Epilogue
Cyaire (Four Years Later)
“Cyaire!”
“Jamie!”
“This way!”
The chorus of voices blends into one as camera flashes burst from every direction, lighting the Sundance red carpet brighter than the snow-covered mountains surrounding Park City.
The frigid January air bites at exposed skin, creating small clouds of breath that dissipate almost instantly under the blazing lights.
Somewhere farther down the carpet another premiere is already underway, while producers, directors, actors, and members of the press weave effortlessly around one another in a carefully choreographed dance that somehow only exists during awards season.
The energy is electric, buzzing with the kind of anticipation that comes when hundreds of the industry’s most talented people gather in one place to celebrate storytelling.
Four years ago, I was learning how to navigate life with the man standing beside me. Tonight, we’re walking our first Sundance premiere as husbands.
My fingers tighten around Jamie’s hand as another wall of photographers calls us forward, their voices cut through the din of conversation and the continuous flow of people along the red carpet.
The midnight navy velvet of my tuxedo catches the light with every flash, shifting between deep blue and black depending on where I turn.
The fabric feels luxurious against my skin, custom-tailored to perfection by a designer whose name alone could make headlines.
Beside me, Jamie looks like he belongs here every bit as much as I do, commanding attention without even trying.
His charcoal tuxedo is cut to perfection, broad shoulders fill the jacket in a way only years of professional hockey ever could.
The fabric stretches across his chest with each breath, each subtle movement reminding me of the strength I’ve grown to know so intimately.
His cornrows are freshly braided, each row precise and elegant, framing his face.
His beard is lined with the same precision he once reserved for game day, and the platinum wedding band resting against his finger glints beneath the lights every time another camera flashes.
I catch myself staring, the way I always do.
Four years together, and he still manages to steal my attention without saying a word.
There’s something about the way he carries himself in these moments, confident but never arrogant, present but never performing.
This is him choosing to step into my world, to share this part of my life that once felt so isolating.
A photographer asks us to look over one shoulder, and Jamie’s hand shifts slightly in mine, his thumb brushes across my knuckles in a gesture so small and automatic that I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.
The touch sends warmth shooting up my arm, reassuring me in a way that no amount of media training ever could.
“Over here, gentlemen!” Another voice cuts through the crowd, and we turn in unison, smiles practiced but sincere.
“Congratulations on When the River Sleeps, Cyaire. Early reviews have been incredible.”
“Thank you.” I nod my head and turn to face the reporter, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a recorder held carefully between us.
Jasper told me to stop when I felt the need, so I’m picking press at random this evening.
Usually, it’s more structured, more controlled, but I’ve been allowed some freedom this time around.
After years of carefully managed interviews and predetermined questions, there’s something refreshing about the spontaneity, even if it makes me slightly more nervous.
“What drew you to the script?” The reporter smiles, shifting to make sure Jamie and I are both in full view of her cameraman, who’s positioned just behind her left shoulder.
“The story,” I answer, smiling as another bank of cameras begins firing in front of us, the flashes creating a strobe effect that would be disorienting if I hadn’t grown accustomed to it over the years.
“The best films always start with a good story. This one explores themes of loss, redemption, and what it means to find your way back to yourself. Those are universal experiences, but they’re told through a lens that feels both intimate and epic. ”
“Thank you.”
I wave as Jamie gives my hand a gentle squeeze before we’re ushered another few steps along the carpet.
The publicist guiding us, a young woman with a headset and clipboard, gives us an apologetic smile as she moves us along.
We don’t get far, unfortunately. My husband seems to be the hot topic tonight, and I can’t say I blame them.
“Jamie, how are you enjoying retirement?” A female reporter in a floor-length gold satin dress asks, practically throwing herself in front of us with the enthusiasm of someone who’s clearly had too much champagne at the pre-party.
Her dress shimmers under the lights, and she’s holding her microphone with the determination of someone who knows this might be her only shot at a quote.
He smiles with the same quiet confidence that carried him through seven seasons in Seattle, leaning slightly toward her microphone without breaking his stride. “I’m enjoying having a little more freedom. More time to focus on the things that matter most.”
“Does that mean you’re happy working around Cyaire’s schedule for a change?
” she asks enthusiastically, looking from me to Jamie like a hyperactive puppy who’s just discovered a new toy.
There’s something almost predatory in her excitement, the way entertainment reporters get when they sense a good sound bite.
His grin widens, and he pulls me a little closer, his arm sliding around my waist. “He spent the last three years working around mine. I think it’s only fair.
Besides,” he glances at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my heart skip, “watching him do what he loves never feels like work.”
Laughter ripples through the small crowd of reporters who’ve gathered around us, and I feel heat creep up my neck. Even after all this time, Jamie’s ability to make me feel like the only person in the room hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s gotten stronger.
Another publicist, this one older, more experienced, with the kind of authoritative presence that comes from years of managing talent, motions us farther along the carpet with a subtle gesture that somehow manages to feel both polite and non-negotiable.
I glance sideways, watching Jamie acknowledge another photographer with an easy smile, and I can’t help thinking how naturally he’s adapted to this part of our lives.
Hockey taught him how to perform in front of twenty thousand screaming fans every night, how to handle pressure and scrutiny with grace.
This isn’t all that different, really. The cameras have changed, the arena looks a little different, and the ice has been replaced by a red carpet, but the man beside me is still the same grounded person he was the night we met.
The same person who could read a room instantly, who knew when to speak and when to listen, who carried himself with a quiet dignity that made everyone around him feel more at ease.
Only now, I get to call him my husband.
Even after a year of marriage, that thought still catches me off guard every now and then. The simple, profound reality of it, that this extraordinary man chose me, chose this life, chose to intertwine his future with mine in ways both legal and cosmic.
A year ago, surrounded by the people who mattered most to us on a quiet stretch of the French Riviera, Jamie and I promised each other forever.
The ceremony took place at sunset, golden light painting everything in soft, warm tones that made the moment feel like something out of a dream.
There were no reporters, no cameras, and no headlines speculating about guest lists or exclusive photographs.
Just our families, our closest friends, the sound of the Mediterranean lapping gently against the shore behind us, and the man who’d unknowingly changed my life the night I sat down beside him in a New York hotel bar.
I remember the way his voice shook slightly when he said his vows, the way his hands trembled when he slipped the ring onto my finger.
I remember Julian playing a song he’d written just for us, Malik’s saxophone weaving through the melody like silk.
I remember feeling, for the first time in my life, completely and utterly at peace.
If you’d asked the twenty-four-year-old version of me whether this was how my story would end, I would’ve laughed.
I couldn’t have imagined a life that looked anything like this.
A husband whose hand still found mine without thinking, whose presence calms my anxiety with nothing more than a glance.
A family that has grown instead of grown apart, relationships that have healed instead of hardened.
A home that feels more like home with every year that passes, roots that have grown deep and strong in ways I never expected.
Even though my mother didn’t attend Julian and Malik’s wedding, she showed up for me.
There was a time when I wasn’t sure she’d ever truly accept the life I’d chosen, let alone sit proudly beside my father in the front row as I married the man I loved.
The years leading up to my wedding were filled with careful conversations, tentative steps toward understanding, and moments of real connection that I’d stopped believing were possible.
These past few years changed both of us in ways I never expected.
She made her presence known, quietly at first, then consistently, and somewhere along the way, our relationship stopped feeling like something that needed constant repairing and started feeling like something that was actively being built.