Epilogue
Every time he and Maria visited Alex and Lauren, Peter had to marvel anew.
Holy fuck, they lived in a fucking castle . With a moat. And stables. And turrets .
And somehow, the whole ridiculous structure managed not to especially stand out among its Beachwood Canyon neighbors, since
all those homes—estates—boasted different architectural styles. As his SUV wound up the twisting mountain roads, he’d paid
particular attention today. He’d spotted a sprawling Spanish colonial home, a few midcentury modern houses, starkly modern
properties with endless walls of windows, as well as a tree house that had evidently consumed vast quantities of steroids.
No gates. Some tourists. Plenty of personality.
Several for-sale signs.
During a cast chat last week, there’d been a lot of discussion about how settled all of them were—or weren’t—in their current
homes. And before long, it had become clear that most of his costars, or maybe all of them, intended to move closer to Beachwood
Canyon. Even Marcus, who lived with April in San Francisco, had expressed interest in either renting a guesthouse near Alex
or investing in a second property.
Over the years, the cast had become more than professional colleagues. They’d become dear friends. In a very real way, they’d become a family. Other than Ian, because fuck that guy.
During the entire texted conversation about homes and guesthouses and possibly moving en masse to Beachwood Canyon and its
surrounding neighborhoods, Maria hadn’t written a single word.
Neither had he.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking.
Yesterday, when he’d quietly emailed Ramón and Nava about their living arrangements and inquired as to whether Beachwood Canyon
might suit them better, he’d thought more.
And now, as he sat sprawled on one of Alex’s oversized sofas with Maria tucked close and so many people they loved milling
around them, he was thinking yet again.
“Shut up, assholes, I want to make some toasts before the episode starts!” Carah shouted from across the large den. “Get your
drinks and take your fucking seats!”
As they’d agreed to do months before, the cast—minus Ian, naturally—had gathered to experience the series finale of Gods of the Gates together, in privacy, where they could rail and lament and cackle gleefully to their hearts’ content. And now, after a group
takeout dinner, they were all claiming comfortable spots in front of Alex’s huge television, ready to watch the forthcoming
literal and character-arc carnage.
After a few toasts, evidently.
“To my darling Summer, whose Lavinia spinoff is going to be the biggest goddamn hit StreamUs has ever had,” Carah called out,
lifting her glass of champagne in Summer’s direction. “Guaranteed blockbuster, babe.”
Startled, Peter studied Carah more closely. He wasn’t certain he’d ever heard her say my darling in such a caressing way. And come to think of it, hadn’t Carah and Summer shared a room at that Napa outing?
Maria glanced up at Peter and raised her brows.
“Thanks, hon,” Summer said, smiling sweetly.
Carah moved to stand beside Summer’s armchair. “No offense, Marcus, but I never understood why Dido went for Aeneas when she
could have had Lavinia instead.”
Then Carah ducked down, cupped Summer’s jaw, and gave her former on-screen rival a long, enthusiastic kiss as a chorus of
whistles rose to a deafening din.
“I take full credit for this,” Alex announced to the room at large from where he lay on the couch, his head in Lauren’s lap.
“I knew sending them that consentacles fic where Lavinia lovingly rails Dido with her tentacle before they swim off to Greece
or wherever would do the trick.”
After one last stroke of her—new? Or just newly revealed?—girlfriend’s cheek, Carah straightened as Summer beamed up at her.
“To Alex, my Unleashed cohost and beloved asshole.” Carah raised her glass again. “Stay chaotic, my friend. And pray Lauren continues putting up
with your annoying ass, because that patient bitch deserves either some fucking hazard pay or sainthood.”
Lauren’s voice was as dry as the Santa Ana winds. “As my first miracle, I managed to convince him not to send a bouquet of
fish-shaped helium balloons to Ian’s house tonight, along with an oversized banner congratulating him on seven years of successfully
endangering the world’s tuna population.”
When Alex smirked up at her provokingly, she lightly tugged on a lock of his hair.
“To Asha, our very own Jane motherfucking Bond!” Cheers broke out as Carah hoisted her glass high. “I can’t wait to watch you fuck your way through most of Europe’s male population in between speedboat chases and murdering people in creative yet bloodthirsty ways, you talented bitch!”
“Correction, my dear Carah.” Asha’s smile was wicked. “Not just the male population.”
The two women high-fived.
“I’m singing the theme song.” Asha’s boyfriend tugged her onto his lap. “Although they’re objecting to my lyrics for Octodicky . Apparently there were focus group complaints.”
After pausing a moment to stare at him, Carah shook her head and spun to face Mackenzie.
