Epilogue
Charlie
Five Months Later
The pizza is the size of a tire.
I’m barely exaggerating. Taio and I are sitting in a red vinyl booth at Gio’s, a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria three blocks from my Vegas apartment, and the thing taking up most of our table could double as a spare for a midsize SUV.
Cheese bubbles in golden pools across the surface.
The pepperoni has gone crispy at the edges, curled into little cups of grease.
It’s the kind of calorie-dense masterpiece that makes my soul sing hallelujah—a hot, cheesy monstrosity that would make my nutritionist clutch her pearls.
I want to propose marriage to this pizza after weeks of chicken breast, quinoa, and kale smoothies during tour rehearsals.
“This is obscene,” Taio says, lifting a slice that immediately begins to droop under its own weight. He has to fold it in half just to get it to his mouth. “I love it.”
“Gio’s doesn’t believe in moderation.”
“Gio’s believes in cardiac events.”
“Same thing.”
I grab my own slice and take a bite that’s probably too big, cheese stretching in long strings from my mouth to the pizza. Very dignified. Very pop star. If the paparazzi could see me now—sauce on my chin, hair in a messy bun, wearing shapeless cream-colored sweats—they’d have a field day.
Taio’s dressed in my favorite color on him—a hunter-green Henley and black pants. He looks handsome and sophisticated. Obviously he missed the memo where we were supposed to be bridge trolls together.
The bell on the door chimes as more patrons join the restaurant. By instinct, Taio and I both look toward the door. Nothing. We’re unnoticed as the pair makes a beeline to the hostess stand.
A couple walked in ten minutes ago and did a double take when they spotted me, but they just smiled and went to their table.
An older man at the counter glanced over, seemed to recognize me, and then returned to his calzone without comment.
That’s Vegas for you. Celebrities are furniture here.
You notice them, maybe appreciate the design, and then you move on with your life.
It’s blissful.
“Okay.” I wipe my hands on a napkin and reach for my phone. “Are you ready?”
Taio groans. “Charlie…”
“You promised.”
“I promised I’d listen. I didn’t promise I’d be helpful.”
“Just try.” I pull out my AirPods and hand him one. “I need actual feedback, not just you telling me everything is perfect.”
“But what if everything is perfect?”
“Then you’re useless to me.”
He grins and tucks the AirPod into his ear. “I’ve been called worse.”
I queue up the first track—a stripped-down piano version of “Hurricane Season” that I recorded last month in a studio the size of a closet. No production. No backup vocals. No dancers or lights or spectacle. Just me and an old Steinway and whatever truth I could pull from my chest.
The opening notes fill my ear, and I watch Taio’s face as he listens with casual interest, at first, then his focus sharpens, his head tilting slightly the way it does when he’s really paying attention.
The vocals come in. My voice, raw and unprocessed, carrying the melody without any of the usual studio polish.
I dove into the deep end, aimed for the ocean floor
I let the waves block out the noise
But what I thought would drown me
Taught me how to breathe
Taio’s hand finds mine. He squeezes once, twice.
The song ends. Silence hangs between us for a moment.
“Well?” I prompt. “The lyrics are shaky, but I like the melody. Needs a little more time in the lab. A good producer.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Can you take a moment, Tweety? Before you start nitpicking? Charlie, you made this. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you, babe. But that’s not feedback. That’s a compliment.”
“It’s both.” He pulls out the AirPod and sets it on the table between us. “That bridge note? Goose bumps.” He rubs his forearm. “The piano’s haunting. Your voice is raw. It’s perfect. It’s ready.”
“So no constructive criticism at all…”
“Okay, fine. I think maybe you should consider…” He pauses dramatically. “…recording more songs exactly like that one.”
I throw a balled-up napkin at his head. “Useless.”
“Not true. I’m arm candy, baby. That’s my whole job now.
” He catches the napkin and tosses it back.
“Speaking of which—I heard back from two more authors this week. One’s got a fantasy trilogy she wants some developmental help with, and the other is working on a historical fiction project set during the Gold Rush. ”
“That’s…good, right? Do those interest you?”
