Epilogue
“Willow, that’s my sock.”
Astoria looked up from her coffee to find Miller standing in the bedroom doorway, one bare foot raised, pointing accusingly at the Australian Shepherd sprawled on the living room rug. Willow’s tail thumped once, the stolen sock dangling from her mouth like a trophy.
“She knows what she did,” Miller said.
“She has no remorse.”
“None whatsoever.” Miller crossed to Willow and crouched down. “Give.”
Willow’s tail thumped faster. The sock stayed exactly where it was.
Astoria hid her smile behind her mug. Sunday morning in late August, and they were negotiating with a dog who was convinced sock theft was her calling.
Five years ago, Astoria couldn’t have imagined this life: the warmth, the ease, the ridiculous normalcy of it.
“Fine,” Miller told Willow. “Keep it. But when you need me to open the treat jar later, remember this moment.”
Willow celebrated her victory by racing three circles around the coffee table before flopping dramatically at Astoria’s feet.
“She’s shameless,” Astoria said.
“She learned from the best.” Miller dropped a kiss on Astoria’s head as she passed, heading for the kitchen. “More coffee?”
“Please.”
The house smelled like the ocean and the lavender soap Miller insisted on buying, even though Astoria had pointed out, repeatedly, that there were more sophisticated options. But Miller liked it, so there was lavender soap in every bathroom, and Astoria had stopped pretending that she minded.
Through the windows, the deck stretched toward the water, and Astoria could see the two chairs they had sat in last night and the wine glasses still waiting to be brought inside.
They’d stayed out there until nearly midnight, talking about nothing important, and she’d fallen asleep on Miller’s shoulder while the waves broke against the rocks below.
She woke up happy most days; it still surprised her.
They separated, and Astoria headed upstairs while Miller started gathering the wine. In the closet, Astoria pulled out the blue cashmere sweater, then paused. She looked at the cream one with the cowl neck and charcoal cable knit.
“Blue,” Miller called from downstairs, like she could read Astoria’s mind through the walls and floorboards.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You’re holding the blue one differently. I can tell from here.”
Astoria looked down. She was holding it differently, like it was delicate. “We’re telling them about the Green Future Foundation benefit on Friday,” she said, pulling the sweater over her head. “The art exhibition opening.”
Miller appeared in the doorway, car keys in hand. “And you’re worried they’ll feel out of place.”
“It’s a big event. People—”
“People who are much less interesting than my moms,” Miller finished. She crossed the room and tipped Astoria’s chin up. “They’re going to be so proud of you. That’s it. That’s all they care about.”
The words landed somewhere tender. Five years, and Astoria still needed the reminder sometimes that love wasn’t conditional, that family didn’t require you to perform.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Okay.” Miller kissed her once, quick and certain. “Now come on. We’re already going to be ten minutes late, and Harper will never let us hear the end of it.”
Downstairs, Willow was waiting by the door with her leash in her mouth, because somehow she knew it was Sunday and Sunday meant a car ride to Miller’s moms’ house to get treats.
“Yes, you’re coming,” Miller told her, clipping on the leash. “We’re all coming for family dinner.”
Astoria grabbed the wine from the counter, a pinot noir that Harper would pretend not to care about while secretly approving of it, and followed them to the car.
The house looked different in the rearview mirror. No longer was it the empty fortress she had bought five years ago. It was a home in every sense of the word.
Worth it, Astoria thought. All of it.
Miller reached across the console and laced their fingers together. “Ready?”
Astoria squeezed her hand. “Ready.”
The Heights district looked exactly the same as it always did: tree-lined streets, modest homes with well-kept yards, the kind of neighborhood where people knew their neighbors and left their porch lights on.
Miller’s childhood home sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, a three-bedroom with faded blue paint and a front porch that sagged slightly to the left.
Astoria had been terrified of this house the first time Miller had brought her here. Now, she parked in the driveway like she belonged there, because she did.
Willow knew the routine. The moment the car stopped, she pressed her nose to the window and whined, her tail a blur of anticipation.
“Yes, we’re here,” Miller told her, unclipping the leash. “Try to contain your excitement.”
Willow bolted from the car the instant the door opened, racing up the front walkway with complete disregard for leash protocol. The front door swung open before they reached it, and Nadia appeared, her silver hair pulled back in a loose twist, wearing a soft cardigan and an apron dusted with flour.
