Epilogue Wrenley
Epilogue
Wrenley
The sudden whir of my husband’s chainsaw sends our newest family member, a ten-month-old basset hound named Mathilda, barrelling straight into me. She crashes against my legs like a bowling ball in a fur coat, and I crouch down to steady her.
Ruger was all for getting a dog at first. But once Mathilda proved she only sleeps wedged between us, snoring directly in his ear, he’d been less than enthusiastic.
Still, I catch him on the couch with her all the time.
Her body is curled up against his, watching true crime documentaries.
He’s pointing at the screen like she’s his little conservation officer in training.
For a man who swore he didn’t want another responsibility, he’s ridiculously smitten.
So am I.
She’s a symbol of everything we’ve built this past year. The wedding was surprisingly the easy part. Endless paperwork and my nerve-racking interview were the true gauntlet. I studied harder for that interview than I ever did in high school or university. Now, all we can do is wait.
When the saw cuts off, I walk toward Ruger, brushing at my vest. What are you doing?
Remi’s late, he says, shrugging as he positions the chainsaw against another tree. Might as well get some more woodcutting in.
Of course. My husband doesn’t understand the concept of standing still. If he isn’t working, he’s twitchy. I love that about him, but it also means I miss him, even when he’s right here.
She’ll be here soon.
Remi’s been gone for weeks, bouncing between Juneau and Ketchikan while the Netflix adaptation of her book was being filmed.
She just got back yesterday, and Ruger decided the proper welcome home was a shooting competition.
According to him, fame can’t be allowed to inflate her ego, and nothing grounds his twin like losing to him.
Which leaves me smack in the middle of another Seale sibling rivalry.
I wouldn’t trade it.
Mathilda flops onto my boots with a dramatic sigh as the growl of a motor reaches us. I perk up instantly, bouncing like a kid spotting the Disneyland gates when Remi pulls into view on her ATV.
She barely has time to cut the engine before I fling myself at her. You’re here!
She staggers under my hug, laughing. Missed you too.
Mathilda shoves her droopy face into the reunion, tail wagging like a windshield wiper on high.
Remi coos, Oh, there’s my real favourite Seale, scratching behind her ears. Then she smirks at Ruger. Well, at least for now.
Ruger and I exchange a look. For now?
Remi goes to the back of her ATV. There’s a reason I’m late. I forgot your present.
She pulls out a camo baby onesie that reads: My aunt is definitely cooler than my dad.
I burst out laughing. Why would you buy this? I take the onesie from her.
You don’t like it? Her lip juts out.
It’s cute. Just confusing.
Ruger plucks it from my hands. Yeah. Weird gift.
Remi points at me triumphantly. She told me she was late on our last call!
I blink, shaking my head. Two days late, Rem. Two. Days.
Which equals baby when you’re—ugh— She makes gagging noises. —having sex.
Great sex, Ruger agrees, and Remi shudders.
I pat her shoulder. Super thoughtful, but my period started this morning.
It’s true, I had a moment of thinking we were pregnant. At first, I was terrified. Then I found myself strangely content with the possibility. When my period started, though, I was relieved.
At thirty-seven, I know motherhood is a touch-and-go kind of situation, and I should probably know what I want.
Ruger and I have talked about it, but neither of us feels the need to force an answer.
If it happens, we’ll welcome it. If it doesn’t, we’ll still have a beautiful life together and be perfectly happy.
For now, our little basset hound puppy keeps us plenty busy.
Ruger waves the onesie in the air. Also, this is a lie. No way my kid wears propaganda that claims you’re cooler than me.
Remi huffs. Tragic. I’m never going to be an aunt.
You have Mathilda, I say with a shrug.
She looks affectionately at the hound, who looks like a puddle on the forest floor.
She is pretty cute, Remi agrees before shouldering her shotgun. Anyway! Let’s go. I need to wipe the smug off your husband’s face.
The competition lasts an hour, full of banter, bickering, and disputed bets over who hit which clay animal. By the time we finally say our goodbyes, with promises of girls’ night at Alpine Brewing, I’m grinning so hard my cheeks ache.
Back home, Mathilda collapses on the porch like she’s just run a marathon.
She’s useless, Ruger mutters, but he’s smiling.
She’s perfect, I say, kissing his cheek before heading to the mailbox.
I flip through the bills and flyers, organizing them into piles between my fingers for which ones will go right into the recycling bin and which ones will come inside.
Then I freeze.
Nestled between an electricity bill and a grocery flyer is a cream envelope with a logo I’d recognize anywhere.
No way, I whisper.
My heart starts hammering.
Ruger! I call out. Oh my God!
Ruger’s head jerks up. What?
I hold up the official-looking envelope, hands trembling.
He jogs over to me. Open it!
I rip it open, and there it is: the letter welcoming me to the United States. My eyes blur as I laugh into my hands.
Ruger takes the papers, scanning them. It’s official, he says. You’re a citizen.
I lean into his chest, still clutching the letter.
We did it. We did the crazy thing we set out to do. And while it went about as off the rails as it probably could have gone, we still got exactly what we wanted.
You still want to stay married? he teases.
I grin through my tears. I showed up, didn’t I?
His forehead presses to mine. Best damn miracle of my life.
Then his mouth is on mine, warm and certain.
The card is nice, but it changes nothing. Love had already changed everything.