Epilogue Cole
Hailey and I sit on a massive rock that only looks like a horse’s tooth if you know too much about equine orthodontia. I think about how much has changed since the day we first met in the shadow of the very peak where we now sit.
“Want to head back?” I ask eventually. “I promised Chewy I’d teach him a new trick tonight.”
Hailey laughs, and the sound still warms me as much as it did the first time I heard it. “He’s never going to learn to heel. He’s too stubborn to be told what to do.”
“Have a little faith,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “I’m excellent at being persistent, and I’m dedicated to teaching him.”
The joke lands exactly how I intended—dark enough to acknowledge my past, light enough to prove I’ve grown beyond it. Hailey smiles, her fingers intertwining with mine like they belong there.
“Your persistent, dedicated personality is one of the reasons I fell for you. It makes you who you are,” she tells me as we start our hike back down the mountain trail.
Toward home.
Our home, I realize. Somewhere along the way, her apartment became that.
The place where we’re building a life together, where I’ve learned to exist in her space without cataloging every detail for later analysis.
Where we spend hours tangled up in each other, watching movies or making up for lost time between her sheets.
“Race you to the bottom,” Hailey says impulsively, dropping my hand.
“Hailey, you’re joking. That’s almost two miles—”
But she’s already running, her laughter echoing off the trees as she disappears down the trail. I watch her go for a moment, grinning like a doofus, before my legs start moving to follow.
I could catch her in thirty seconds, but instead I stay behind her on the narrow trail, matching her pace, letting her win while watching the way her ponytail swings like a pendulum at her back. Her laugh carries back to me on the wind.
When we reach the bottom, I double over dramatically, hands on my knees, pretending to be winded.
“Show-off,” I pant.
“Says the man who runs six-minute miles,” she replies, completely out of breath but grinning so wide it makes my heart stutter.
“Only when I’m chasing you.”
Hailey just rolls her eyes, still smiling, and reaches for my hand again.
That’s the thing about healing. Eventually, you can laugh about the very things that once threatened to destroy you. Maybe the person you thought you lost learns to trust you again. The darkness inside you becomes just one part of who you are—not the whole story.
…
Everything looks exactly the same as it did a year ago—fluorescent lights humming overhead, metal folding chairs arranged in a familiar circle, the persistent smell of old carpet and coffee.
But walking down these stairs tonight feels completely different than it did that first time, when I couldn’t stop cursing the assholes who’d forced me to this particular ring of hell.
Tonight, I’m early on purpose.
“Matthews!” Tyler calls out as I enter the room. He’s messily arranging papers on Tracey’s usual seat. “Perfect timing. Help me with this banner.”
I grab one end of a handmade banner that reads Congratulations Cole—One Year! in what I’m pretty sure is Jessica’s handwriting. The sight of it makes something tight and warm expand in my chest.
“You guys didn’t have to do this,” I say, though I’m grateful they did.
“Are you kidding? This is a big deal.” Tyler beams, securing his end to the wall. “Twelve months ago, you walked in here pissed off at the world and convinced you didn’t belong.”
“I wasn’t pissed off at the world,” I protest. “Just at mandatory group therapy.”
“And Tracey. And me. And pretty much anyone who suggested you might need help.” Tyler grins. “Good times. But none of that matters now that you got the girl and your job back.”
I can thank Tracey for that. After I’d spent several months of searching for a new job with very little luck, Tracey reached out to Jack Morrison and vouched for me.
She explained how much I had changed and how hard I had been working toward managing my addiction.
She even had each of the group members write letters of recommendations, which Jack still occasionally teases me about.
Grant arrives next, camera bag slung over his shoulder as usual, followed by Austen, who’s clutching a small white box. Jessica enters with Zach right behind her, both of them smiling when they see the banner.
“This is so nice,” Jessica says, setting down one of her signature charcuterie boards. “I brought a board.”
“Fuck yeah,” Zach asks, suddenly more interested. “Does it have the tiny pickles?”
“Obviously. What’s a celebration without cornichons?”
Tracey enters last, taking in the decorations with her usual composed expression. She even graces us with a small smile that almost reaches her eyes. “Well, this is lovely.”
She settles into her chair and pulls out her ever-present clipboard, but tonight it feels more like a prop.
“Cole,” she begins, “how does it feel to reach such a milestone in your recovery?”
