Epilogue
HEAD OVER HEELS, TEARS FOR FEARS
OWEN
“What are we doing at Tots, bro?” I ask, tapping my hands on my legs and smirking wide.
Bro is one of what Dinah calls Jack’s ick words.
Much like how I now feel about the word sushi or tuna.
But I don’t mind being a bit of an irritant at the moment, seeing as how I was all but kidnapped, over an hour ago, after practice tonight and have been subjected to a silent drive around Honey Hill with my thundercloud of a big brother.
He remains silent, merely shrugging in response.
“Listen, man, I love you, but Brooke is going to be home any minute, and I haven’t seen her in forever,” I say, softening my approach though I’m feeling anything but soft.
“It’s been two weeks, Owen. I think you’ll live.”
It’s actually been a bit of a huge two weeks for Brooke and me, but Jack doesn’t know all the finer details just yet. Brooke had her first big concert series as Sumer’s hairstylist at a few shows along the coast, and I hit a major milestone in my lifelong dream.
No big deal.
I miss my wife, and we’ve got major celebrating to do. Celebrating that will not include my brother. So I’m on a bit of a time crunch here.
“Are you feeling okay? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re extra cranky for someone who insisted we go out after my practice. Is something up with you and Dinah?”
“I’m not cranky.” Jack’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. “Just wanted some bro time,” he says through clenched teeth. He looks as if just saying that was painful.
Then he snips, “And Dinah and I are fine. Everything’s fine.”
Yeah, I don’t buy it. He sounds a whole lot like Brooke the few times I was foolish enough to believe that when she said she didn’t want anything from Knotty & Nice on my way home, she actually didn’t want anything from Knotty & Nice.
Rookie mistake. She did in fact want things and was, decidedly, not fine.
“Sure…” I begin, but before I can really dig in, our little sister blasts out of Tots, Collaborate & Listen like she’s being chased, only stopping abruptly on the sidewalk when she sees us parked there.
She waves and looks exactly like she did the time she borrowed my Bronco in high school and returned it with the passenger side mirror dangling from the hinges.
So very guilty.
“There’s a party inside for you,” Jack blurts unceremoniously. “Brooke’s already here. She called us yesterday to tell us the news, and then she, um… well, she planned the whole thing.”
He stares ahead at Winnie, who seems to think if she stands still enough I won’t grow suspicious. I can’t help but smile and wave back. My wife’s inside.
Jack places his hand on my shoulder and clears the emotion in his throat. “I probably won’t get another chance to tell you tonight with everyone in there ready to celebrate you, but I don’t think I've ever been as proud of another person as I am of you today, Owen. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Jacky. I wouldn’t have gotten here without you.”
“Yeah, you would’ve, bud,” he says with all the confidence in the world. The same confidence he had a year ago when I woke up in a hospital room and doubted whether I’d ever hear the words I did yesterday morning.
Welcome to the Atlanta Hammers.
Rehabilitating my throwing arm in record time has been one of the biggest challenges of my life, and though he’s considerably busy with his own life, Jack has been there to support me every step of the way.
I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don’t do something crazy like blubber all night in the car with my brother. Instead, I pull him in for an over-the-console hug.
It’s manly. With back pats. And only light sobbing.
When we’ve both managed to suck in the tears, we hop out and greet Winnie and Danger, who’s now joined her.
“Heeeeyyyyy, Owen,” she says. She’s about as subtle as the red and silver shirt she’s wearing that I now see says, “You Play Ball Like a Girl” and has my face printed in a diamond pattern across every inch. That’s sweet. “So very cool to see you here tonight.”
“Yeah, such a coincidence,” I say, kissing her cheek and shaking Danger’s hand.
He’s also wearing my face on his chest. Though the words “Pitcher’s Got a Big Butt” are written across his. “Hey, man.” He smiles awkwardly and pulls me in for a hug. “Congrats. We’re all real proud.”
