Epilogue
Rosalie
“Rosie! What's taking you so long?”
“Just a second!” I called back, swiping one last coat of mascara across my lashes.
The mirror reflected someone I barely recognized from six months ago—cheeks flushed pink from the crisp October air, freckles more pronounced after a summer of farm work, eyes bright with the kind of happiness I'd forgotten was possible.
I bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time like I used to as a kid.
“There she is.” Walt beamed from the kitchen doorway, his arm wrapped around Barbara's shoulders. “Thought you'd fallen asleep up there.”
“Just making myself presentable for the Falcons' big game.” I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door. “Can't have people thinking I don't know how to dress for Friday night lights.”
Barbara laughed, patting her silver hair. “Honey, I've been to plenty of high school football games, and trust me—nobody's looking at anything but the field.”
“Speak for yourself,” Walt said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I'll be looking at the prettiest lady in the stands.”
I made gagging noises. “You two are disgusting.”
“We earned that,” Walt said, squeezing Barbara's shoulder. “Took us sixty-eight years to find each other. We're making up for lost time.”
“Don't make me sound ancient, Walter Sullivan,” Barbara said, swatting his chest playfully.
I grabbed my purse, checking for my phone and wallet. Through the front window, I could see Cal leaning against his truck, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Pudding sat beside him, all legs and floppy ears now—a far cry from the terrified puppy who'd trembled in Cal's truck six months ago.
“You ready?” Walt asked.
“Almost.” I pulled on my jacket, then paused. “Wait, are you two sitting with us, or are you doing that thing where you disappear to the concession stand for an hour?”
“We'll sit with you,” Barbara said. “I want to see what all the fuss is about. Walt's been going on about this team for weeks.”
“Connor and Evan built that team from scratch,” Walt said, already heading for the door. “They've been coaching these kids for years.”
I followed them outside, where Cal straightened at our approach. Pudding's tail became a blur, his whole body wiggling.
“Hey, boy.” I crouched down, letting him lick my face. “Did you miss me? I was gone for fifteen whole minutes.”
“He's been whining at the door since you went inside.” Cal's voice was warm, fond. His eyes met mine over Pudding's head. “Someone's got separation anxiety.”
“The dog or you?”
“Both.”
Walt cleared his throat loudly. “We taking two vehicles or squeezing into one?”
“Two makes more sense,” Barbara said before I could answer. “That way Walt and I can sneak out early if the game runs late.”
“Sneak out early?” Walt's eyebrows shot up. “Woman, we're staying till the final whistle.”
“We'll see about that.” Barbara patted his arm. “My hip starts acting up after too long on those bleachers.”
“I'll bring you a cushion,” Walt promised, already steering her toward his old truck. “Cal, you take Rosie. We'll meet you there.”
Cal opened the passenger door for me, one hand on the small of my back as I climbed in. The truck still smelled like dog and hay, but now there was a faint hint of my rosemary soap—a bar I'd left on his bathroom counter two weeks ago that he seemed to be enjoying.
“Your uncle's not subtle,” Cal said, pulling out behind Walt's truck.
“He's trying to give us alone time.” I buckled my seatbelt, watching Walt's taillights ahead. “Like we don't spend every other night together.”
“Maybe he thinks we need to talk.”
“About what? How much his girlfriend has him wrapped around her finger?”
Cal's mouth twitched. “You noticed that, too?”
“Noticed? The man who used to eat breakfast at five-thirty sharp now doesn't even get out of bed until Barbara's ready.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Last week, I caught him humming while doing dishes.”
“The humming's new?”
“Walt doesn't hum. He grunts, he mutters, he occasionally whistles off-key. But humming? That's all Barbara.”
Cal's smile widened. “She's good for him.”
“She really is.” I leaned back against the seat, warmth blooming in my chest. “I've never seen him this happy. Not even during my best summers here as a kid.”
“You jealous?”
“Of seventy-year-old romance? Absolutely.” I reached across the console, threading my fingers through his. “Think we'll be that disgustingly cute when we're their age?”
Cal's thumb brushed across my knuckles. “We're already disgustingly cute.”
“We're appropriately cute.” I squeezed his hand. “Sharon showed me the pictures she took of us at the last farmers’ market. Apparently, we're now the official mascots of local romance.”
“We're not mascots.”
“We kind of are. Mrs. Clarke stopped me at the hardware store yesterday to ask when we're getting married.”
Cal's hand tightened on the steering wheel. “What'd you tell her?”
“That we're taking things slow.” I watched his profile, the way his jaw worked. “Why? You have a different answer?”
