Epilogue
DELAYED ENTRY: SLOWING AT THE BLUE LINE TO ALLOW TEAMMATES TO CATCH UP
There are three moments in a man’s life when he realizes he has lost all control.
The first is when he realizes he’s in love. The second is when he had the balls to admit it aloud. The third is the moment where the parents meet for the first time.
We are finally at moment three and it’s not just a moment—it’s a spectacle. Because my parents decided to visit on Labor Day weekend—the very weekend Amy’s moving into my house. Now, our house.
So, of course, chaos ensues. Instead of chatting over dinner, our parents are bonding while carrying box after box into our home. I mutter, “I’m not certain I had this many boxes when I moved in.”
I also know I’m curious as hell about the box labeled, Misc Bedroom Stuff because I didn’t pack it. Since Amy carried it rapidly down the hall to our room, I’m very interested to know what’s inside.
Now she’s standing in the middle of it all. Her hands are on her hips laughing as my mother and her mother debate whether the couch should be moved. JoAnn questions, “Should it face the window or the fireplace?”
My mother tuts, “I wonder if we can move it around—just to see.”
I look at Amy for help, but she just shrugs diplomatically. “Let them try it out.”
“How about we don’t and say we did?” my dad mutters, as he passes by holding a box labeled Kitchen—Fragile—DO NOT DROP like it’s a bomb.
Ted just grins. “This is why she’s great as a teacher. She knows how to negotiate.”
I listen to her joyful laugh and God, it makes me want her. I want to throw both sets of parents out so we can christen the rest of our home.
A few weeks ago, we were in Ireland and now? I revel in the idea of every inch of my home being picked apart by three different women because it means I’ll wake up with Amy every morning.
“Brennan,” my mother calls. “Where do you want us to arrange Amy’s books?”
Amy turns to me and raises a brow. “Careful. This answer sets the tone for the rest of our lives.”
I don’t even hesitate. “Wherever she wants them.”
“Good answer,” JoAnn says approvingly.
My dad snorts. “Smart man.”
Somewhere behind us, a box tips over and spills across the floor. Amy gasps dramatically. “My Halloween costumes!”
I dive for the red Velma skirt like it’s a priceless artifact. That, of all her costumes, can’t ever be ruined. “Zoinks! I’ll save them.”
She snickers before crouching down beside me to gather random items including the Morticia Addams dress she plans to wear this upcoming October. As she gathers it up, her fingers brush mine. Heat and love bloom in equal measure in my chest.
It’s been a year since Amy let me back into her life. We worked hard for our forever. It’s not just about mornings and routines and learning each other’s rhythms; it’s remembering love is what makes us feel safe.
Like when Amy insisted on coming with me for my annual visit with my neurologist. Holding my hand while I struggled with the idea of being fit for a helmet.
Dr. Moser points out, “Getting fit doesn’t mean you always have to wear it.”
“Then why do it?” Amy gives my hand a squeeze at the question.
“Because it will give you a little more freedom than you have today without aggravating your injury.”
“Can I skate?”
He rolls his eyes. “If by skate you mean go around the rink slowly while kids use trainers, then yes. But only if you wear the helmet.”
It’s me sitting in the front row of every math meet like a proud idiot. When the Willow Creek team took states last year, I cheered louder than I do when we watch hockey together. “Way to go, team! Way to go, Amy!”
She blushed to the roots of her hair, but never once stopped smiling as she accepted the trophy on behalf of her students.
We choose each other again and again. We even attended a few sessions together with Dr. Halvorsen who said, “You two will be just fine. Just don’t lose sight of each other.”
So, we don’t. Regardless if it’s a day filled with chaos which is why it doesn’t surprise me when she asks, “You okay?”
“More than okay.”
She kisses my cheek, quick and familiar. Our moms collectively decide to “Aww.”
“Get a room,” my dad jokes.
“I’m literally moving into Bren’s house for this reason,” Amy fires back.
All the parents laugh. I catch my mom watching us with that expression she’s worn all day—like she’s witnessing something she once hoped would happen. Amy leans close to whisper, “You’re smiling.”
“I know.”
“What about?”
I glance around the room. At the boxes. At the parents arguing good-naturedly. At life unfolding exactly the way it’s supposed to. “This is our life. Finally.”
She squeezes my hand and then heads outside to pull another box of clothes from the UHAUL.
Later—after the couch has been moved three times—we steal away to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, we share kisses in between taking sips from a bottle of water like we ran a marathon instead of moving her in.
“They like each other,” she murmurs.
I raise a brow. “They’ve formed a united front against us. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started a group chat.”
She grins. “My dad already asked your dad about fishing spots in Ireland.”
“Yeah, we’re doomed.”
She reaches up, fingers brushing my jaw. “You’re amazing, Bren.”
Her words hit deep. Not because I need validation, but because it’s coming from her. This woman who survived every version of me. The one who gave me a second chance. I lean down to kiss her, murmuring, “I had inspiration.”
Just then, my mom calls out, “Amy! Where do you want the framed pictures from Ireland?”
Amy’s eyes light up. Pulling away, she calls out, “Oh! Those go in the hallway.”
I watch her walk away as she adds touches to make this our home. Not that it wasn’t already. Now it’s just official.
For so long, I equated love with acceptance and performance. With proving myself over and over until someone decided I was worth acknowledging. Now I know better.
Love is forgiving the past and choosing the future every day instead of fearing it.
Amy comes back into the kitchen carrying the Scooby Doo I bought for her last Halloween. Plunking him down on the counter, she announces “Okay. It’s official. I’m moved in.”
I pull her into my arms, resting my forehead against hers. Everything else around us disappears. “Welcome home, my queen.”
She pulls back. “Bren, don’t you know by now?”
“Know what?”
“Every time I’m in your arms, I’ve been home.”
There’s no shot clock I’m afraid of. No moment where this gets taken away if I take a bad hit. Even after being taken out of the game, I still scored the only thing that ever mattered.
Love.