Epilogue #2
Out in the yard, Eli hits the bumper at the bottom of the line and bounces off it backward into the grass. The sound he makes is pure joy, and Felicity is laughing so hard she has to sit down next to him.
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. He squeezes once.
"Take care of those kids."
I have to look at both of them—Eli in the grass, Sophie through the slider—before I can get the words out.
"I will."
It's dark by the time we hit the mountains.
I've got the wheel, the dash lights low, and the dark road unspools in the headlights.
Beside me, Audrey has her seat tipped back a few degrees, her hand resting open on the console between us.
In the back, Sophie's reading by the little overhead light, silent except for the turn of a page.
Eli's asleep against the window with his mouth open, worn out from the trampoline and the zipline.
It’s quiet for a while when Audrey says, low so it doesn't carry to the back, "How was it? With your dad?"
I take her hand. Bring it to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, setting it back down without letting go.
"Good." The road bends, and I follow it. "I told him I'm not joining the firm. He was okay with it. Better than okay." I glance over. "I told him I was considering going into politics. He thinks I'd be good at it.”
She squeezes my fingers. Doesn't ask the next question. Doesn't push for the parts I’m not ready for. Just holds on and watches the road with me.
After a minute, she finally speaks. "I'm proud of you."
I keep my eyes on the white line. Have to clear my throat before I trust my voice.
"I'm proud of you too. Your cakes are blowing up, doll."
She laughs under her breath. "They're just cakes. They're not blowing up."
"Booming. Exploding. Detonating across Harlow Heights. Take your pick."
"That's not—"
"Entire neighborhoods. Buttercream everywhere. Chaos."
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth is doing the thing, the slow curve she used to fight and doesn't fight anymore.
We drive. The headlights find a reflector and lose it.
"Speaking of." I check the mirror even though there’s no one out at this time of night. "Declan's been on me about your website. He's got the framework built already. Says he just needs your final say on the photo gallery and the colors."
Her face turns toward me in the dark. "He shouldn't be working on my website. He's supposed to be resting."
"I told him that. He said he'd rather have something to do with his hands than sit on the couch staring at the ceiling."
She frowns at the windshield. "How's his shoulder?"
"Manageable. PT's got him on a schedule. Says he just has to be patient."
"Is he being patient?"
"Declan?" I laugh quietly, mindful of the back seat. "He’s the least patient injured man I’ve ever seen in my life. But his PT's good. She keeps him in line."
"She's a saint, then."
"She's something." I glance over. "He's in good hands, Audrey. I promise."
She nods, slow. Looks back out at the dark. "Tell him I want him to rest. The website can wait."
"He won't listen."
"Tell him anyway."
"Yes, ma'am."
I glance over, looking for the signs. "How's your head?"
Her hand pauses on mine.
"Better."
"Actually better?"
A smile tugs at her mouth.
"I think so."
"Really?"
She nods. "I took the abortive before it got bad."
My grip tightens around her fingers.
"And?"
"And I think this one might actually work."
I look back at the road. Relief slides through me so clean it almost hurts. Thousands of dollars in specialists. The injections. The bruises. All those days watching her try to pretend she wasn't in pain.
"Good," I say.
It's only one word. It doesn’t even cover how big or hopeful or relieving this moment feels. But it’s enough.
The mountains stand off to the left, blacker than the sky, no detail to them now, just big, hulking shapes.
The heater ticks. A page turns in the back, and then a few minutes later it doesn't, and when I check the mirror Sophie's light is still on but her head has dropped, the book open on her chest, a streak of blue paint still caught along the side of one finger. Both kids gone under at last.
Audrey's hand is warm in mine. Her thumb moves once across the back of it, slow, like she's not even thinking about it.
I look over.
She's already looking at me.
"What?"
"Nothing." Her eyes catch the dash light—soft, unhurried, no armor anywhere on her face. "Just thinking about you."
I kiss her knuckles again and drive on, letting myself think about her too.
For years, nobody really saw her. The woman with the makeup that never slipped, clothes pressed sharp enough to keep the entire world at arm's length.
Nobody looked under the armor for the woman who feels everything too much, who wanted a stage since she was a little girl, who learned to pipe her feelings into the flowers on a cake instead.
I saw her. That first afternoon, on a barstool, before I had any right to. I've been seeing her every day since.
And I was just as good at hiding, in my own way.
The grin, the headlines, the rotating women, the Calloway who'd never set foot in law school.
A whole glossy surface, built so nobody would think to look for the man underneath it.
The one who reads city ordinances for fun.
Who cares more than he ever let anyone see.
She found him anyway. The same afternoon I found her.
After everything she lost, she was brave enough to open up. To me, of all people. She's the only reason I ever learned how to do that too. Then she saw all of me and didn't flinch. Didn't make me feel like I was too much or too shallow or wasting my potential.
That's the thing we gave each other. Not rescue. Not redemption. Just recognition. Two people the world spent years reading wrong, finally read right by the one person who mattered.
Audrey's hand is still in mine.
The kids are asleep in the back.
The road stretches ahead, dark and endless and ours.
I think that's all I've ever wanted.
To be seen.
To be known.
And still be chosen anyway.
THE END
Thank you for readingGrand Slam Playboy!
My heart is so full of love for these characters and this story, and I am just so grateful this book found its way to you.
Audrey is my soul sister in so many ways—growing up with the fear of judgment, dreams made shameful, even the post-traumatic migraines that medications wouldn't touch.
(Migraines are a running joke in my house that I honestly wish on no one else.)
If you've made it this far,would you do me a favor?
I'd so appreciate it if you could leave a review on Amazon. It truly helps a small indie author like me, and I enjoy seeing what you loved about the story.
And yes—if you've been in my sphere before—the Diet Dr Pepper rule still applies ;)(one fountain drink for every Amazon review)
It's the creative fuel I need to help me write our next couple in the lineup:Declan & Darcy
Thank you again from the bottom of my heart.
Love, Kate
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