“Maybe.”
My heart did a stupid little flip. “Maybe?”
“Ask me again in six months.”
“Cal Sterling, are you planning something?”
“I'm planning on not having this conversation in a truck.” He pulled into the high school parking lot, which was already packed with cars and trucks.
Friday night lights in full effect—the field blazing bright, the marching band warming up, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs drifting from the concession stands.
Walt's truck was three spots over. Barbara waved from the passenger window, already wrapped in a blanket.
Cal parked and turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. “But for the record? When I do ask, it won't be because Mrs. Clarke thinks we should. It'll be because I can't imagine doing life without you.”
My throat went tight. “Cal—”
“And I'll probably mess it up somehow. Pudding will eat the ring, or one of your goats will headbutt me mid-proposal.”
“That's weirdly specific.”
“I've thought about it.” His ears went red. “A lot.”
“You've thought about proposing to me?”
“Daily.” He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at me. “So. Nachos?”
I laughed, the sound shaky. “You can't just drop that bomb and pivot to food.”
“Watch me.” He opened his door, then paused. “Extra jalapenos, right?”
“You're impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.” I leaned across the console, kissing him softly.
“Good.” He kissed me back. “Because you're stuck with me now.”
We climbed out, meeting Walt and Barbara at the front of Cal's truck. Walt was already adjusting the blanket around Barbara's shoulders, fussing over her like she might catch cold from the October breeze.
“You two coming?” Walt called.
“Need to hit concessions first,” Cal said. “Rosie needs her jalapeno fix.”
“We'll save you seats,” Barbara said, linking her arm through Walt's.
I watched them head toward the bleachers, Walt matching his pace to Barbara's slower gait. “I need to find Emily and Abby. They texted earlier that they'd be here.”
“I'll meet you there.” Cal pressed a quick kiss to my temple. “See you in a bit.”
I weaved through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation—who was starting at quarterback, whether the weather would hold, predictions about the final score.
Mrs. Clarke waved from the ticket booth, her dog Pixie tucked under one arm.
Frank stood near the entrance with a group of semi-retired folks, all wearing Falcons’ gear.
“Rosie!” Emily's voice cut through the noise. She stood halfway up the bleachers, waving both arms. “Up here!”
I climbed the bleachers, squeezing past families and groups of teenagers. Emily had claimed prime real estate—center section, five rows up, perfect view of the field.
“Finally.” Emily scooted over, making room. “Thought you got lost.”
“Cal's getting nachos.” I settled onto the cold metal bench, pulling my jacket tighter. “Where's everyone else?”
“Melissa's home with the baby,” Abby said, wrapped in a thick blanket beside Nate. “Jason brought Liam—he's running around somewhere with the other three-year-olds, probably hyped up on cotton candy.”
“Connor's been stress-eating protein bars all day,” Emily added. “Evan keeps texting me play updates like I have an opinion on his football strategy.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, I absolutely do.” She grinned wickedly. “But if I tell Evan, he'll steal my best ideas and act like he thought of it himself.”
Nate leaned forward. “Fair warning—if we win tonight, we're playoff bound. Which means Connor will talk about nothing else for weeks.”
“As opposed to now, when he talks about something else?” Abby tucked the blanket around her legs. “He spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining why the defensive line needed better footwork.”
“That's actually important—”
“Nate.” Abby patted his knee. “You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend football is fascinating so you can fit in.” Abby's eyes sparkled with amusement.
“That's not—I played football.” Nate straightened, indignant. “Briefly.”
“You ran into a goal post and gave yourself a concussion.”
“That doesn't mean I don't enjoy watching the game.”
“Come on, you don't have to pretend you care about Connor's defensive strategies,” Emily added.
“I do care.”
Emily was already moving, squeezing past Abby to plop down on Nate's other side. “Oh, this I have to hear. Tell me, Nate—what's your favorite play?”
“I don't have to prove anything to you.”
“That's what I thought.” Emily grinned. “You're all talk. Admit it—you just like sitting with Connor and Evan because it makes you feel like one of the guys.”
“I am one of the guys.”
I watched them bicker, Emily gesturing wildly while Nate tried to defend his newfound football knowledge. Abby caught my eye, shaking her head fondly.
“They could do this all night,” she said.
“Should we stop them?”
“Nah. Emily needs the warm-up before she starts yelling at the refs.” Abby shifted, making more room on the bench. “How's it been with Walt back? I heard he and Barbara are in town for a couple of weeks.”