Epilogue
ERICA
I’ve read in front of people before.
Classrooms. Book clubs. Small conference rooms with folding chairs and lukewarm coffee. I’ve done Q&As and panels and awkward signings where someone asks if I’m “really” an author.
None of that prepared me for this.
The new bookstore in my hometown smells like fresh paint and paper and hope. Real hope, not the fragile kind. Chairs are packed close together, every seat filled. People stand along the walls. My parents sit in the front row, my mom clutching her purse like she might cry at any moment.
Boone stands beside me, one hand resting lightly at the small of my back.
He’s wearing a button-down. Clean boots. Hair combed, though I can tell he ran a hand through it one too many times on the drive over.
I know this whole experience has been overwhelming. It’s a lot to come to your girlfriend’s hometown and meet the people who—by now—know the whole story of how you two came to be. And even if it worked out for the best, my mom and dad were sure to give him an earful on the first night.
But, he’s been polite and quickly charmed them all. Answering questions with honesty and that soft smile he gets when he’s trying very hard.
I squeeze his hand.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He nods. “You’re the one about to read.”
I smile. “You’re the one about to meet my entire hometown.”
“That too.”
The store owner finishes the introduction, says my name like it belongs on the sign out front. Applause fills the room, warm and loud and real.
I step up to the podium.
The pages waiting there are printed larger than usual, double-spaced, marked with gentle pauses so I won’t rush. I take a breath and begin.
The words feel familiar at first. The cadence. The tone. The rhythm of something deeply personal.
Then my chest tightens.
Because this isn’t the excerpt I sent.
I read on anyway.
I used to think love was something you earned by being useful.
A ripple goes through me.
By standing back. By making sure everyone else had what they needed first.
My fingers curl around the page.
Then she walked into my life and reminded me that love isn’t a reward. It’s a choice.
My breath stutters.
I glance down at the page again, heart hammering now.
She chose herself. She chose her words. And somehow, she chose me.
The room is silent.
I am still learning how to be brave out loud. But I know this much: I don’t want to write another future that doesn’t include her.
My vision blurs.
I look up.
In the third row, Quincy is standing, grinning like she’s been waiting for this her entire life. She holds up a sign.
SAY YES
Next to her, Knox lifts his own.
FOR REAL THIS TIME
Laughter breaks through the crowd.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Then Boone steps forward.
He looks at me like the world has narrowed down to this moment, to these words, to us. He reaches into his pocket, drops to one knee, and holds out a small velvet box with hands that are steady despite everything else.
“Erica,” he says, voice low and clear. “I’m better with words on paper. But I’m learning.”
A soft laugh moves through the room.
“I love you,” he continues. “I love the way you see the world. I love the way you fight for your dreams. I love that you let me be part of them.”
My chest aches.
“If you’ll have me,” he says, “I’d like to spend the rest of my life choosing you. Every day. On purpose.”
He opens the box.
The ring catches the light.
For a moment, I can’t speak. The words seem to catch in my throat.
So I do what I’ve always done when I can’t say something out loud.
I reach for a book.
I grab a copy from the stack beside the podium, flip it open, and scribble quickly on the title page. Then I step forward, press it into his hands, and help him to his feet.
He looks down.
Inside, there’s one word.
Yes.
The room explodes.
Applause. Cheers. Someone whistles. My mom is crying openly now. Boone laughs once, breathless and disbelieving, before he pulls me into his arms.
We kiss to thunderous approval.
When we finally break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Only word you needed,” he murmurs.
“I’m an author,” I whisper back. “I know when a sentence is complete.”
He smiles like he understands exactly what that means.
And standing there, surrounded by books and family and the man who learned how to say everything that matters, I know this story—ours—is only just beginning.
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