Epilogue - OLIVE
Published Author
The chalkboard out front says TONIGHT: OLIVE RYDER – Author Event, and the part of me that used to hide flinches for half a heartbeat before the rest of me steps into the light.
The indie bookstore is packed—standing room only, people leaning between poetry and cookbooks, a kid perched on a step stool near the back, a cluster of college girls clutching copies with sticky notes bristling like flags.
The staff has propped my book on the endcap with a hand-lettered card: Staff Pick: “Smart, swoony, and soft in all the bravest ways.” I used to dream about this, and then I used to pretend I didn’t.
Now it’s real. My book is a bestseller. My blog isn’t anonymous anymore. I put my name on the spine and it feels good.
Nina waves from the side like an enthusiastic stage mom.
Liam has somehow become the unofficial videographer, holding his phone with exactly the right amount of pride.
And in the front row, legs stretched, hands folded, sits Ash—stupidly proud smile, eyes glossy, like the whole night is a private joke between us and also the most serious thing he’s ever witnessed.
I clear my throat, read from the middle—my favorite scene. When I look up, they’re right there with me, every face. Some people laugh in the same place I always do. Someone sniffles. A woman in a denim jacket presses her hand over her heart and mouths thank you, and I swallow hard.
Questions. Signing. A line that loops past “Literary Fiction” and brushes “Self-Help.” I sign copies until my hand cramps.
After, I find Ash without even looking. He stands before I reach him and pulls me into his arms like he’s toasting me with a hug.
“You were brilliant,” he says into my hair. “Terrifyingly brilliant.”
“Terrifying?” I pull back, mock-offended.
“Because now I have to work harder,” he says, that grin tugging crooked. “I can’t have the better writer in the house showing me up.”
“You already do.”
He kisses me anyway, quick and soft, and the room does that collective aww that makes me laugh against his mouth.
I sign the last copy and hug the last stranger and step out into the warm night. Outside, Pasadena is warm and easy. We walk to the car holding hands, the night humming like a well-tuned string.
At home, we don’t do anything fancy.
Pasta boils, rattling the lid in that comforting way; the kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes and the basil I forgot to water and somehow kept alive anyway.
Ash hums in the doorway, working a melody under his breath he’s been living with for weeks—a quiet thing called “Bellgrove.” It sounds like sunlight through stained glass and the sound of a clock striking yes.
Bernard is exactly where he belongs, lording over the corner of the couch like a benevolent tyrant. Ash has banned him from the bedroom. “He doesn’t need front-row seats to… grown-up activities,” he argued. Apparently the beady little eyes were “a vibe killer” and also “absolutely judging us.”
I pretend to be offended, but every time I catch Ash walking past and giving the pillow a wary nod—like two generals acknowledging a ceasefire—I kind of get it. Some audiences we can live without.
There’s mail on the credenza—bills, a postcard from my editor that says you did it, and a small flat package with Celeste’s name on the return. Inside: a pressed sprig from our wedding flowers, sealed under glass with a note in her clean, looping script.
For your first bookmark, she writes. Thank you for letting me be a part of your journey. —C.
I show it to Ash, and he smiles softly, his thumb brushing the glass. “We’ll take it with us on the road,” he says, like he’s already tucking it into the pocket of a thousand green rooms.
With his new album dropping soon, fans are buzzing—most of the U.S. tour sold out in minutes. And I’ll be going with him.
We eat at the table because that’s what we do now. He steals my last tomato; I pass him the parmesan. I slide him the bigger half of garlic bread because I love him—and because I want the last bite of cake we smuggled home from the launch.
When the plates are mostly clean, he fixes himself a club soda with three limes, tops off my water, and clinks the rim of my glass. “To ordinary miracles,” he says.
“Always,” I answer—and, glancing at the map of our next few months taped to the fridge, add, “and to coming home.”
THE END.