiere still buzzing through us.
“Are we going to the party?” Tom asked. “Or can I get out of this tux?”
“Oh, we’re going to the party.” I took his hand in mine. “It took three hours for professionals to make me look like this, and I’ve spent most of the time in the dark theater. We’re going to a party and getting our money’s worth out of these dresses.”
“That’s my girl.” Alice winked, her dress swishing with her long strides. “We are not going to let this night end anytime soon.”