Epilogue
Itold you this story.
I told you that love is messy. That it’s raw, painful—the kind of thing that buries itself deep inside you and refuses to let go.
That it will break you, reshape you, and leave you standing in the wreckage of who you used to be, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to put yourself back together again.
And I meant every damn word.
Because love is all of those things.
But what I didn’t tell you—what I couldn’t tell you back then—was that love is also the thing that heals you.
It lingers. It seeps into your breath, into your bones, into the quiet spaces between your ribs that no one else has ever touched.
It stays.
Even when you try to forget. Even when you tell yourself you’ve let it go. Even when you run. Because love, real love, is never something you just walk away from.
And five years ago, I finally stopped trying.
It’s been five years since I made that drive to Asheville.
Five years since I walked into The Hollow and saw her standing there, looking at me like I was both the past she couldn’t escape and the future she wasn’t sure she was allowed to have.
Five years since my world tilted on its axis, and I knew—right then, right there—that this was it. That this was us.
Did I know she was coming? No.
But God, I hoped.
I hoped so hard it hurt. I hoped with every damn breath in my body. I told myself that if what we had was real—if she really felt what I felt—then she’d show up.
And if she did? I’d never let her go again.
Mallory still calls– Still shows up unannounced. She still drinks my whiskey like she owns the place, kicks her feet up on my coffee table, and inserts herself into my life with that same shameless confidence she’s always had.
And yes–She’s still a pain in my ass.
But honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She claims she knew all along that Savannah and I would find our way back to each other. Says it with a knowing smirk and a shrug, like she orchestrated the whole thing. And maybe she did, in her own way.
Not that I’ll ever admit that to her.
And the house?
I kept it. I almost didn’t. I Almost let my pride make me walk away from it, from her, from everything we had touched, everything we had built.
But love—real love—doesn’t give you that option. Because it stays. And so did she.
That library Savannah once dreamed about? It’s real. It’s here.
And every morning, I wake up and find her sitting in that damn window nook, tucked into the cushions, legs curled beneath her, a book in one hand and coffee in the other.
It never gets old.
The way she loses herself in the words, the way her eyes soften when she finds a sentence that stays with her.
She loves all the books. The shelves are full of them. Classics, new releases, hardcovers, paperbacks—To surprise her, I even asked the bookstore clerk for recommendations.
Which, let me tell you, turned into an experience I wasn’t prepared for.
Apparently, there is a thing called "smut.” I had no idea what the hell that was when I asked.
Turns out, it’s word porn.
And judging by the way Savannah’s eyes lit up when she saw the stack, I have zero regrets. "I don’t mind that kind of love language at all," she’d whispered, her fingers tracing the spines.
I’d never seen her look at anything the way she looked at those books. Except maybe me.
The house is still the same, for the most part. I’ve made a few updates.
The bedrooms have been redone. The dock—the one where I spent too many nights wondering if I’d ever see her again—is still my favorite place to sit when I need to breathe.
The difference is—I’m not sitting out there waiting anymore. I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m living. Because she’s already here.
For all the good, and for all the bad, love changes us. It molds us into something new. It forces us to face the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore. And if we let it—if we fight for it—it gives us something we never thought we’d have again.
Since that day all those years ago, I’ve become a better version of myself than I ever thought possible.
I don’t take things for granted anymore. I don’t let fear make my choices. And I damn sure won’t let the best thing that ever happened to me walk away twice.
I still sit here on this dock most nights, listening to the tide roll in.
The difference is, now? I’m not listening for echoes.
I’m listening for her. For the way she laughs when our son refuses to go to bed and wants to sit on "Daddy’s dock.
" I’m listening for the sound of her voice calling my name from the house, telling me that dinner’s ready, or that I forgot to fold the laundry, or that I need to come inside because Carter won’t go down without his daddy.
Yeah—our three-year-old can’t fall asleep unless I’m the one to tuck him in.
I never thought I’d love anything more than her.
But then she gave me him. And God, if that didn’t undo me completely.
Savannah still laughs about the way I cried the first time I held him. The way my hands shook when I traced his tiny fingers, the way I whispered, “I’ve got you, little man. You’re safe.”
The way I looked at her, completely wrecked, knowing I would never be the same.
I’m still not the same.
I’m better.
Because of her.
Because of him.
Because of us.
So I’ll leave you with this—
Love is hard.
Love is impossible.
Love will wreck you.
It will break you.
It will make you question everything you thought you knew.
But if you’re lucky—
If you fight for it, if you choose it, if you don’t let go—
Love will put you back together.
Love is forever.
Love is this.
And this—
This was the Echoes of Us.
—Chase & Savannah Montgomery