“Well, I told them both I’m taking some grammar refresher courses first. It’s been a while since my literature classes, and I will be honest—‘who’ and ‘whom’ still eludes me, but yeah. I’m interested in helping. Maybe taking some inspiration from my girl and seeing if I can monetize my passion.”
“I know the difference between ‘who’ and ‘whom.’”
He lifts a brow. “Really?”
“No. Not at all. You know, you don’t have to come to Europe with me. If you want to go back to New York and work on your stuff for a while? I feel like my tour has stolen both our lives.”
He kisses the side of my temple. “It gave me life, Tweety. We’re finishing this thing together. You and me. Until the final performance. And beyond.”
I have a month off. A little time of reprieve before we take the leap over the ocean and start the second phase of the tour. We chose to come back to Las Vegas, stay close to Claire with the baby due any day now.
I smile. “And beyond,” I echo, looking forward to the quiet after the storm. More normalcy, more magical, yet regular moments like this one. Just sharing pizza with the man I love.
My phone buzzes on the table, interrupting our moment. I glance at the screen and feel my heart do a little skip when I see the name.
Dylan Perry
The message preview shows a wall of lowercase text, and I’m already smiling before I even open it.
“Who’s that?” Taio asks, reading my expression.
“My brother.” I swipe to open the message. “He found something. Said he wanted to send it over.”
Taio wraps his arm around me, sliding in closer so he can see the screen.
His hand settles on my lower back. He does this thing where he taps out a little rhythm with his pinky finger, like he’s playing a tiny piano on my spine.
It’s his secret code for “I’m here.” Whenever anything pertaining to my biological dad surfaces, his fingers start their silent concert against my vertebrae. It’s still a sensitive subject.
I stalled for months after finding my mother’s letter.
I debated, back and forth—what was worth knowing, what was better to let go.
But in the end, curiosity claimed me, like Black Cat and the can of Cheez Whiz he massacred.
And also like the big, cat-cheese incident we now call the Kansas City “shitsplosion,” it came with consequences.
More heartbreak.
Liam Perry died six years ago. He was survived by his wife of thirty-two years and his two sons.
Also, by the daughter he didn’t get to know He’s gone, but it doesn’t mean I can’t still get to know him—or at least that’s what my new half brothers, who were more welcoming and loving than I could’ve hoped for, said to me.
For now it’s just video chats and text messages, but we have plans to meet.
Dylan
hey so i was trying to dig up pictures for you and found this box of old paperwork in dad’s desk. most of it was tax stuff but there was one that i think you should see.
i asked mom if it was okay to send and she said yes. i think she feels bad about not wanting to meet you. she’s just not ready yet. but she wanted you to have this.
it’s from your mom.
The lack of capitals still drives me bananas.
Every text looks like a stream of consciousness that forgot to get dressed before leaving the house.
But I’ve learned that’s just Dylan—thoughtful, rambling, and completely incapable of locating the shift key.
Our older brother Tyler, thank goodness, texts in complete sentences with proper punctuation.
Dylan is the one who asks me for music and movie recs and sends me bizarre recipes like those spaghetti chili hot dogs that most definitely don’t look “fire.” Tyler, being more protective, sends simply check-in texts paired with articles about travel fatigue and homeopathic remedies.
His wife is a wellness coach and doula and has an herbal remedy for literally everything.
I love it. I love having brothers who text me about random things. I love that six weeks ago we were strangers, and now they’re part of my life like they’ve always been there.
Another message comes through—this one an image. I tap to expand it, and suddenly I’m looking at a photograph of a handwritten letter. The paper is yellowed with age, the ink slightly faded, but the handwriting is unmistakable.
My mother’s.
I’d know it anywhere. The slight forward slant. The way she curved her lowercase “y”s.
“Is that…” Taio’s voice is soft.
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “It looks like it’s from her. To him.”
I zoom in on the image, and together, we read.
