Epilogue
The air here tasted like salt and sugar.
There was something about waking up next to El with his arms wrapped around me, and his voice still gravelly with sleep, that made this place more permanent than a honeymoon. I hadn’t worn makeup in two days. My hair was a soft puff tucked behind a scarf. El looked tan and sleepy.
We hadn’t said the word elope yet.
Not when we checked into the little boutique hotel with its jade green tiles and gold-trimmed staircase. Not when we called our friends and family back home and told them. Not even when we made love in the open-air shower with jasmine flowers caught in my curls hours after.
But we both knew.
The day we said our vows, it was just us and a tiny cliffside temple overlooking the Andaman Sea.
I wore a white satin slip dress I bought in a rush from a night market in Patong.
No bouquet. No aisle. No press, no bridesmaids, no crowd.
Just the sound of the water, and El, standing barefoot in white slacks and a shirt he didn’t bother to button past the middle.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, as I adjusted the crucifix around his neck and pressed my hand over his heartbeat. I grinned as the officiant spoke in a soft Thai dialect. When El slipped the ring onto my finger, my hands shook. Not from fear. From the way he looked at me.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you more.”
“You can’t,” he whispered. “I loved you first.”
We kissed before they even told us to. And then we just stood there, forehead to forehead, grinning like fools.
That night, we danced barefoot on the beach to a Bluetooth speaker playing Boyz II Men. We shared one bottle of non-alcoholic wine to celebrate my three months of sobriety, along with a plate of tree-nut-free curry and a mango sticky rice that was so good I almost cried.
“I can’t believe we really did it,” I said, cheeks warm from the heat, eyes soft with the moonlight.
El pulled me into his lap on the hammock. “I can.”
He brushed a thumb down the side of my neck, kissed the hollow of my throat, and murmured, “Married life looks good on you, Mrs. Greene.”
I giggled, all breath and bliss. “Sawyer-Greene”
“Of course.” He smirked. “My apologies, Mrs. Sawyer-Greene.”
God, I loved hearing that.
A lot has changed in a year.
The second location in Atlanta has been open for six months now.
The response blew me away—appointments were booked out, clients flew in from other states, and our curling program doubled in size.
With the new income, we added our brand as sponsors to the women’s shelters and expanded our classes with the young girls.
Thanks to the consulting El suggested, sobriety gave me the clarity I needed to focus on them.
I stopped speaking to Ma and Ryan. And Hope. No big, dramatic ending—just a quiet decision to stop reopening wounds. It hurt. But peace feels better than pretending.
And every now and then, when the ache of absence crept up on me, I’d think of Daddy. I’d picture him barefoot at the wedding, smiling widely as we walked across the sand. And even though he didn’t get to walk me down the aisle, I think he’s happy for me.
“What are you thinking about, Mrs. Sawyer-Greene?”
I tilted my head, smiling slowly. “Just… everything.”
“Good everything?”
I nodded. “I’m happy.”
“I know,” he whispered, rubbing my back in lazy circles. “Me too.”