Epilogue #2
Carah continued, “Peter, my beardy bro, you’ve been racking up the goddamn wins lately. That lead role in Young MacDonald is the part you were fucking born to play, dude. I mean, a surly but sexy city-guy veterinarian newly arrived in a small rural
town? With his own farm? Score .”
He would agree. Mostly. Except when it came to all the fucking cows , Jesus Christ almighty, so many fucking cows .
But he loved the character of Jack MacDonald, and the series mainly shot in LA, so he supposed he was willing to risk death
by malicious trampling. Best of all, the pilot had already been picked up, and they were guaranteed at least one full season.
If they got a second season, maybe he could convince the writers that Young MacDonald only liked chickens or sheep or anything , really, anything at all other than fucking cows .
It would also help if Maria would stop fucking mooing at him at unexpected moments, then cackling in delight when he jumped out of his skin. And whenever he suggested afterward
that her blue cupboard or her boots might be a tad shit-filled, she only laughed harder.
The Danes had been right all along: Swedes were a cruel people.
“Your other huge win, of course, is that fine piece of Nordic ass at your side.” Carah’s appreciative wolf whistle was low and long, echoed by others in the room, and followed by cheers and applause.
“How you were lucky or clever enough to drag that gorgeous Valkyrie to the altar, I’ll never know, but congratulations, Peter. Well done, you sneaky fucking beardo.”
He hadn’t actually dragged Maria to an altar, although he would have, as needed. Instead, immediately after his proposal,
they’d scheduled a civil ceremony and gotten married as quickly as the law allowed. Which Carah and everyone else in the room
well knew, since they’d all attended. As had Ramón, Nava, and Maria’s entire family. Not his father, though, who’d been unable
to make the trip on such short notice, and Peter had been more than okay with that.
He didn’t consider himself especially clever either. Carah’s gorgeous Valkyrie bit, though? And the part about him being lucky?
Entirely, breathtakingly, joyously correct.
Apart from all the mooing, obviously. That wasn’t lucky. That was annoying as hell. Which was why he planned to debut his
new T-shirt tomorrow, the one reading benny and bjorn: true geniuses . And below, in slightly smaller print: were there other members of abba? i don’t remember any .
She was going to lose her fucking mind.
Payback. She’d learn.
“And finally,” Carah began, an evil smile curling her lips, “to Ron and R.J., our—”
“Wait.” Peter stood, hoisting his bottle of sparkling lemonade high. “One last toast before you eviscerate our absent showrunners,
please. To Carah Brown, aptly known as both our caringest and swearingest cast member. The true star of Unleashed , obviously”—he ignored Alex’s outraged, overly dramatic, entirely feigned gasp—“and the most loyal colleague and friend we
could ever have. Here’s to you, you complete fucking bitch.”
Carah took a proud, grinning bow as the rest of them applauded.
“Thanks, Peter. I guess you aren’t a total asshole after all. Only most of one. Like, ninety percent or so.” Carah winked at him, then raised her champagne glass one more time as he reclaimed his spot next to Maria. “As I was saying, here’s to Ron and R.J., wherever they might be.”
“Not on social media or a con panel, I can tell you that much,” Summer murmured.
Carah snickered, then kept going. “After years of critical fawning and various amazing job opportunities, this has been a
tough few months for them. They’ve been pulled from directing Star Fighters and cut from other high-profile projects. Eviscerated online for startlingly terrible and slapdash scripts, as well as bizarre,
rushed, and/or unsatisfying plotlines and character choices.”
“If people thought the rest of the season was bad...” With a sigh, Marcus ran a hand through his gleaming, perfect hair.
“Just wait until everyone sees tonight’s finale. Holy shit.”
“Ron’s been the subject of several recent investigative pieces about misogyny on Gates ’ set, and I know someone in this room is responsible,” Carah declared.
“I just want to say, whoever you are: I fucking love you. I would offer to have your babies in gratitude for your exemplary service to humanity, but I don’t want any. My ovaries
are more like no-varies.”
Surreptitiously, Alex turned his head slightly on Lauren’s lap. Just far enough to catch Peter’s eye and exchange the most
infinitesimal of nods.
