Epilogue
Eight months later
I’m walking back from the farmers market on Sunday afternoon when I get the call. I’ve been expecting it, which is why I’m taking the long way home. This time, I don’t wait until the last ring to pick up.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Reagan.” He hasn’t stopped sounding a little bit relieved every time I answer, even though we’ve been doing this every few weeks. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m really good.”
“Yeah? How’s Seattle?”
“Great so far, but it’s only been a month. How’s Miami?”
“The same. Slowing down from the summer, at least,” he says. “And how’s the boy?”
I find it funny that he refuses to refer to Wesley in any other way. I can’t help a short laugh. “He’s good. I don’t think I could have done this without him, honestly.”
“So he’s treating you well?”
“Very well.”
I don’t realize how obviously I must be smiling until a mother passing by with a two-tiered stroller gives me a bemused look and a friendly nod. I step to the side of the pavement to give her more room. My cheeks feel hot.
Dad goes on. “When’s the last time you saw your sister?”
“Not since Wes and I first moved in.” She had driven up from Portland to help us unpack, which mostly consisted of her going through my things and providing a running commentary on where exactly she thought it should all go.
“But we have plans for a long weekend visit with her and Shay next month in Portland. I think they’re throwing a Halloween party.
” I laugh to myself. They already have so many friends, and Shay has a tradition to carry on, after all.
“Right! She told me about that.”
“Uh-huh.”
I let the conversation lull. I still haven’t figured out how much I want to let him into my life.
He’s better at navigating these awkward silences than I am, and he stays patiently quiet, letting me choose where we go next.
I clear my throat and retreat to safer ground, to something I know is easier for me to talk about. “Played any good games lately?”
“You know, there’s this talented girl I know who came very close to winning a big competition earlier this year…”
I shake my head and release an amused exhale from my nose. “Is that right?”
“She made the short list and everything! Her game was fantastic; I really think she should have won.”
The memory is still crystal clear: Wesley and me sitting in the audience at NEWT, holding each other’s hands in a bone-tight grip as they prepared to announce the winner, refusing to let go until it was time to clap.
The short list of five had been announced a week earlier, with Afterwards and Blood Pact nestled right next to each other—and we’d both felt so on edge.
Neither of us won, which stunned us into silence—and then into fits of laughter at our shared audacity.
“So you played it?” I ask. A big part of the competition’s voting structure had been based on fan response, which meant that despite not winning, I’d gotten a lot of eyes on the game’s demo.
“Of course. I played that one, and your others, too. Reagan, you…you are so, so immensely talented. Are you going to finish it?”
“Yeah, for sure. It’ll just take me longer, probably. Work keeps me busy.”
There’s a long pause, and then, like he’s sharing a secret, Dad whispers, “You love it, don’t you?”
Cue another cheek-splitting grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”
“I knew you would.”
Despite losing, making NEWT’s short list had gotten Wesley and me enough attention—from both eager new fans and some of the competition’s judges—to impress Nali’s boss and the rest of their team.
A week later, they asked us to join them.
We’re only a skeleton crew for now, fewer than a dozen people, which has been an adjustment.
I thought it would freak Wesley out, as someone coming from a company of hundreds, to work for a fledgling studio so small—but I should have known better.
Working in a space where every voice gets to be heard suits us both very well.
It’s such a small team that we get lots of opportunity for overlap, so it helps that NEWT forced us to really hone lots of adaptable skills.
Wesley even joked that someday down the line, he would try convincing them to let him record a few lines for a character.
And sure, I do feel anxious to know we currently have only enough funding to last our first year, and that we have to deliver promising work fast if we’re going to survive—but it’s motivating, too.
In some ways, it’s just another competition.
“It’s been…a lot to adapt to, but it feels good.
It feels right,” I say. “I’m still getting used to it, but Wesley has been great.
Mona, too.” And therapy, I think wryly, though I don’t say that part out loud.
I probably could have used that a long time ago—but hey, it’s helping now, and that’s what matters.
“I know it’s a lot of big changes, Reagan, but I think this really is the perfect opportunity for you. I can’t wait to see what comes next.”
I feel a soft swell of warmth in my chest. I allow it; I’ve been working on not shoving it down under old feelings of bitter resentment.
“Thanks, Dad.” I finally push through the doors of my apartment building, and I pause in front of the elevators.
“Well, Wes and I have plans tonight, but thanks for the call.”
“Another D Colin is in his same New Haven apartment, but with his hair newly cut into a shaggy mullet (it suits him alarmingly well); and Mona and Shay squeeze together on their couch so that we can see both of their faces on Mona’s laptop screen.
“We brought a guest!” Shay announces.
I freeze a little. I hadn’t prepared for—
With a grin, Mona lifts a tiny black kitten with brilliant green eyes toward the camera. As soon as their view fills with its round little head, it yowls in protest.
“We named her Moss! Look at her eyes!” Mona’s voice has gone so high-pitched it’s nearly in the register only dogs can hear.
“Oh my god.”
“Look at that sweetie!”
“Well, can she wild shape?”
My headset fills with the rush of everyone talking at once, eager to coo and aww and catch up after months apart.
I smile to myself; I’ve missed them, and I could listen to this inane chatter for hours. But finally, Wes gives me a look, and I know it’s a signal.
“Are we all ready, then?” I ask.
I get a slew of thumbs-ups and enthusiastic affirmations, and a proud smile from Wesley.
“Ready when you are, DM,” he says.
I clear my throat and begin.
“You find yourselves waking up at your campsite, stranded in the middle of a wasteland. It’s familiar to you. It’s what is left of your kingdom after an arcane explosion leveled everything you knew just a few years ago. But somehow, you’ve survived. Somehow, you press on.
“In the cracks of the earth, where nothing has grown for a very long time, you see the first shoot of green. You look around, and you see that you are not alone. Somehow, despite it all, life finds a way to bloom. You do not think of the Cataclysm as an end anymore.
“You think of it as a new beginning.”