Epilogue
Jimmy- Two Years Later
The crystal chandelier of the ballroom didn't just hang; it loomed, a glittering reminder of the weight of the night. Two years ago, I’d been in a windowless control room in Midtown with a headset digging into my skull.
Tonight, I was in a tuxedo at the Online Journalism Awards, sitting at a table with the three people who’d become the entire world to me.
"I'm telling you, it was the tug," Harry Perricone said, leaning in so close to Jillian that their shoulders were practically glued together.
He looked sharp in a black tuxedo, his eyes bright with mischievous energy.
"The man couldn't go ten seconds without checking his knot.
It was a nervous tic. A tell. And once the Board saw the internal audit, the tie-tugging wasn't enough to hold his throat shut anymore. "
Jillian snorted into her wine. She was wearing a structured, emerald-green gown that screamed Mayor's Office, and she wore the authority like a second skin. "So, nobody actually knows why he was canned? Just… poof? Gone?"
"Gone," Harry confirmed with a wicked grin.
He mimicked a frantic tug at his own collar, bulging his eyes out for effect.
"Bruce, the man who thought he was the architect of the evening news, escorted out of the building — possibly by the same guards who took you two out.
" He pointed at me and Nelson, waggling his eyebrows.
"Marla watched the whole thing from the elevator.
Said Bruce was nearly strangling himself with his own tie on the way to the lobby. "
"Good riddance," I said, finally joining in. "The man treated the truth like a suggestion and his staff like furniture."
"And now look at us," Harry said, his voice softening just enough to be sincere as he looked at me and Nelson. "Live and Unscripted pulls more viewers for its investigative specials than the seven o'clock slot at the old shop. We're the ones at the fancy table now."
Harry had walked out of Beacon the same week we did, refusing to stay a minute longer. Now he was our Executive Producer — the man who kept the lights on and the budgets in check while I chased the stories that mattered. He wasn't an assistant anymore. He was the backbone of the whole operation.
I felt a hand slide over mine under the table.
Nelson's touch was cool, steady, and entirely grounding.
I looked at him, and for a moment, the ballroom disappeared.
He was in a deep navy dinner jacket that made his eyes look like the Mediterranean at dusk.
At thirty-seven, he had never looked better, because now he was finally living the thing we'd only ever dreamed about.
Nelson leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Ignore them," he murmured. "They're just trying to distract you because you're vibrating with nerves."
"I am not vibrating," I lied.
"Jimmy, your heart is currently trying to beat its way out of your chest. I can feel it through your palm."
I squeezed his hand, my fingers interlaced with his. "Katie Couric is presenting the award, Nelson. She's literally backstage right now. If I win this, it's not just a trophy. It's… it's the proof."
"The proof is in the work we've already done," Nelson said firmly. "This is just the world finally admitting we were right to walk away."
The lights in the ballroom began to dim, a low chime echoing through the speakers to signal the start of the ceremony. Jillian and Harry immediately straightened up, though Jillian gave my forearm a quick, supportive squeeze before turning toward the stage.
"Here we go," Jillian whispered. "Get your speech ready, Jimmy. I didn't spend three hours on my hair to not see you on that stage."
The ceremony was a blur of montages and polite applause.
I watched as colleagues and rivals took the stage for breaking news, social media innovation, and data journalism.
My stomach was a knot of nerves, my mind drifting back to the thirteen years we'd lost, and the two years we'd fought to reclaim.
Leaving the network had been the smartest thing we'd ever done.
We'd stayed in the city — this city was the story, and neither of us was ever going to leave it — but we'd left Nelson’s impersonal apartment.
We'd found a loft in Tribeca with tall windows and a view of the bridge, and we'd filled it with light and books and the quiet domesticity we'd once thought was impossible.
We were two headstrong men to the world around us.
When we were alone, we were simply ourselves.
"And now," a familiar, resonant voice said from the stage.
I snapped back to the present. Katie Couric was standing at the podium, looking every bit the icon she was. She adjusted her glasses and looked out at the crowd with a knowing smile.
"In an era where the lines between news and entertainment have become dangerously blurred," Katie began, "the role of the independent journalist has never been more vital.
These are the people who don't have the safety net of a multi-billion-dollar corporate parent.
They have their integrity, their sources, and their sheer, stubborn refusal to let a story die. "
Harry leaned over to Nelson. "She's talking about Jimmy," he mouthed.
Nelson didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on me, filled with a fierce, quiet pride that made my throat tighten.
"The nominees for Best Independent Investigative Journalism are," Katie continued.
The screen behind her lit up. I saw the clips from the other nominees — hard-hitting pieces on climate change, corporate corruption, and international human rights.
All of them were excellent. Then the screen showed the title of our three-part series: The Ashcroft Transition: The Unedited Truth of the First Gay President.
