epilogue
Gracie
One year later…
The bell over the bakery door jingles.
I look up this time.
Henry stands in the doorway of SugarBakers, hat in hand, boots dusty, looking like he drove straight here from the ranch without stopping. Which he did. I know because he texted me fourteen minutes ago: On my way. Don't eat all the bear claws.
To which I responded: No promises.
To which he responded with a single emoji—the one with heart eyes—which he uses exclusively for me and Bayou.
I will fully admit to having saved approximately two hundred screenshots of those messages, because I am a grown woman completely obsessed with her husband.
Dignity is overrated and and I've made my peace with that.
"Morning, husband," I say from behind the counter, where I'm boxing up a custom order, three dozen lemon lavender cupcakes for the Hendersons' anniversary party.
Mrs. Henderson called last week to tell me that she and Bill were renewing their vows after forty-two years, and could I make something special?
She also told me, in the same breath and without any apparent sense of conversational whiplash, that she'd won sixty dollars in the town betting pool about Henry and me.
People tell me about the town betting pool all the time. About Henry and me. Apparently, it's been running since we were in high school. Had I known, I might have placed my own bet.
Kelsie won the largest share, which she claims is because she had "insider information" and which I claim is because she's been manifesting this since she was twelve years old.
She used her winnings to buy a new stand mixer for the bakery, which she presented to me with a card that read: You're welcome for my brother. — K
"Morning, wife." Henry crosses the bakery in four strides, leans over the counter, and kisses me. Not a peck. A real kiss, slow and warm and tasting like the coffee he drank on the drive, right there in front of God and the Saturday morning regulars.
"Brought you something," Henry says when he pulls back. He holds up a small paper bag.
"If that's another succulent for my windowsill, I swear —"
"It's not a succulent."
"Because the last three died, Henry. I'm a baker, not a botanist. The lemon tree is the extent of my horticultural capabilities, and we both know that tree is alive out of spite, not skill."
"It's not a succulent." He sets the bag on the counter. "Open it."
I wipe my hands on my apron—the one he bought me for Christmas, cream-colored with Mrs. Blankenship embroidered across the front in a script that Caroline designed and Kelsie definitely cried about—and open the bag.
Inside is a small velvet box.
My heart does something complicated.
"Henry."
"Before you say anything—"
"We're already married."
"I know that."
"We've been married. For over a year. Legally. Documented. Filed with the state of Texas and, inexplicably, Mexico."
He grins. “I know that too."
"So what is —"
"Open the box, Gracie."
I open the box.
Inside is a necklace. It's simple. A delicate, silver-toned necklace with a single stone pendant—not a diamond, but a warm, amber-colored gem—hangs from it. The gemstone catches the bakery's overhead light and throws tiny sparks of gold across the glass display case.
"It's citrine," he says. "It reminded me of fireflies."
My vision blurs.
"I never got to propose to you," he says.
He's not on one knee. He's just standing there, on the other side of my counter, in his dusty boots and his worn Henley, hat in hand, looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"We skipped that part. We skipped a lot of parts.
And I don't regret how we got here, because here is exactly where I want to be.
But I wanted to give you this. Not because we need it. Just because you deserve to be asked."
A tear slides down my cheek and lands on a lemon lavender cupcake. The cupcake doesn't care. The cupcake is emotionally uncomplicated, and I envy it.
"Gracie Lynn Howard Blankenship," he says.
"I loved you before I knew what the word meant.
I loved you when I was too stupid and scared to say it.
I loved you through every year I wasted, and I plan to love you through every year I've got left.
So." He nods toward the ring. "Will you stay married to me? "
The bakery has gone quiet.
Kelsie is standing by the espresso machine with her hand over her mouth.
Caroline is openly weeping into a tray of croissants.
The Saturday morning regulars are watching with the rapt attention of people who are absolutely going to tell everyone they know about this before noon.
I look at my husband. At his blue eyes, steady and warm and so full of love it makes my ribs ache—that familiar vibration, that live wire, my grandmother's gift telling me to pay attention because something important is happening.
Something wonderful.
"You know," I say, my voice thick with tears, "you could have just said this at home. In private. Like a normal person."
He grins. That slow, devastating grin. "Where's the fun in that?"
I come around the counter. I take the necklace from the box and let him clasp it around my neck.
Then I grab the front of his shirt with both flour-dusted hands—leaving two perfect white handprints on his chest that he will wear for the rest of the day without complaint—and I kiss him.
The bakery erupts.
Kelsie cheers. Caroline sobs harder. Someone at the corner table starts clapping.
“I don’t understand why it makes me cry every time,” Caroline says. “This is what, the third time he’s come in here and asked her that?”
“I don’t know,” Kelsie says. “I hate that it’s my brother, but it’s so romantic.”
And Henry, my husband, my best friend's brother, my accidental spouse turned permanent person, holds me against him like he's never letting go.
Which, as it turns out, he isn't.
The heartburn, for the record, never fully goes away.
It shows up the morning Lana calls to tell me she's pregnant again.
This time with twins, God help us all. It shows up the day Kelsie announces that SugarBakers is expanding into the storefront next door.
It shows up on a random Tuesday in October when Henry walks through the front door of our house and Bayou nearly takes him out at the knees and he scoops that ridiculous, oversized dog into his arms and looks at me over her fur with a grin that makes my stomach flip even now, even after all this time.
It shows up on a quiet Sunday morning when I'm standing in the kitchen of his ranch house—our ranch house—making sourdough, and he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist and presses his mouth to my neck, right where my pulse lives, right where it all started.
"Good morning, Firefly," he says.
And the heartburn hums the morning I find out I’m pregnant with our first baby. This time it doesn’t go away. At least not for the next nine months because my husband makes big babies and as it turns out, heartburn is a legitimate pregnancy symptom.
So maybe it’s not a warning system. But just a part of my crazy life that’s full of love, way too many baked goods and a husband that makes sure I know every day how much he loves me. Turns out it is a gift.
***
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