Yeah. It could be said that Alex still held a very deep, very well-founded, very rage-filled grudge when it came to Ron’s
behavior toward Lauren. Peter was pretty certain his friend would take that grudge to his goddamn grave, in the same way Peter
was pretty certain gravity would continue to exist.
It could also be said that Peter had provided Alex a safe way to indulge that grudge. And that Peter had drawn on his own hidden complement of rage to exact justifiable vengeance.
If the showrunners hadn’t shaken Maria’s confidence, hadn’t broken her spirit or harmed her body or made her question her
own worth and beauty, it wasn’t due to lack of effort on their parts.
They’d tried to take advantage of her. Tried to break her.
Tried and failed.
Maria had her vulnerabilities, as he well knew, but Ron and R.J. had never managed to locate them, thank fuck. She also knew
how to protect herself and her interests, and she’d done so capably, with very little help from Peter.
But he wasn’t the same man anymore, and he’d happily assume some risk to avenge the woman he adored. So, yeah, he’d used his
contacts to give anonymous interviews a few weeks back. Shared damning memos and emails. Discreetly recruited Alex’s assistance,
because Alex still wanted payback and always would. He’d burn down the world for Lauren, even if Lauren didn’t want him to.
Peter got that now, in a way he hadn’t even a few months before.
Carah was still speaking, because the list of misfortunes visited upon the showrunners in recent months was long and varied
and uniformly delightful.
“—my absolute favorite part,” she was saying, her entire face alight with glee. “Let us not forget—let us never forget—how Ron and R.J. traveled to Maria and Peter’s island to shoot footage for a bonus feature, and then decided to pay
a visit to Dolphy McBlowholeface, despite all the locals’ warnings. And how they tried to ride her, because they’re assholes,
and she immediately smacked the shit out of both of them and broke Ron’s nose and gave R.J. a black eye. And how it was all
caught on film by said locals, who promptly posted the video online, where it will live forever and ever, a-fucking-men.”
For a minute, they all silently reminisced about that golden moment in their lives, exchanging nostalgic, satisfied smiles as they mentally revisited all the hilarious Twitter memes.
He and Maria had spent countless hours huddled on the couch that day, scrolling and chortling. “I always knew Dolphy was my
life coach for a reason,” she’d told him.
“According to Whiskers, that was the best day of his entire life,” Mackenzie said now, a serene smile on her lovely face.
“Even better than when he got that kitty massage and pedicure.”
“Next year, we should celebrate Dolphin-Smacking Day together,” Alex said lazily. “Or if we’re all too busy exchanging presents
and cooking a feast, we can always schedule something for Dolphin-Smacking Eve instead.”
Asha made a note in her phone’s calendar.
“Here’s to Ron and R.J.” Carah raised her glass one final time. “You’ve been fucking around for a long time now, assholes.
Welcome to the find out portion of your career.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Summer said, rising from her chair and linking her free arm through Carah’s. “Gladly.”
Obligingly, Peter rose too, and they all clinked bottles and glasses while enjoying the delicious schadenfreude.
Then the big moment finally arrived.
“It’s about to start!” Carah cried, and rushed for Alex’s remote.
Peter settled back, ready for the carnage to begin.
Not ready enough, as it turned out.
“Was this filmed during a supernova? What the actual fuck?” Marcus muttered, shielding his eyes with his flattened hand. “You
can’t even see me ascend to immortality. It’s too damn bright .”
“Maybe they wanted you to look more godlike.” April squinted a bit. “But it’s kind of hard to tell whether you’re consuming ambrosia or a white-hot chunk of the sun.”
Sprawled once again on Lauren’s lap, Alex lifted his head and studied the scene thoughtfully. “Sorry you had to achieve immortality
during a nuclear explosion, dude. Better luck next time.”
Summer patted Marcus’s arm consolingly, while Carah pointed at the screen and cackled. Asha and her boyfriend were making
out, and Mackenzie had covered Whiskers’s eyes and angled the cat away from the too-bright footage.
Peter’s scenes with Maria had already come and gone, he could barely determine what was happening on-screen, and there would
be plenty of time ahead to survey the wreckage of their godforsaken series finale, so he turned away from the television and
ducked his head to speak directly into Maria’s ear.
“How would you feel about finding a house near here? In Beachwood Canyon?” he whispered. “Would you like that?”