“Thanks, bro. Nice shirt… Rookie of the Year?”
He nods and nudges Winnie with his elbow. “Yeah. Win said I could pick one.”
“They’re awesome.” I scoot past them both. “Thanks for coming to the party. Now… where’s my wife?”
“Jacky! You told him!” Winnie scoffs, like I wouldn’t have picked up on anything amiss based off of their clothing options for the night.
“I didn’t know how to get him in there otherwise.” Jack sounds anything but apologetic. “He’s been so pathetic about Brooke all week, I knew he wouldn’t want to hang out.”
I’d argue about the state of my affairs, but I’m a simple man with a one track mind. So I holler over my shoulder, “Sure have. Love y’all. I’ll see ya in there!”
As I push through the entrance, the huge crowd waiting yells a unified, “Surprise!”
Brooke’s at the center of the group, waiting for a total of three seconds before running into my arms, jumping up and wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my shoulders. “Hello, hubby. You look especially hot today for a professional ballplayer.”
She kisses me exactly like Gloria kisses Clyde after they win a round of cornhole.
It’s long and passionate and definitely veering into PG-13 territory as Brooke’s hands dive into my hair, rendering me powerless to do anything but hold her up with one hand and tilt her mouth to meet mine—like I’ve been dreaming about for the last twelve days or so.
A cacophony of catcalls, whistles, and cheers erupts in Tots, interrupting what I now realize is Brennan’s cringey rendition of “Shape of You.”
The ruckus is so like the night Brooke agreed to be my wife that I can’t help but feel a little nostalgic, yet we’ve come so far since that moment.
“Hello, wifey. I missed you,” I say, kissing Brooke’s perfect nose before setting her on her feet. “And I like your shirt.”
Hers is identical to Winnie’s and Danger’s in the Atlanta Hammer colors with my face in a diamond pattern, only Brooke’s has “There’s No Crying In Baseball” printed across the front.
“Thank you! Emory had them all printed for me. I have one for you, too,” she announces proudly, interlacing our fingers and dragging me to our friends, but then she whispers in my ear. “It says, ‘You People Are Guests In My Corn.’ I’ll wear it for you later… at home.”
Field of Dreams.
She gets me. It’s incredibly sexy. I’m ready to go now.
My parents and Gram—who also have matching shirts with varying quotes from baseball movies—greet Brooke and me, sandwiching us in hugs, and interrupting all thoughts of my wife, before my Badger teammates suddenly surround me in a parade of hugs, too—offering back- and butt-slaps of congratulations.
Titan’s first to pick me up in a bear hug with tears streaming down his face.
“Relief pitcher for the Atlanta Hammers,” he cries into my shoulder. “I can’t believe it. I’m so happy, and also so sad I won’t be catching for you anymore.”
I pat his back until he releases me. “Thanks, man. I’ll miss you, too.”
“It isn’t like he’s going far,” Drew interjects, shaking my hand. “You’re staying in the house and everything, right.”
“That’s right. For now.” I nod and wink at Brooke.
We prayed long and hard about whether Salt Lake was where we should be.
But, in the end, we both just want to be near our families as long as possible.
To raise our future baseball team with Jack and Dinah’s kids and Winnie’s, one day, too.
So, for now, we’re settled for good in the house we chose together on Nectarine Drive with our Suite Hearts’ prize money tucked away as a future down payment on that bigger house we’ll need at some point.
Hopefully sooner rather than later, if I have anything to say about it.
Breezy says a quick, “Knew you’d do it, buddy,” before he runs to the stage and hops into a duet with Sumer Morrison.
They sing “You’re the One that I Want” like they’ve been practicing together for years.
Breezy gets the whole crowd shouting and singing along, minus my brother and the newest tenants of one of his properties downtown.
“Hey, y’all,” I hug Ocean and Haven, who officially moved to town this past week and are due to open their new place, Nature’s Nectar, in a few months. Though I’m sincerely hoping they workshop the name.
