Epilogue
Roderick
“Are you ready?” Kit asks as she straightens my tie, her fingers smoothing over the fabric like it’s the final stroke on a masterpiece.
“No. I’m wearing a fucking tie.” I dip down, catch her mouth with mine—part kiss, part silent plea for mercy. Maybe if I kiss her long enough, deep enough, she’ll forget this whole tie situation and let me ditch it altogether.
She doesn’t.
Everyone says it’s just for today. That this is temporary.
That I can breathe through it, get through it, and go back to being myself after.
But temporary has a way of overstaying its welcome.
First, it’s a tie. Then it’s a blazer. Next thing I know, I’ll be asked to waltz into the office like I belong in a corner suite. I don’t.
I refuse to be that person.
It’s been nearly two years since I walked out of rehab and never looked back. Seven hundred fifty-eight days of sobriety. Seven hundred fifty-eight chances to fuck it all up—and somehow, I didn’t.
In that time, I learned how to cook without burning the apartment down. Earned an associate’s degree in business. Started a nonprofit. Got the girl.
That part? That’s everything.
Kit and I . . . we’re us now. It all shifted that day I stood before her and confessed that I’d been the anonymous guy messaging her on EchoZone for months.
That all those long, late-night conversations about lyrics, life, and everything in between?
That was me. She looked me right in the eye and said, “Of course it was you.”
Of course it was. Who else would obsess over double meanings in David Bowie songs and spiral about their existential crises in the same thread?
These last two years with her have been a fucking dream—equal parts ordinary and extraordinary.
I’ve watched her build a life she’s proud of.
She launched a production company from scratch.
Auditioned for a few philharmonics, each rejection hitting her a little too close, a little too personal.
They told her she wasn’t a good fit. But she didn’t give up.
She’s still practicing, still playing, still showing up.
Maybe one day she’ll walk onstage at Carnegie Hall and play her heart out alongside someone she helped make shine.
After everything with her father’s agency unraveled, she took what was left—his estate—and used it to do something good. She poured the funds into the places we volunteer at every week. Places that actually help people.
The agents at D&D Talent were blacklisted. Deservedly. A whole damn chapter we avoid bringing up because it still tastes bitter. Bernice tried to ask Kit for severance, but all she got was a civil lawsuit from Alec.
The day Connor Dempsey died, the rot he’d hidden cracked wide open. Everything he destroyed came crawling into the light, and many people paid the price.
We’re okay now. Not perfect, but better. We fought for that.
“Okay, the tie is done,” Kit says with a soft sigh, tugging at the knot like she’s not entirely happy, then stepping back. “You behave until this is over.”
“Why are we doing this again?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“It’s the opening of the youth center.” Her voice lifts like it’s supposed to cheer me up. “You have to look official, but after that I promise to take you home.”
Last December, I got my license back. After everything. After the DUI and the wreck and the fucking spiral, I clawed my way through the requirements and got the DMV’s stamp of cautious approval.
Not that I leave the house much. The thing is, I don’t need to. I have an office in the converted barn and run the non-profit from there. That’s the beauty of owning a ridiculous amount of land and dating a woman who’s halfway to building us a self-sustaining homestead.
We’ve got a greenhouse. Chickens. A root cellar in the works.
Kit’s been stockpiling canned goods and powdered milk like it’s 1950 and we’re about to be bombed.
Which, I guess, depending on which late-night news special you watch, might not be that far off.
Everyone’s convinced Y2K will knock us back into the Dark Ages.
There’s talk of the grid failing, planes dropping from the sky, banks eating our savings.
Kit swears it’s probably bullshit but also insists we need to learn how to make our soap and maybe churn butter “just in case.”
So yeah. We’re ready to ride out the apocalypse with farm eggs, Beethoven on vinyl, and a stack of batteries taller than me.
“Not the point.” She rolls her eyes, but I catch the twitch of a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “I know you don’t love crowds, but it’s thirty minutes. That’s it. In and out.”
“What’s at home?” I ask, pretending not to know exactly where I’m steering this.
She sighs like I’m exasperating, which is fair. “Me. Of course.”
“You naked?”
“I could be,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing in mock warning, “as long as you get through this.”
“I’m ready, baby.” I kiss her again, slower this time. Sealing the deal. Tasting victory.
Motivated as hell.
Look, I love what we built—the center is a good thing. A place where kids and teens can find sports, music, something to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping. But being here? Standing in front of a crowd and pretending I’m someone who thrives under flashlights and applause?
That’s where I unravel.
I’ve learned that about myself. Me and crowds—we don’t belong to each other.
I don’t know if it’s trauma or if I was just born an introvert who got shoved into too many spotlights.
Maybe both. But I do know that the more I stretch myself past the limits of where I feel safe, the harder it is to breathe.
So I don’t. Not anymore.
I stay in my lane. I take my meds. I work with my therapist. I show up where it counts.
And right now, that means this stupid fucking tie. Thirty minutes of smiling and waving and maybe saying a few words, then Kit, me, and hopefully her being naked again in the safety of our home.
That’s my version of winning.
And yeah, I’m in. For her, for the kids who need it, for the promise of peeling this suit off the second I cross our threshold—I’m in.
Kit
April 14th, 1999
The fairy lights buzz softly above us like they’re trying not to wake the stars.
We’re by the lake—our lake. The one that came with the property and somehow made this whole place feel like a dream instead of a financial mistake.
It’s just past nine. The crickets are in full chorus.
