28. Audrey
— ? —
Audrey
One year later, the cottage looks like it’s always been here.
The seafoam paint has weathered just enough to feel authentic rather than new. The garden I planted in the spring is overgrown in the best way - tomatoes climbing their cages, herbs spilling over the path, wildflowers Lily scattered blooming in every corner.
I stand at the kitchen window, coffee in hand, watching the bay turn silver in the early morning light. Behind me, I can hear Rowan and Lily arguing about the waffles.
“That doesn’t look like a waffle. That looks like a blob.”
“It’s abstract. Picasso would have loved it.”
“Who’s Picasso?”
“A painter who made blobs and called them art.”
“So you’re an artist now?”
“I’ve always been an artist. You’ve just never appreciated my talents.”
I turn around, leaning against the counter, and watch them. Rowan at the waffle iron, spatula in hand, batter splattered across his old t-shirt. Lily perched on a stool beside him, critiquing his technique with the intensity of a professional chef.
This is what we rebuilt. Not just the house - though the new kitchen is bigger, the insulation better, the wiring up to code. We rebuilt this: lazy Saturday mornings and ridiculous arguments and the ordinary magic of a family learning to trust each other again.
“Mommy!” Lily spots me watching and waves frantically. “Tell Daddy his waffles look like blobs!”
“His waffles have always looked like blobs. That’s part of their charm.”
“See?” Rowan points the spatula at me triumphantly. “Charm. I have charm.”
“You have batter on your nose.”
He swipes at it, misses completely, and Lily dissolves into giggles.
This is what happiness looks like, I think. Not perfect. Not easy. Just real.
Later, after the blob-waffles have been devoured and Lily’s been deposited at Emma’s house for a sleepover, Rowan finds me in the garden.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Just looking.” I gesture at the cottage - our cottage, rebuilt and renewed. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s real.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.” I turn to face him. “The house. Us. The fact that we made it.”
He moves closer, wraps his arms around me from behind.
“We did more than make it,” he says against my hair. “We’re better than before.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” He turns me in his arms, tips my chin up to look at him. “Before, I was holding on to you so tight I forgot to actually be with you. I was so scared of losing you that I ran before you could leave.”
“And now?”
“Now I know the only way to keep you is to keep showing up. Every day. No matter what.” He kisses my forehead. “The fear’s still there sometimes. But it doesn’t run me anymore.”
I reach up, trace the line of his jaw.
“Come inside,” I say. “Lily’s not coming home until tomorrow.”
His eyes darken with understanding.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We don’t rush.
There was a time - during those desperate weeks in the rental, in the truck bed during the storm, in Ruth’s coatroom - when every touch felt urgent, frantic, like we were trying to hold on to something that might slip away. Tonight is different.
Tonight, we have time.
Rowan undresses me slowly, reverently, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he reveals. My collarbone. The curve of my shoulder. The dip of my waist.
“I love this body,” he murmurs against my hip. “I’ve loved it for eighteen years. And I’m going to love it for fifty more.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“I’m an optimist now.” He looks up at me, grinning. “Didn’t you hear?”
I pull him back up, kiss him deeply, taste the coffee we shared this morning and something else underneath - something that’s just him, familiar and essential.
“Stop talking,” I say. “And come to bed.”
He lays me down on our new bed - the one we picked out together, bigger than the old one, soft sheets in a blue that reminds us of the bay.
For a moment, he just looks at me. The light from the window catches the silver at his temples, the lines around his eyes, the evidence of time and life written on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just... you’re beautiful.”
“You’ve seen me a thousand times.”
“And you’re beautiful every time.” He stretches out beside me, traces a finger down my arm. “I’m going to keep saying it until you believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“Then I’m going to keep saying it because I like the way you blush when I do.”
I laugh, and he catches the sound with a kiss.
When he finally enters me, it’s slow and deliberate - not the frantic urgency of before, but something deeper. He moves with purpose, watching my face, adjusting his rhythm to match my breathing.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His eyes are locked on mine, and there’s something there I’ve never seen before - not just love, but certainty. The absolute, unshakeable conviction that this is exactly where he belongs.
“I love you,” he says with each thrust. “I love you. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He reaches between us, finds the place where we’re joined, and presses his thumb against me in slow circles. The pleasure builds gradually, inevitably, like a wave gathering force offshore.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you.”
I shatter quietly this time - no screaming, no desperation, just a deep, rolling release that leaves me gasping and shaking in his arms. He follows a moment later, and the way he says my name - Audrey - sounds like a prayer.
After, we lie tangled together in the blue sheets, sweat cooling on our skin, listening to the distant sound of waves against the shore.
“I have something for you,” he says.
“Now?”
“Now.” He reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out a small velvet box.
My heart stutters. “Rowan-”
“Open it.”
Inside is my engagement ring. The one we found in the keepsake box, the one I told him to keep “until I knew what it meant to wear it again.”
“I’ve been carrying this for a year,” he says. “Waiting for the right moment. Waiting until-” He takes a breath. “Until I felt like I’d earned it.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I’ll never fully earn it. But I’m going to keep trying anyway.” He takes the ring, holds it up. “Audrey Callahan, will you let me put this back where it belongs?”
I’m crying. I don’t know when I started.
“Yes,” I say. “God, yes.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, and it settles into place like it never left.
“Welcome home,” he whispers.
“I’ve been home for a while,” I tell him. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
He kisses me again - soft, sure, the kiss of a man who has nowhere else to be.
And I kiss him back, wearing my ring, in our rebuilt house, knowing that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.