Epilogue #2
Later, after the cake is demolished and the guests have gone and Maeve is finally asleep in her crib, I find Willow on the back porch.
She’s looking at the stars. There’s still frosting in her hair from when Maeve grabbed a fistful of blue buttercream and smeared it everywhere within reach. She’s wearing an old t-shirt and yoga pants and no makeup, and she’s never looked more beautiful to me than she does right now.
“Hey,” I say, settling into the chair beside her. “Room for one more?”
“Always.”
I take her hand. She laces her fingers through mine.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me. For seeing who I could be even when I couldn’t see it myself. For giving me Maeve, and this life, and…” I shake my head. “Everything. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.” She squeezes my hand. “Thank you for finally showing up. For choosing us over your fear. For being the husband and father I always knew you could be.”
“I’m still learning.”
“We both are. That’s how it works.”
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the stars, listening to the quiet sounds of the neighborhood settling in for the night.
I think about the boy who used to sleep in a car because his mother couldn’t be bothered to let him inside.
The teenager who taught himself to code on borrowed computers at the public library.
The young man who met a girl who saw something in him worth saving and spent the next twelve years terrified she’d change her mind.
That boy, that teenager, that young man, they’re all still inside me. They always will be.
But they’re not alone anymore.
The house behind us is warm and full of light.
Inside it, my daughter sleeps in a crib I assembled myself, in a room painted yellow because Willow said it looked like sunshine.
On the shelf in the living room, our history sits on display, not hidden, not shameful, but honored.
Proof that we started somewhere and ended up here.
I’m home by five every day now. Sometimes earlier. I cook dinners that are mostly edible, and I change diapers without gagging, and I know every word to every lullaby Willow sings because I’ve stood in the doorway and listened so many times I’ve lost count.
I wear my watch every day. Always yours. A promise I finally know how to keep.
My phone buzzes. A text from Glenn: a photo of Maeve from earlier, cake-covered and grinning, with the caption “God I love this kid.”
I show it to Willow. She laughs.
“He’s going to spoil her rotten,” she says.
“He already has.”
“And you love it.”
“I do.” I put the phone away and pull her closer, tucking her against my side. “I love all of it. Every chaotic, exhausting, terrifying minute.”
“Even the wrong cake?”
“Especially the wrong cake.”
She tilts her head up, and I kiss her, soft and slow, the way I’ve learned to kiss her now that I’m not afraid she’ll disappear if I blink.
“I love you,” she murmurs against my lips.
“I love you too. Always.”
She settles back against my shoulder, and we watch the stars until we’re both too tired to keep our eyes open.
Then we go inside, check on our daughter one more time, and fall into bed together, wrapped around each other the way we’ve been sleeping for months now.
The baby monitor glows green on the nightstand while Willow curls against me, still warm from the porch and still wearing the faintest streak of blue frosting near her temple.
I catch it with my thumb.
She squints up at me. “What?”
“Maeve got you again.”
“Your daughter has terrible aim.”
“Our daughter hit exactly what she was aiming at.”
Willow reaches for my hair. “Keep talking and I’ll put the rest of the cake in your pillow.”
I laugh into her mouth when she kisses me.
Nothing inside me braces for the moment to end. I don’t count how many seconds she stays close or search her face for regret. Her leg slides between mine, her fingers move beneath my shirt, and I let myself enjoy the simple fact that my wife wants me.
Her palm drifts over my stomach. “You’re still wearing the watch.”
“I always wear it.”
“I know.”
She unfastens it and places it beside the monitor. Her thumb passes over the engraving before she lets go, quiet and familiar. When her hand returns to mine, her wedding band presses into my palm, right where it belongs. I rub my thumb over it once.
Willow watches me notice.
Neither of us needs to say anything.
I ease her onto her back and kiss the corner of her mouth, then the soft place beneath her jaw. She smells faintly of frosting, shampoo, and the evening air. My lips travel lower while her fingers work through my hair.
“You’re taking your time,” she murmurs.
“We don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
“It should have.”
She taps my shoulder. “No apologizing in bed.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I’m married to a mind reader.”
“You’re married to a woman who knows your face.”
Her smile changes when I cup her breast through her shirt. The teasing fades from her eyes, replaced by the open heat she doesn’t hide from me anymore.
I pull the fabric over her head and pause.
Motherhood has changed her again. Her breasts are softer, her hips fuller, and a few pale lines remain low on her stomach. I know each one. I know which places have regained sensitivity and which need gentler pressure. Loving her body has never meant loving one version of it.
Willow catches me looking. “You’re doing the inventory thing.”
“I like the inventory thing.”
“You’re weird.”
“You married me anyway.”
“That was my first mistake.”
I bend to kiss the curve of her stomach. “What was the second?”
“Letting you get smug about it.”
My mouth closes around her nipple before she can say more. Her breath catches exactly the way I expect, but the sound still goes through me. I circle the sensitive point with my tongue, then suck until her back lifts slightly from the mattress.
“Corey.”
I switch to the other breast while my hand moves between her thighs. Her underwear is already damp, and she presses against my palm without waiting for me to ask.
“You’re impatient tonight.”
“I’ve been patient all day.”
“You threatened me with cake five minutes ago.”
“That was foreplay.”
I laugh against her skin, then slide my fingers beneath the fabric and stroke her directly.
Willow’s hand tightens in my hair. “That’s better.”
“Use your words.”
She looks down at me, eyes narrowing even while her hips follow my hand. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m allowed to enjoy this.”
“You enjoy making me ask.”
“I enjoy hearing you tell me exactly what you want.”
Her mouth curves. “I want your fingers inside me.”
The words cost me more control than my expression shows.