Brooke has obviously already caught up with them, as she smiles wide like a cartoon character and whips out her phone to record the moment I’ve been waiting for.
“Have you met my brother, Jack?” I ask, slapping Jack on the back with a Go get ‘em, buddy sort of attitude. I’m already suppressing my glee.
“Hey, I’m Jack Jones,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake Ocean’s. But, bless him, Jack does not expect it when Ocean grabs his hand and places a kiss on my brother’s knuckles before bringing both their hands to his bare chest, where he’s left his shirt unbuttoned to his navel.
It’s all very tender, though. I can’t imagine why Jack scowls the way he does.
Brooke’s barely stifling her giggles. Dinah and her sister, Emory, are just as guilty, both filming and holding back laughter with tears in their eyes.
Jack is clearly trying to remove himself from Ocean’s bare skin, but Ocean won’t have it. He clenches his hand all the firmer and grabs Jack’s shoulder with the other. “Brother,” he croons soulfully. “We are united in this moment.”
“I don’t think we are.” Jack rips his hand away, then rubs it on his jeans like he’s caught something contagious.
Dinah snorts, then covers her faux pas with a cough.
“Forever.” Haven nods, hands in prayer pose, before she brings them to her husband’s chest like she’s soaking in the exchange. “His energy is…”
“Soft,” they say in unison.
I hum in agreement, completely delighted. “Yes. I think so, too. Jack is a big ol’ softie.”
“Nope. Not doing this,” Jack growls. “I’m going home. Have fun, Polly. Congrats, bro.” He glares at me, kisses his wife, then stomps away, leaving the bar completely, and the rest of us, in hysterics.
Brennan—who I’ve tried to give a fair shot, but he really is just the worst—slides into the empty space Jack left behind, running his hand along the small of Emory’s back and asks her to dance.
Breezy’s still singing like he’s John Travolta, and, though it’s comical, Emory doesn’t look enthusiastic about Brennan’s offer, at all.
From what Dinah has told us, Emory hasn’t dated since her husband’s death years ago.
And by the way she looks disgusted with Brennan's hands on her, she isn’t eager to start now.
He clearly doesn’t take the hint, but just when I’m about to interject, Dinah pulls her sister out of his clutches and onto the stage, ready to take their shot at the mic.
When Breezy’s performance comes to a close and the girls take over, Brooke leans in close enough for me to smell the scent of her sweet, shea butter and almond shampoo.
The one that makes me think of long nights and early mornings whispering about everything and nothing, loving her in every way I can, and tangling my fingers in the softness of her hair until I’m completely intoxicated.
“Have I told you how proud I am of you, Babe?” she asks, then kisses my chest. Right where my heart beats for her.
“Oh, I think I can guess, Ruth.”
She wraps her arms around my neck, and I sway us both to the music, completely oblivious to the party around us. Nothing else really matters when my whole world is in my hands.
“How about how in love I am with you? Or how I can’t wait for what’s next for our life together?” she asks, kissing my chin, my cheek, then a peck on my lips. “Baseball.” Kiss. “Babies.” Kiss. “Head Over Wheels.”
The name of her traveling hair salon, operated out of Tink.
“A future where I get to love my best friend every day, forever.”
Another kiss.
“I love you.” I brush my lips over hers again and say against them, “It’s gonna be hard to let you out of my sight when the season starts. Twelve days was too long.”
She squeezes my shoulders. “Well, how about just a few minutes longer. I have another surprise for you.”
Before I can argue—because, no thank you, I would not like any minutes apart—Brooke jogs to the stage, takes the mic from Dinah, and quiets the house.
“Owen Jones,” she says, rubbing her hand in a circle over her belly. “Be my husband, always?”
The crowd probably thinks we’re insane, but I rub my belly in answer and shout, “Always, Brooke Jones.”
The intro to “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” begins to play, and my beautiful best friend—my dream girl—my forever wife sings our song.