The sky’s a velvet navy, and the barn is lit up in warm gold, like we’re hosting a secret wedding reception that no one was invited to.
Roderick’s barefoot. Jeans cuffed, sleeves rolled. There’s a dimple in his cheek and a nervousness in his eyes that doesn’t match the easy rhythm of the music humming from the speakers.
“You’re quiet,” I say softly, standing beside him on the grass. The breeze carries the scent of hay, lake water, and that cinnamon-vanilla candle I accidentally left burning in the kitchen window. It feels like home.
He glances at me, then down at his feet. “Trying to remember this.”
“This?”
“This. You. That look in your eyes. The moon. How fucking lucky I am.”
I laugh because I don’t know what else to do with that. It lands in my chest and ripples outward.
“It’s not a special occasion,” I say, even though everything tonight feels like a celebration.
The youth center opened yesterday. Dozens of kids rushed through its doors.
They’ll have guitars, soccer balls, and people who see them.
It’s the first time I’ve ever watched something go from an idea on a napkin to a living, breathing space filled with purpose.
He made that happen.
We made that happen.
“I don’t need a special occasion,” he murmurs. “I just need you to be here.”
I reach for his hand. “I am here.”
He pulls me closer, and we sway. Barely dancing. Just existing in time, letting the night wrap around us. Fireflies blink along the edges of the field. Our lights dot the pathway to the house like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale.
I lean into his chest, into the heart that nearly stopped beating two years ago.
This man. This stubborn, brilliant, aching man. He nearly didn’t make it. And now he’s here. Whole. Sober. Mine.
“You remember what I said yesterday?” he asks against my hair.
“You said a lot of things yesterday.” I tilt my head up.
“I said I’d drive myself home.”
I smile. “Yes. I was there.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that. About home.”
He gently steps back, his fingers still laced with mine. The lights catch his face, and I know. I know before he even moves. My heart stumbles like it’s bracing itself.
He drops to one knee.
Just like that.
No fireworks. No champagne. No crowd holding up signs.
Just the man I love, kneeling on our land, surrounded by fairy lights, crickets, and the life we’ve slowly built with blood, sweat, eggs from our chickens, and more than a few burned casseroles.
“I’m taking this one home—metaphorically speaking.”
His voice trembles. A little. Enough.
“I want this to be home. Not the place. You. Us. I want a forever that includes powdered milk, root cellars, late-night piano concerts in the barn, and you yelling at me when I forget to close the damn chicken coop.”
My eyes are burning now. My throat goes tight.
“I want a life with you, and I want it in all the ways I never thought I was allowed to want things. I want the small moments. The hard ones. The boring ones. I want all of them with you.”
He pulls something from his pocket.
A small velvet box. It’s worn around the corners like he’s been carrying it for a while, waiting for the right moment. His fingers tremble a little as he opens it, and nestled inside is a ring.
It’s a princess cut—delicate, square, and glittering like it knows exactly what this moment means. It’s elegant in its simplicity. Honest in a way that makes my chest ache.
It says: I see you. I choose you. I’m here for good.
And I don’t even need to slip it on to know it’s perfect. It’s not about the cut or the size—it’s about the hands that held it. The nights he probably stared at it, wondering if he was ready or if we were ready.
He looks up at me, his eyes glinting with nerves and something that might be hope. And then he speaks—really speaks.
“Kit . . . I don’t have a big speech. I don’t have poetry or music or some sweeping line from a movie. But I have this life. This one. And I want to spend the rest of it showing you what it means to love someone the right way.”
My breath catches.
“I want the long days and the bad ones. I want the mornings when we hug and kiss but don’t talk until coffee.
I want the fights and the making up. I want all the years we didn’t get before.
And every version of you that shows up tomorrow or in forty years—I want to wake up and choose her, over and over. ”
He pauses, like the air around us has gone still.
“Marry me, Kit. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s ours. And I don’t want to do any of it without you.”
And then my knees give out.
I sink to the ground before him because standing isn’t just impossible—it feels wrong. Like the only place I’m supposed to be right now is eye-level with the man who just offered me forever, bare and imperfect and everything I’ve ever wanted.
I cup his face. His skin is warm, and he looks wrecked—in that soft, vulnerable way only I get to see.
I kiss him like the answer’s already written in the sky.
“Yes.” My voice cracks, and I don’t care. “Yes, you impossible, wonderful human. Of course, yes.”
I kiss him again, and this time it’s messier—salted with tears, stitched together with laughter I can’t hold back. My hands are in his hair. His arms are wrapped around me like he doesn’t trust the world to keep me upright.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth, like it’s the only language I still remember. “I love you so much I don’t know how I ever existed before you.”
He blinks like he’s trying to hold that in his hands.
Then, softly—like it costs him everything and gives him back more—he says it.
“I love you too.” His voice breaks open. “I’ve loved you through all of it. I loved you when I thought I’d never deserve you. I love you now, and I’ll love you every fucking day after this one.”
“Kit.” His voice is low and raw. “You saved me.”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“No. You saved yourself,” I say, brushing my thumb across his cheek. “But you let me love you while you did it. You still let me love you. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done.”
He smiles like it hurts. Like it heals.
And then we’re simply holding each other in the middle of our home, surrounded by fairy lights, fireflies, and every version of us that had to break to get here.
We stay like that until the crickets quiet and the night folds around us.
The ring is still in the box, resting between us on the grass. We’ll put it on later. There’s no rush.
Because he’s mine. I’m his.
And this—this right here—is the start of everything.