EPILOGUE
Keely
The gown didn’t fit.
I mean, it fit. Technically. The zipper closed and everything was where it was supposed to be. But the sash that was meant to hang straight down the front was doing absolutely nothing of the sort because there was a seven-month pregnant belly in the way.
I stood in front of the mirror in the ladies room off the main hall and looked at myself.
Graduation cap slightly crooked. Gown straining across the middle.
Nursing pin already fastened to my collar because Griffin had insisted on pinning it himself this morning with such focused ceremony that my mother had teared up and my brothers had made gagging noises.
I looked ridiculous.
I looked exactly right.
I straightened my cap and walked out to join my class.
The auditorium was already full. The low roar of families settling into seats, the feedback squeal of a microphone being tested, the particular charged energy of a room full of people who had been waiting a long time for this moment.
Me included.
When they finally called my name, I walked across that stage the way I walked into everything—chin up, spine straight, entirely done apologizing for taking up space.
I shook the dean’s hand. I took my diploma. I turned to face the auditorium and I found him immediately.
He was standing in the back—of course he was standing, Griffin didn’t sit still for extended periods, and of course he was in the back where he could see the whole room.
He was wearing the dark button-down shirt he’d bought for the occasion and he looked profoundly uncomfortable.
He wasn’t clapping. He was watching me with that steady focused attention I’d felt on me since the night he’d walked into the diner and slid into the corner booth like he owned it.
My mother was seated in front of him, both hands pressed to her mouth.
My brothers—the holy terrors, the mischief makers, the two small people I’d helped raise from the time they were born—were jumping up and down until Griffin put a hand on each of their heads without looking down and they stilled.
He pressed one fist to his chest. Brief. Quiet. So completely him that I felt it from across the room.
I pressed my free hand flat against my stomach. Our daughter shifted in response.
I walked back to my seat with my diploma in my hand and the absolute certain knowledge that every late night and long shift and the hard year had been worth exactly this.
All of it.
Every last bit.