She didn’t have to say a word. Her face lit to such an extent, the glare should have outshone whatever atrocities were occurring
on the enormous television screen.
Her eyes searched his. “No gates, sotnos ?”
“No gates.”
“No guards?”
“No guards.”
“No yoke?”
“No yoke.”
Just the people they loved nearby and within easy reach, equally supportive through success and failure, joy and sorrow. Equally
appreciative of Maria’s and Peter’s own support through the unpredictable tumult of a Hollywood career.
Living so close to her dearest friends, Maria would bloom.
So would he, as he now understood.
“You’re sure?” Reaching up, she cupped his cheek. “You won’t miss your house?”
No, he wouldn’t. Because it was still his house to her, after all these months, rather than theirs . Her phrasing wasn’t intentional, but it was a telltale sign of a larger problem, and he’d intended to find a solution to
that problem for a while.
Now he had.
He’d missed a lot of things in his pre-Maria life. Love. Family. Friendship.
Compared to that? A house was absolutely fucking nothing.
He tilted his head, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll have you, won’t I?”
“Always,” she said. “Forever.”
“Then I won’t miss anything,” he said, and smiled at her.
“Next year, I think we should try to one-up last summer’s Con of the Gates. More surprises. More drama. More internationally
televised references to pegging.”
Someone had paused the show, and Alex was speaking to Marcus, who surveyed his best friend with a complicated expression on
his mobile face, a familiar mélange of horror, resignation, affection, and amusement.
All of them had seen Marcus aiming that particular expression at Alex before. Many, many times.
He spoke very slowly. “I... don’t think that’s possible, Alex.”
“Pessimist.” Alex waved that aside. “What’s the quote? ‘Life finds a way’?”
“That’s not life,” Carah said, then tossed back a handful of mini pretzels and kept speaking with her mouth full. “That’s
you, our resident fucking chaos demon. You find a way.”
Alex shrugged, unoffended. “Same diff.”
“Also, please note that when life found a way in that particular movie, people got fucking eaten .” Her voice emerged garbled by half-chewed pretzels. “And not in the good way.”
Lauren claimed the remote.
“I’m going to restart the show now, before Alex experiences any more strokes of terrifying genius.” Without even looking at
him, she held up a hand as his mouth opened. “And no one wants to hear what a genius you are at stroking, Woodroe. Put a sock
in it.”
“Spoilsport,” he muttered, even as he gazed at her profile with undiluted adoration.
When she unpaused the episode, there were several involuntary yelps at the excessive brightness . Luckily, though, that scene ended moments later, and the battle for Tartarus and all of humanity recommenced.
His most pressing problem now solved, Peter settled back on the couch and prepared to watch more miserable people dying horrible,
pointless, badly scripted deaths.
But he wasn’t thinking about death. Not really.
Right now, he was more concerned with life.
He might miss his mother every remaining day he drew breath in this world. He might never find a way to connect with and forgive
his father. His career might founder as he grew older, or if he fell out of favor in Hollywood. His bank accounts might slowly
empty.
But with Maria cuddled against his side and their friends sprawled all around, bickering and embracing and snickering in petty
glee—
“Stop hogging the footstool, skitstovel ,” whispered the woman who owned his entire heart. “Or I’ll trick you into eating salty licorice again and laugh at you as
you gag.”
She would too. Maria didn’t make idle threats.
“Swedish shrew.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Why do I love you so much?”
“Because I’m amazing. Obviously.” Twisting her neck, she looked up at him consideringly. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that I
love you too. Even though I’m forced to carry around an extremely heavy jar of herring at all times to keep you in line.”
His scowl was so fake, even a child could have spotted the lie.
She patted his bearded jaw. “You’re welcome.”
Then she turned back to the television and claimed more of the footstool.
Turned so she couldn’t see it—because only a fool would encourage her—he let a grin spread across his face until his cheeks
ached.
Yeah. With Maria snuggled under his arm and so many people he loved less than a dozen steps away, even a stubborn, surly pessimist
like him was forced to admit the obvious.
It was unexpected but true.
For the first time in his life, he— Peter Reedton , of all people—believed in happy endings.
He had to. He had no choice.
After all, he was living one, wasn’t he?