Epilogue
Blair
One Year Later
Finishing the second book was more complicated than the first.
The first poured out like a confession. Raw. Urgent. Every word scraped from my ribs. But the second… the second was a choice. It came not from survival, but from peace. Finally, understanding that joy is worth writing about, too.
I sat barefoot at the old kitchen table, wrapped in one of Greyson’s flannels. The sun had barely started to rise, casting golden stripes across the floorboards. Outside, frost clung to the windows. Inside, the only sound was the scratch of my pen as I wrote the final line:
“Sometimes coming home isn’t a return. It’s a rebirth.”
I stared at the words for a long time.
Then I closed the notebook and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding since I started the second novel.
Finished.
Truly, fully finished.
I walked to the sink, made a cup of cider, and leaned against the counter while it steeped. A breeze rattled the porch swing outside, and from the back of the house, I heard Greyson shuffling around, probably trying to find his socks.
When he padded into the kitchen, hair a mess, still half-asleep, he froze in the doorway.
“You finished,” he said.
“How do you always know?”
“You get this look. Like you’ve seen something holy.”
I smiled. “Maybe I have.”
He walked over, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and rested his chin on my shoulder. “I’m so damn proud of you, honey bee.”
“I know.”
We stood like that for a long time, the kind of quiet only love can fill.
A few hours later, Greyson said he had errands to run and kissed my forehead before disappearing in his truck. I didn’t think much of it until Madison showed up ten minutes later with Olive and a suspicious smile.
“We’re going on a little walk,” she said, loading the baby into her stroller.
“Why do I feel like this is a setup?”
“Because it is.”
She led me down a winding trail near the orchard, the same one where Greyson kissed me after all those years. The leaves had all fallen, carpeting the ground in gold and rust. The air smelled like woodsmoke and something else I couldn’t name, something soft and nostalgic.
I didn’t see the signs at first.
Literally.
Until we rounded the last curve and I saw the first one nailed to a tree:
“The first time I saw you, I forgot how to breathe.”
The next one, a few steps ahead, said:
“The first time I kissed you, I remembered how.”
My heart stuttered.
Madison grinned. “I’ll wait back here.”
I kept walking.
More signs appeared, each one handwritten on wood panels in Greyson’s bold, uneven scrawl.
“You’ve always been the one.”
“Even when you weren’t mine.”
“Especially when you were.”
The final sign was nailed to the old orchard gate:
“Will you help me write the rest of our story?”
And there he was.
Standing in the clearing in his favorite flannel, holding a small, honey-colored box in one hand and looking like every reason I ever stopped running.
I covered my mouth. “Greyson.”
He walked to me, took both my hands. “I didn’t want to ask you in some restaurant or with a speech I practiced in front of a mirror. I wanted to ask you here where it all started, where you were able to rewrite the pages of our past.”
Tears slid down my cheeks.
He opened the box.
Inside was the simplest, most beautiful ring I’d ever seen, gold with a tiny honey bee etched into the band.
“Blair Cunningham,” he said, voice rough, “I have loved you since the moment we met, all those years ago. Will you marry me and be my forever?”
I laughed through the tears. “Of course I will.”
He slipped the ring on my finger and kissed me like he’d waited a thousand lifetimes.
That night, back at home, we sat on the porch with mugs of hot cider, the stars spread wide above us. I rested my head on his shoulder, the ring cool and perfect on my finger.
“You think people will want a second book?” I asked.
He smiled. “I think people will want all your books. But more than that, I think you finally want them too.”
I nodded.
Because I did.
For the first time, I wasn’t writing to prove I belonged. I wasn’t trying to heal. I wasn’t trying to scream into silence.
I was just telling stories.
And building a life with the man who reminded me I deserved to be heard.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be walking up the front steps of my parents’ house with an engagement ring on my finger and Greyson Shaw at my side, I would’ve laughed, then cried, then laughed again.
But here we were.
Greyson glanced over as we reached the door, his hand lightly resting at the small of my back. “You good, honey bee?”
I nodded, but the fluttering in my chest said otherwise. “Just... nervous. I haven’t brought anyone here like this. Not since…”
He stopped me with a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to explain.”
I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
My mother opened the door a second later. She’d been watching from the window, no doubt. Her face was softer than I remembered from the old days, the sharp lines around her mouth now replaced with something closer to warmth. She glanced at Greyson, then back at me, then at my left hand.
She gasped. “You’re engaged?”
Greyson grinned and stepped forward, reaching for her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Cunningham.”
She blinked, visibly flustered, but shook his hand. “Please. Call me Laura. And congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice shaking with something I couldn’t name. “We wanted to come by in person.”
My dad appeared in the hallway behind her, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His gaze fell to the ring on my finger, then drifted up to Greyson. There was a moment, longer than I liked, where no one said anything.
Then he smiled. Not big. But real.
“Well,” he said. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
We ate at the old dining room table that never changed, even after all these years. Mom had made roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It smelled like every Sunday night from my childhood, safe, warm, and oddly grounding.
Greyson was charming in that easy, calm way of his. He complimented my mom’s cooking, asked my dad about his woodworking projects, and didn’t flinch when the inevitable questions about his bar came up.
“And you really like it?” my mom asked, slicing into her chicken. “Running a business like that?”
“I do,” Greyson said. “It’s not fancy, but it’s honest work. And I’ve made it my own. That place means a lot to me.”
She nodded slowly. “I can respect that.”
I glanced between them, stunned by the ease.
After dinner, we sat in the living room with coffee and pecan pie. Greyson’s arm draped around my shoulders as I curled into him, and I caught my mother watching us from across the room.
“I didn’t expect this,” she said quietly.
“What?” I asked.
Her eyes moved between me and Greyson. “To see you like this. Whole. Happy.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in her voice.
Greyson kissed the top of my head and squeezed my hand.
“I didn’t think I’d come back here,” I admitted. “But everything changed when I did.”
She nodded. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m proud of you, Blair. For what you survived. For the woman you became.”
Tears welled in my eyes.
My father cleared his throat, visibly emotional. “You two, you’re building something. A life. That takes grit.”
“Blair makes it easy,” Greyson said softly, brushing a hand down my arm.
My mother smiled, more at ease than I’d seen her in a long time. “So when’s the big day?”
I laughed through the emotion caught in my throat. “We haven’t set a date yet. Still soaking it all in.”
“Well,” my mom said, “you let me know when you’re ready. I’ll make sure the guest list doesn’t get out of control.”
Greyson chuckled. “That sounds like a good deal.”
As we got ready to leave, my mom pulled me aside in the hallway. “You chose well,” she said. “He’s solid.”
I glanced back at Greyson, waiting patiently by the door with my coat in his hand.
“I know,” I whispered.
We hugged, tentative at first, then real.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said into my hair. “You’re always welcome here. Both of you.”
And for the first time in a very long time, I believed her.