Liam,
I’ve been staring at this blank page for three days, trying to find the right words. There aren’t any. There’s no right way to say what needs to be said, so I’m just going to say it plainly and trust that you’ll hear what I mean.
What you did was wrong.
I know you know that. I could see it on your face every time you looked at me during those last few months—the guilt eating you alive.
You loved me. I believe that. I still believe that, even now.
But love isn’t enough to build a life on.
I learned that the hard way, with men who came before you, and I refuse to learn it again.
Forever love is built on trust. And I can’t trust you. Not because you’re a bad man, but because you made a choice that broke something between us that can’t be repaired. You made me into something I never wanted to be. Now, I’m complicit in hurting your family.
Here’s what I need you to do, Liam. Not for me—for yourself. For your sons.
Tell your wife the truth.
Be a man. Confess what happened. Beg for her forgiveness if you have to.
Fight for the family you already have, the one that existed before I came along.
Those boys deserve a father they can be proud of, and right now, you’re not that man.
But you could be. It’s not too late to become someone worthy of their respect. You just have to do the work.
As for me and the baby—we’ll be okay.
Thank you for the savings account. I wasn’t going to accept it, but I’ve decided that’s my pride talking, and my pride doesn’t get to make decisions for my child. I’ll use it to give her the best life I can. And it will be a good life, Liam. I’ll make sure of that.
This baby is wanted. I need you to understand that. Whatever circumstances brought her into existence, she is not a mistake. She is not a burden. I’m going to spend every day of my life making sure she knows how much she’s loved.
But now, if you really love me—and I think you do, in your own broken way—you need to let us go.
Move on. Be a better husband if you still can. Be a good father to your sons. Live a life that matters. And maybe, someday, a long time from now, we can look back on our time together and remember what was beautiful instead of what was shameful.
I won’t contact you again after this. Please don’t try to find me. It’s better for both of us if we close this chapter and start fresh.
Thank you for the gift of this child. I mean that. She’s going to be extraordinary.
I already love her more than I knew was possible.
Goodbye, Liam.
—Bettany
The letter blurs. I realize, distantly, that I’m crying.
Taio’s arm tightens around me, pulling me against his chest. I bury my face in his shoulder and let the tears come—not sad tears, not really, but something more complex. Relief. Recognition. A grief I didn’t know I was still carrying finally finding somewhere to go.
This baby is wanted.
She is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.
She’s going to be extraordinary.
“She loved you so much,” Taio murmurs into my hair. “She really, really loved you.”
“I know.” I pull back, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand. “I always knew. But it’s different, seeing it. Hearing her voice again, even if it’s just on paper.”
“She sounds strong. Like someone who knew her worth.”
“She was.” I look at the letter again, at my mother’s familiar handwriting, at the words she chose so carefully. “She made mistakes. A lot of them. But she wasn’t weak. She wasn’t some tragic figure who couldn’t survive without a man. She chose herself. She chose me. And she never looked back.”
I can’t believe I ever thought my mother wasn’t whole because she never ended up with her Prince Charming. She had two. In me and Spencer. My mother wasn’t weak, she didn’t miss out on love. We were it. Her daughters were her big loves. The ones she waited for, the ones she fought for.
“Hey.” Taio tilts my chin up, meeting my eyes. “You okay?”
I think about the question. Really think about it.
Five months ago, I was drowning. Scandal, heartbreak, a carefully constructed life coming apart at the seams. I didn’t know who I was without the performance. I didn’t know if anyone would love the real me.
Now I’m sitting in a vinyl booth with pizza grease on my fingers and my mother’s letter on my phone and a man who thinks my stripped-down piano recordings are perfect even when I need him to find flaws.
I have a dad who chose me, sisters who would die for me, and new brothers I’m excited to get to know.
I have an album to finish and a tour to complete and a whole life stretching out ahead of me—messy, complicated, entirely my own.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it down to my bones. “I’m okay.”
More than okay.
I’m thoroughly, completely, extraordinarily loved.
Just like she always wanted me to be.