It showed a clip of Nelson's face — not in the sterile Beacon studio, but sitting in a library, his voice calm and authoritative as he narrated the timeline of the night the world changed. It showed the documents I'd spent eighteen months tracking down. It showed the truth we'd fought to tell.
"And the winner is," Katie said, tearing open the envelope. She didn't even have to look down for more than a second. A wide smile broke across her face. "Jimmy Goodman, Live and Unscripted."
The applause was a sudden, deafening wave. For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. I was paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming reality of it. Two years of risk. Two years of wondering if we'd made a mistake by leaving the security of the network.
Nelson was the first one on his feet. He pulled me up, his arms wrapping around me for a brief, hard hug that said everything the cameras couldn't catch.
"Go," he whispered against my cheek.
I looked at him, my vision blurring just a little. "I couldn't have done it without you," I whispered back. "Not a single word of it."
"I know," he said, his eyes shimmering. "Now go get your hardware."
I felt Harry's and Jillian's hands on my back, pushing me toward the aisle. Harry was cheering — loudly enough to draw looks from the neighboring tables — and Jillian was whistling through her fingers like we were at a Knicks game.
The walk to the stage felt like it took twenty minutes. I shook Katie Couric's hand, the cold weight of the crystal award being pressed into my palm. The spotlight was blinding, but as I turned to face the microphone, I immediately found Table 14.
I took a breath, the silence of the room waiting for me.
"Thank you," I started, my voice steadier than I expected. "They say that in journalism, you're only as good as your last scoop. But the truth is, you're only as good as the people who stand in the gap with you when the world is trying to quiet the story."
I looked toward my table.
"I want to thank Harry Perricone, our Executive Producer, who has the unenviable task of keeping me focused and Nelson Mackenzie on schedule. Harry, thank you for your loyalty and your brilliant, cynical mind."
A ripple of laughter went through the room. Harry raised his glass, looking like he was about to burst with pride.
"To my best friend, Jillian," I continued, "who reminds me every day that the story isn't just about the people in power, but about the people those powers affect. Thank you for being my conscience."
I paused, my gaze landing on Nelson. He was sitting perfectly still, his hands clasped on the table, his entire being focused on me.
"And finally," I said, my voice softening, "to my partner in life and in journalism, Nelson Mackenzie.
Fifteen years ago, we were two kids with a dream and a lot of obstacles.
Two years ago, we decided that the dream was more important than the obstacles.This belongs to you as much as it does to me. "
I raised the award slightly toward him. The room erupted again, but I didn't hear the noise. I only saw Nelson, who was no longer the man behind the anchor desk.
He was my everything.
* * *
The next morning, the light in our loft was that soft, hazy gold that only New York seems to manage in the spring. It filtered through the tall windows, dancing across the exposed brick and the tangled white sheets of our bed.
I stirred, the memory of the night before rushing back in a warm flood. The award was sitting on the dresser across the room, the crystal catching the morning sun and throwing little rainbows against the wall.
I felt Nelson move beside me. He shifted, his body warm and familiar as he tucked his head into the crook of my neck. His hair was a mess, his skin smelled of the expensive soap he loved, and he was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.
"Morning, award-winner," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
"Morning," I said, turning onto my side to face him. I reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with my thumb. "Did last night actually happen, or did I dream the whole thing?"
Nelson opened his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It happened. Harry texted at two in the morning to tell us we've already had ten thousand new subscribers since your speech. Apparently, being a 'powerhouse team' is good for business."
I laughed softly, pulling him closer. "Is that what we are?"
"We're a lot of things," he said, his expression turning serious as he looked at me. He reached up, brushing a stray curl from my forehead. "Jimmy, I'm so incredibly proud of you. Not just for the award. But for this."
He gestured vaguely to the room, to the life we'd built.
"Fifteen years ago," he whispered, "when we were sitting in that tiny walk-up off Morningside with the radiator that sounded like an angry ghost, we dreamed of this.
We talked about being in love and building a life where reporting the truth was sacred.
You and I always wanted this — to tell the stories that actually moved the needle. "
I felt the familiar sting of tears in my eyes. The weight of those fifteen years — the silence, the distance, the what-ifs — seemed to evaporate in the morning light.
"We did it," I said, my voice cracking just a little. "We actually did it, didn't we?"
"We did." Nelson leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine. "We built the life, Jimmy. And we're just getting started."
We lay there for a while, not saying anything. The city was starting up outside — a horn, a siren, the rumble of the F train crossing the bridge. Somewhere out there, there was another story breaking, another crisis looming, another truth waiting to be told.
But here, in the quiet gold of our home, there was no countdown clock. No red light. No glass between us.
Just the two of us, in the only broadcast that ever mattered.
"I love you, Nelson," I whispered.
"I love you too, Jimmy," he replied. "More than the story. Always more than the story."