“My favorite daughter-in-law!” She opened her arms, and Willow crashed into her legs first, demanding acknowledgement.
“Hello to you, too, Willow.” Nadia scratched behind the dog's ears before stepping forward to pull Astoria into a warm hug, the kind that lasted a beat too long and felt like coming home.
“I’m your actual daughter,” Miller said from behind them, carrying the wine.
“And yet.” Nadia released Astoria and turned to Miller, her smile soft. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom.”
Harper’s voice carried from inside. “Are we eating today or are we standing on the porch having feelings?”
“We can do both!” Nadia called back.
The house smelled like roasted chicken and herbs, warm and welcoming. Astoria had grown up in apartments that smelled like old carpet and was full of her mother’s exhaustion. Her house with Valerie had smelled like expensive candles but was full of unspoken resentment.
This house felt like family.
Willow disappeared into the living room, her nails clicking on the hardwood, and Astoria heard Harper’s greeting, low and amused. “There’s the real guest of honor.”
They followed the sound to find Harper standing at the kitchen counter, her sleeves rolled up and hands busy with a cutting board.
She looked up when they entered, blue-gray eyes sharp and assessing in the way that had intimidated Astoria for months before she realized Harper saw everything because she cared, not because she was looking for flaws.
“You brought wine,” Harper said, nodding at the bottle Miller set on the counter. “Let me guess.” She paused for dramatic flair. “Pinot noir.”
“Did you want me to bring something else?”
“No.” Harper picked up the bottle, examining the label with theatrical skepticism. “This’ll do.”
Astoria bit back a smile. This was their routine: Harper pretending she didn’t care about the wine, Astoria pretending to believe her, both of them knowing exactly what they were doing.
“What do you think?” Astoria asked, moving to Harper’s side. “Should we open it now or wait until dinner?”
Harper glanced at her, and something warm flickered in her expression. “What’s the food?”
“Roasted chicken, potatoes, and green beans.”
“Now,” Astoria said immediately. “It needs to breathe.”
“Agreed.” Harper handed her the corkscrew. “You open, I’ll pour.”
It had taken Astoria a year to relax into this.
The easy banter, the casual touches, the assumption that she belonged in this kitchen.
That first Sunday dinner, she'd stood in the corner like a guest at a formal event, uncertain where to put her hands or how to contribute.
Miller had introduced her carefully, and Astoria had shaken their hands and answered questions and waited for the judgment she was certain would come.
But it never did.
Nadia had asked about her work, genuinely curious.
Harper had argued with her about whether Oregon wines were underrated or appropriately rated, which somehow became a thirty-minute debate that ended with them both laughing.
And when Astoria had tried to help clear the table, Nadia had simply said, “Good. Miller never helps,” and handed her a dish towel.
And that was that. She’d become family.
“How’s work?” Harper asked, pouring wine into two glasses while Nadia and Miller set the table in the dining room.
“It’s good,” Astoria said. “Busy. We’re finalizing plans for a development in Seattle, and the foundation is hosting an art exhibition Friday night.”
“The Green Future Foundation thing Miller mentioned?”
“Yes. We’re showcasing an emerging sustainable artist. She creates installations from reclaimed materials. It should be interesting.”
“You’re inviting the billionaire crowd?”
Astoria smiled at Harper’s tone and the way she said “billionaire crowd” like it was a species of bird. “Some of them, yes. Isabella Montgomery confirmed, and Diana Rothstein said she might come.”
“And you’re worried we’ll feel out of place.”
Astoria’s hand stilled on the wine bottle. “Miller said—”
“Miller’s right. We won’t.” Harper met her eyes, steady and certain. “We've been to plenty of your events, Astoria. We know how to behave.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Harper's expression softened slightly. “But you worry anyway. It's fine. Just remember that the people at those things might have more money than us, but that doesn't make them more interesting.”
“Most of them aren’t,” Astoria admitted.
"Exactly.” Harper picked up both wine glasses. “Now come on. Nadia's going to make us say grace if we don't sit down soon, and I'm trying to avoid that.”
The dining room table was set with mismatched plates and cloth napkins that had seen better days.
Miller was already seated, leaning back in her chair with Willow's head resting on her knee.
Nadia appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of chicken, golden and perfect, and set it in the center of the table with a satisfied sound.