“To Mackenzie and Whiskers, the New York Times –bestselling coauthors of the first-ever memoir written through cat-human telepathy: Here and Meow: A Cat’s Life .” Another raise of her glass, this time directed to where Mackenzie cuddled Whiskers on her lap. “May your telepathic connection
remain clear, your sales brisk as fuck, and your self-grooming habits unshared, unless Mac unexpectedly needs to raise money
from fetish videos.”
“Thank you, Carah. We’re so grateful to—” Stopping suddenly, Mackenzie lifted her cat so they stared at each other face-to-face.
“What’s that, Whiskers? You want to hear the lyrics ? Because you’re wondering how Teddy wrote a catchy song about a villain with eight penises?”
To be fair, Peter imagined they were all wondering that. Why not the cat too?
Asha’s boyfriend shrugged. “Sure. I’ll sing it for you later, Mac— er, Whiskers. I think you’ll be surprised by the poignancy
of the chorus.”
Alex sneezed violently enough that they all jumped. After blotting his nose and eyes with a tissue, he cast Whiskers a narrow-eyed glare. Discreetly, Lauren passed him an allergy pill and a glass of water, which he guzzled before tugging her down and whispering in her ear.
Whatever he said, it turned her cheeks pink and her smile uncharacteristically giddy.
Knowing Alex, it probably involved pegging somehow.
“To Marcus.” Carah’s smile turned soft. “My closest colleague for so many years, and my dear friend. May you find roles and
projects that make you proud as hell, and may your adaptation of the Aeneid blow away every single fucker who sees it. Also, may you avoid media questions about whether it’s a fix-it fic in film form,
because it totally is, dude.”
“Since you and Summer are starring in it, it’ll be amazing.” Marcus poked April in the ribs, but it didn’t stop her from laughing
at him. “And it’s not a fix-it fic in film form, per se. More... uh, an exploration of Aeneas’s character that hews a little
more closely to Virgil’s work than Gates . For instance, Dido will not call herself a crazy undead bitch coming for Aeneas’s ass before setting fire to his fleet of ships.”
Truly, capturing Virgil’s tale more accurately shouldn’t prove too challenging.
Carah might be disappointed by that accuracy, however. When she’d filmed the fleet-burning scene, she’d enjoyed herself immensely.
ALL DEATH AND NO AENEAS MAKES DIDO A PISSED GIRL , she’d texted in the cast chat, if Peter recalled correctly. HEEEEEEEEEEERE’S PYRO DIDO!
“Also, April, my good bitch...” Carah saluted the redheaded geologist. “Thank you for helping Marcus be his best fucking
self. One might even say: You rock.”
A chorus of groans rang out.
“We literally just came from this amazing rock and mineral warehouse in Vacaville,” April cheerfully admitted. “There’s no shame in my geology game.”
“Really?” Alex sat up a little, brows raised high. “That’s all it took? For both of you?”
A few seconds passed before everyone got it. Then Lauren smacked his arm, and April, normally an unflappable scientist, blushed
a little as she glanced at Alex and giggled. Giggled .
Marcus scowled at his BFF and tugged April tighter to his side.
Carah rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re hot, Woodroe.”
“Wren agrees.” With a wink, he lowered his head back to his girlfriend’s lap.
Determinedly, Carah turned away from him. “To Maria and Peter, the last of our main cast. Or, rather, the last of our main
cast who isn’t a tuna-obsessed asshole with what appear to be tiny biceps on top of his biceps.”
Peter could almost feel sorry for Ian. Perhaps he would have felt sorry for him—if Ian weren’t, in fact, a tuna-obsessed asshole who’d alienated the rest of the cast and lorded
his ostensible status over the crew. But he was, so Peter wouldn’t shed any tears for the guy.
“Maria, everything I’ve seen about your next movie makes me want to get in line right fucking now. Woman-on-the-run flicks
are my motherfucking jam .” When Carah leaned forward, she and Maria fist-bumped. “And I can’t tell you how goddamn happy I am that you’re here in
LA for good, my most vicious of bitches.”
“Me too.” Maria directed her effervescent smile toward all their friends before meeting Peter’s gaze for a long, speaking
moment. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
A message to everyone, but also to him in particular.
As she knew, he still worried about her distance from her fam ily.
Because that distance was a sacrifice, and one she’d made for him and him alone, no matter how much she genuinely adored their castmates.
And she’d never made him feel guilty about it, but he wanted her to have absolutely everything she wanted, and it hurt that he couldn’t provide that for her.
But he could do better. He would do better, and it started tonight.