Epilogue
The string lights sway between the palms, and Jack’s cursing under his breath as he wrestles with another knot.
His back gleams in the morning sun, shoulders browned and damp with sweat, and I can’t stop smiling into my coffee.
He doesn’t look like the kind of man who plans ambiance, but here he is, hanging lights because I said I wanted the yard to glow.
“Are you sure I’m cut out for this gig?” he calls without looking back, yanking a line taut.
I take a slow sip. “Depends on how straight that last strand is.”
He turns, pretending to be offended, hand on his heart. “I’ll have you know I’m doing this out of my love for you.”
“Funny,” I say, smiling into my mug. “I thought you were doing it because you forgot to book a lighting rental.”
He laughs, deep and easy, the sound that still undoes me. He steps back to admire his handiwork, then glances over at me. That look. The one that makes everything go still for a second.
“Hard to believe it’s been a year,” I say softly.
He nods. “The best one.”
The breeze lifts the hem of my pajamas. Somewhere down the road, a golf cart buzzes past, faint laughter trailing behind it. The island is stretching awake. Everything feels slow and golden and quietly right.
We’re having brunch with his parents in an hour. Low key, just eggs and fruit and an excuse to sit under the big umbrellas on their porch. Jack claims they’re relaxed about the whole weekend, but I saw his mom’s itinerary printout. There were sub, sub bullets.
We’ll walk over soon, past the white gate, now swallowed by bougainvillea. Jack says we should cut it back, but I like it like that—strong, stubborn, and impossible to ignore. Just like the man I love.
My parents arrive tomorrow, and they’re staying at the Bahama House Inn with the rest of the early guests. We offered them a room here at the house, of course. They insisted we should have space. I think my mom really just wants an on-call bartender and daily housekeeping.
Milly’s thriving. Lazy Daisy is booked solid when we’re not here, and she’s become the unofficial queen of local rental management.
Last month she had to politely evict a couple who tried to shoot a reality dating show in the living room.
She says she’s going to write a memoir and title it Bring Your Own Butler. I told her I’d paint the cover.
The whole thing still feels a little unreal.
That we live together in Charleston now.
In a little white house on a charming downtown street with green shutters, walking distance to my gallery.
On Sundays, Jack strolls to the corner bakery and brings back coffee and croissants, always remembering to grab the paper I like and a weird pastry he wants me to try.
We sit together with bedhead and mismatched mugs. It’s nothing, and it’s everything.
I hold out a hand, wiggling my fingers at him. He crosses the porch in three long steps and leans down to kiss me.
“I like it here,” he murmurs.
“You say that every time.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
I rest my cheek against his chest. This house. This porch. This person. It’s more than I ever wanted. Inside, music from Gran’s old radio floats out through the open windows, mixing with the breeze. One song blending into the next, until a voice cuts in.
“Up next, currently number two on the Billboard Hot 100, here’s Jacob Alistair with ‘Tide Song.’”
The guitar slides in, soft and stripped back. My mug freezes halfway to my lips. The lyrics unfurl, tender and aching, but it’s not a love song. And it’s not bitter. It’s goodbye.
I could’ve stayed in the tide with you
But I watched the sky instead
Said I’d call in the morning
But I wrote you a song instead
You painted the silence in color
I gave you a half-finished line
You looked for something steady
I was chasing the rhyme
Some people change your rhythm
But not your path
And I think you were the song
Not the aftermath
Jack squeezes my hand, his body leaning into mine.
“Can’t blame Noah,” he says softly, his eyes on the horizon. “If I’d lost you, I’d have written a whole damn album.”
The laugh catches in my throat, breaking the tightness apart. I reach for him, and he leans in without hesitation.
“So,” he says. “Still want to marry me?”
I glance at the crooked lights overhead, at the sea glass shadows flickering across his face.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I do.”
In a few days, we’ll stand on this porch and say it in front of everyone. But right now, it already feels like forever.