Epilogue
SEBASTIAN—TWO YEARS LATER
I never thought I'd be excited about wedding invitations. Yet here I am. Standing at the kitchen island with a stack of envelopes and a list of names, trying to decide whether my handwriting has improved enough to avoid embarrassing myself. It hasn't.
Caroline walks into the kitchen carrying two mugs of coffee. She glances at one envelope. Then at my face. Then back at the envelope.
"You spelled my brother's last name three different ways."
"I was exploring options."
She laughs. "There is only one option."
"I don't like that option."
"You don't get to invent a new alphabet."
"I feel like that's limiting my creativity."
She kisses my cheek as she slides my coffee across the counter. "I'll address the envelopes."
"I was doing fine."
"You addressed one to 'Occupant.'"
"I wasn't sure who lived there."
"It's Ethan."
"I knew that."
She smiles. "No, you didn't."
I grin. "No, I didn't."
She laughs again. Some things never change. She still laughs with her whole heart. She still steals my coffee even though she insists hers tastes better. She still leaves books open all over the cabin. She still puts her hands in my back pockets every chance she gets.
The cabin doesn't feel like mine anymore. It feels like ours. Her sweaters hang beside my flannel shirts. Her hiking boots sit beside mine by the front door. There are fresh flowers in mason jars on the windowsills because she insists every room deserves them.
She somehow convinced me that throw pillows are necessary. I'm still not entirely convinced. She says I secretly love them. She's probably right. She usually is.
The biggest change, though... Is me. I don't hide anymore. I still love the mountain. Always will. But now I drive into Shotgun Peak without talking myself out of it first.
We have dinner at Rusty's every Friday. Everyone there calls our corner booth "the engagement booth." Apparently one celebration turned into a permanent reservation. Caroline insists that's romantic. Rusty insists it's good for business. I'm inclined to believe both.
She leans against the counter beside me. "What are you thinking about?"
I look at her. "The first time you walked into Rusty's."
She smiles immediately. "I thought you were a statue."
"You grabbed my backside."
"I investigated."
"You grabbed."
"I scientifically investigated."
I laugh. "I suppose we'll still be having this argument when we're eighty."
"I certainly hope so." She reaches over and fixes my crooked stack of invitations.
"I like eighty."
"So do I." Because eighty means decades. Decades of mornings together. Decades of coffee on the porch. Decades of hearing her laugh echo through this cabin.
For twenty years, I believed solitude was peace. Now I know peace has another name. Caroline.
She catches me staring. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That's suspicious."
I smile. "I learned from the best."
She narrows her eyes playfully. "I've made you too charming."
"I wouldn't go that far."
She bumps my shoulder. "I absolutely would."
My gaze drifts toward the calendar hanging on the refrigerator.
Thirty-one days. One month. That's all. One month until I finally get to marry the woman who changed everything.
She notices where I'm looking. "You've been counting again."
She reaches for my hand. Our fingers fit together exactly the way they always have. Like they were made for each other.
"We both ran away," she says quietly. "You from your past. Me from my fears." She smiles. "But we finally stopped running. We followed our hearts exactly to where we needed to be. And I’ve never been happier”
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "I'm looking forward to seeing you in your wedding dress."
She raises an eyebrow. "This sentence has a much happier ending than the last time."
I laugh. "It certainly does."
The first dress represented a life built on lies. This one... This one represents every honest conversation we've fought to have since. Every apology. Every forgiveness. Every ordinary morning that taught us love isn't about perfection. It's about choosing each other. Again. And again. And again.
We've cut every tie to Barbara. Caroline made that decision herself.
It wasn't easy. No child dreams of walking away from a parent.
But she finally realized love isn't measured by how much hurt you're willing to tolerate.
Sometimes loving yourself means closing a door that should have protected you in the first place.
Our family is smaller now. But somehow... It feels fuller. She steps closer until she's standing right in front of me. Then, just like she has since the day I proposed, she slips both of her hands into the back pockets of my jeans.
I laugh immediately. "There it is."
"What?"
"The investigation."
She beams. "I just needed to make sure."
"Make sure of what?"
"That you're still not a mannequin."
I wrap my arms around her waist. "I've stayed remarkably human."
"I know."
She looks up at me with the same smile that stole my heart the first night we met. "I've been checking."
I kiss her forehead. "Good."
The wind rustles through the pines outside. The coffee grows cold on the counter. The wedding invitations remain unfinished. Neither of us cares.
Home was never the cabin. It wasn't the mountain.
It wasn't even Shotgun Peak. Home will always he wherever she is standing. And in one month, when I finally watch Caroline walk toward me in the wedding dress she actually chose for the man she actually loves... I know one thing with absolute certainty. This time we’re following our hearts.
And neither of us is ever running away again.