Epilogue - Tess
Wade's kitchen smells like brown sugar and hickory.
Well, our kitchen now, technically.
My toothbrush showed up in September and the last box from my apartment arrived in October just in time for Halloween.
He's at the counter bursting out of a flannel with the sleeves rolled up to show off his sexy forearms. He’s rubbing a pork shoulder for tomorrow's Christmas dinner.
Outside the window, snow is falling thick enough to turn the backyard into a postcard. The smoker is hidden under its decorative tarp, the multicolored string lights Riley and I hung last weekend are blinking in time with the Christmas music we’ve got going on the sound system.
The side yard is now empty of the Peterbilt.
Wade sold the semi in November, two weeks after the official sponsorship contract came through.
It’s a hardwood company, full season—covering entry fees, travel, equipment, and enough to hire Ben and Marco, two guys from the circuit who'd been looking for this kind of gig.
Wade said signing the papers felt like his dream finally coming to fruition. He even teared up a bit.
Now he's home…a lot. He's at Riley's soccer games, every one, standing on the sidelines yelling things about spacing that make the other parents stare.
He listens to the books I assign my juniors on audio so we can discuss them (or sometimes argue) about the themes and the metaphors.
He makes breakfast on school mornings and has found he enjoys cooking in all forms, not just the kind that involves fire and smoke.
"Are you staring at my ass?" he says without turning around.
"Indeed. It’s such a nice view from here."
He glances over his shoulder. There’s flour in his beard, and that crooked, self-conscious grin that used to come with a deflection attached.
I cross the kitchen and slide my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek to his back, my hands on the warm curve of his stomach. He covers them with his and I feel him exhale.
The front door bangs open and Riley blows in on a gust of cold air, stomping snow off her boots, a grocery bag in each arm.
"The eggnog was sold out everywhere so I got the fancy oat milk kind and if anyone complains I'll fight them.
" She drops the bags on the counter and pulls her ponytail tighter.
"Uncle Ike and Sloane are coming. Sloane's carrying a pie and Uncle Ike's trying to parallel park in the snow and it's hilarious. "
On cue, the door opens again. Sloane comes in holding a lattice-topped pie, cheeks pink, snow in her hair. Ike follows a minute later, stamping his boots and grumbling about the curb.
"Merry Christmas Eve," Sloane says, setting the pie down and pulling me into a hug. She smells like cinnamon and cold air, and she holds on an extra second. "The pie's cherry. Don't let Wade near it until tomorrow."
"So rude," Wade calls.
Ike claps Wade on the shoulder and they give each other one of those half-hugs big men give each other that say everything without requiring a conversation about feelings. They stand there a beat too long, and I catch Sloane watching them with the same expression I probably have.
They don't stay long. Ike has to be at the station early for the holiday shift and Sloane has a morning run planned that makes Riley and me exchange a look of shared horror. We walk them to the door and watch their taillights disappear into the snow, and the house settles.
Riley flops on the couch and starts texting with both thumbs. I'm drying a mixing bowl when she appears in the kitchen doorway.
"Ms. Fields."
I set the bowl down. She only calls me Ms. Fields now when she's about to say something serious she's been thinking about.
She comes over and leans against the kitchen island, dark ponytail over one shoulder. She has an expression I recognize from her father—the one he gets when he's decided something and is trying to figure out how to say it.
"I just want you to know," she says, "that I'm really happy you're here. In a this-is-the-best-thing-that's-happened-to-this-house way." She chews the inside of her lip. "Dad is…he's happier than I’ve ever seen him."
My throat tightens. "I'm happy I'm here, too."
"Good." She straightens up. "So…has he talked to you about when he's going to propose? Because I want to help him with the ring since he’s horrid with jewelry."
I laugh and it comes out a little watery. "I don’t know anything about that. It’s entirely up to him."
"But he’s so sloooow. I love him, but my god. I'm going to have to manage this." She says it with total confidence, then grins and disappears back to the couch.
I stand in the kitchen with a dish towel in my hand, smiling so hard my face aches.
Wade comes downstairs after changing. He's in a worn T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and slippers. It’s my favorite look of his…besides his smoker competition stuff. He catches me looking and rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing. Come sit with me."
We're on the couch, his arm around me, my feet tucked under his thigh, the tree lights making everything gold and green, when my phone rings.
I don't recognize the number.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Fields? This is Margaret York from Reaching Families. I apologize for calling on Christmas Eve, but I have some news I didn't want to wait on."
I sit up straight. Wade's arm tightens around me.
"Your dossier has been formally accepted by our partner organization in Phnom Penh. You and Mr. Dawson are officially in the program—we'll begin the referral process after the new year. I'll have a full timeline and next steps in your inbox by Monday, but I wanted you to hear it from me tonight."
My hand is shaking. Wade is watching my face and I can see the moment he understands, because his eyes go wide.
"Thank you, this is wonderful news," I say. My voice cracks. "Thank you so much for calling."
She gives me details I'll remember later when my hands stop trembling. I hang up and stare at Wade.
"We’re officially in the program," I whisper. "For adoption."
He pulls me into him so hard the air leaves my lungs. His face is in my hair and I hold on to as much of him as I can reach.
"This is the best Christmas news ever," he says, voice wrecked.
"WHAT?" Riley is standing behind the couch. "You guys are official? We’re going to get a baby from Cambodia? Like where Auntie Cora is?"
She vaults over the back of the couch and lands on both of us, all elbows and ponytail and the kind of scream I imagine shattered glass when Ike showed up with Sloane.
We sit there, the three of us tangled together, the tree blinking, the snow coming down outside.
Later, after Riley has texted everyone she's ever met and finally been persuaded to go to bed, I find Wade in our room. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone.
On the screen is a photo I've never seen—a younger Wade, less beard, no gray, same eyes—holding a baby so small she disappears against his chest. Riley, maybe three months old. He's looking at the camera as if he can't believe anyone handed him something that fragile.
"I was so scared after my ex left," he says quietly. "Just me and this tiny little girl."
I climb onto the bed behind him and gaze over his shoulder. Baby Riley has one fist curled around his shirt collar and her eyes are shut and she is completely out.
"You're not doing it alone this time," I say.
His thumb traces the edge of the screen.
"No," he says. "I'm not."
I take the phone gently from his hands and set it on the nightstand. He turns to me and pushes me back slowly onto the bed, my eyes holding his.
He presses me into the mattress as he climbs over me. I can feel the steady drum of his heart as he kisses me slowly and deeply, finally settling on his elbows over me.
"Merry Christmas, Wade," I murmur.
"Merry Christmas, baby girl."