Epilogue
OLIVIA
One Year Later
There’s a breeze today, soft and warm, the kind that carries the scent of sea salt and morning coffee.
I stand on the terrace of our hotel and watch as the sun rises over Tacoon, casting long shadows along the stone path that winds through the garden.
It’s peaceful. The kind of peace I never thought I’d find here again.
The boutique hotel is finally open. After a year of paint-stained clothes, last-minute design changes, and way too many calls with vendors who couldn’t meet a deadline to save their lives, it’s real.
And it’s beautiful. I run all the marketing and social media, something I can do from anywhere, but I choose to do it here. Because here feels like mine now.
Julia’s found her rhythm, too. She runs guest experience with that contagious energy only she has.
She and Lily... well, they’re something.
Still not labeled, not locked in, but steady in their own chaotic, fantastic way.
Lily’s thriving. She took over the coffee shop and made it entirely hers, with book stacks in the corners, vintage mugs, and a chalkboard wall full of hand-written poetry.
Audrey’s still running the show until we find someone to take over full-time management. She says she’ll hand over the reins soon, but I think part of her loves the chaos too much to let go just yet. Josh stepped back and said he needed some time to travel. He sends postcards every now and then.
The kids are happy. Like, really happy. They’ve settled into their routines, made friends, and joined clubs. Tacoon became their safe place, too. On weekends, we bike to the farmers’ market or hike up to the overlook.
My relationship with my dad is a slow rebuild. Some days are more complicated than others, but we’re showing up. That’s all I can ask. Mom and I have slipped back into a more familiar routine. She makes tea some nights. I sit with her when I can, talk about nothing and everything.
And Maggie, she’s family again. Somehow, through all the loss and love and pain, we’ve grown into this easy, quiet closeness. We don’t talk about him often. We don’t need to.
As for me... well, there’s Matthew. A new face in town who made a move on me, and it worked.
It’s quiet between us, private. We share coffee some mornings, sometimes dinner. We don’t talk about labels. We don’t owe anyone that. Something is comforting in the stillness of it —just two people choosing simplicity and quiet. And for now, that’s what I need.
Ethan?
We’ve spoken just a handful of times in the past year. It’s polite, careful, and kind. He left Tacoon way before the hotel launched, saying he needed to focus on his firm, the girls, Hannah, and the new baby. Another girl. I think he was happy when he said it. Tired, but happy.
He doesn’t live with Hannah anymore, that much I know. They're separated, still co-parenting, still tangled in the logistics of a life too big and messy to unravel overnight. There’s a lot of money involved, a lot of history. And I get it. Been there, done that.
From what I understand, Hannah’s doing okay, too. Maybe that’s the best any of us can hope for—okay.
He meant it, back then, when he said he didn’t want that marriage. But he also meant it when he said he needed to clean up his mess first. And apparently, he is.
Sometimes I wonder if our story is truly over. If that fire we felt was meant to burn us clean, or to remind us that we’re still capable of feeling that deeply. But I don’t linger there long. I don’t want to keep dreaming about a future we never got to have.
Life is good. It’s quiet. It’s mine.
And for now, that’s enough.