I think back to that first session—how hostile I felt, how convinced I was that everyone here was different from me. And then I think of the day we apprehended Lars Winters as a team, which Tracey still doesn’t know about.
We’ll be taking that one to the grave, along with whatever shenanigans find us in the future.
But I’ve changed so much over the course of a year with the help of friends who’ve become family. I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m well on my way there. And I’ve got the best support group behind me every step of the way.
“It feels incredible,” I say honestly, earning smiles around the circle. “I owe it to all of you. I couldn’t have done it without the group.”
Tyler stops me before I can continue. “You did the work. We were part of your journey, but you are solely responsible for everything you’ve done. We’re proud of you, man. Really fucking proud of you.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out more emotionally charged than I intended. “I’m just so grateful to be here.”
Austen hands me the white box, which I open to find a leather-bound journal with my initials embossed on the cover. “From all of us,” he says, when I look up to thank him.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice rougher than I’d like. “All of you. This group saved my life, even when I was too stubborn to realize I needed saving.”
Tracey reaches into her bag and pulls out a small velvet pouch. “Cole, in recognition of your one-year commitment to this program and the growth you’ve demonstrated, I’d like to present you with this.”
She hands me a simple silver coin, about the size of a half-dollar, with One Year engraved on one side and Progress, Not Perfection on the other.
“It’s not a chip for being ‘clean,’” she explains, “because recovery isn’t about counting days of sobriety. It’s about your ongoing commitment to growth, self-awareness, and healthy relationships. This represents your dedication to that process.”
I turn the coin over in my palm, surprised by how much this means to me.
“I’ll treasure this,” I tell her, closing my hand around it.
…
“Before we close tonight,” Tracey says, “Cole, is there anything you’d like to say to the group?”
I look around the circle. A year ago, I thought I was being forced to attend group therapy with a bunch of losers.
Now I see these people as they really are: flawed, but doing difficult work to become better versions of themselves.
And occasionally, when it’s necessary, bringing justice to the world.
“I used to think stalking was something other people did. Creeps who couldn’t take no for an answer, guys who couldn’t form relationships without forcing them.” I shake my head at my own arrogance.
I pause, gathering my thoughts. This group is so much more than I gave them credit for.
“What I’ve learned is that intentions don’t matter if the impact is harmful.
That love without respect isn’t love at all.
And that recovery isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being honest.” I meet each of their eyes in turn.
“Thank you for teaching me the difference. Thank you for holding me accountable when I didn’t want to be held accountable.
And thank you for showing me that redemption is possible, even for people like us. ”
“Like us,” Tyler repeats with a smile.
Tracey gives us a pass this evening, telling us to eat our charcuterie board and socialize in lieu of our round-the-circle check-in.
Once we’ve demolished the food, we fold our metal chairs and clean up.
Everyone leaves gradually, no one in a rush.
They each stop to shake my hand or offer a hug, until it’s just Tyler and me parting ways in the parking lot.
“So,” he says as we reach his car, “any big plans for year two?”
“More of the same, I hope. Keep attending meetings, keep working with Tracey, keep building my life with Hailey.” I pause, making a cursory assessment of the parking lot to ensure we’re totally alone. “Keep being part of the real Stalkers Anonymous.”
Tyler pats me on the back, nodding. “You’ve got this, man. We all believe in you.”
He drives away, leaving me alone in the parking lot under the flickering streetlights. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the cool evening air and marveling at how different this place feels now.
That’s when I see her.
Hailey is leaning against my car, wearing jeans and the dark-blue sweatshirt I bought her last month, her hair catching the moonlight.
She’s scrolling through her phone, probably texting Rachel, who’s finally started warming up to me these last few months.
We’re in a good place now, and that’s important to me because she’s Hailey’s best friend.
Hailey looks up from her phone when she hears my footsteps.
“How did it go?” she asks, grinning as I approach.
“Good. Really good.” I pull her into my arms the moment I reach her, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up my boyfriend after his meeting,” she says against my chest. “I figured your one-year anniversary deserves a celebration.”
“We celebrated at the meeting. There was charcuterie and everything.”
“Did you leave room for dinner at that steakhouse you love, and maybe some very enthusiastic congratulations when we get home?” She pulls back to look at me, her gray-blue eyes bright with pride.
“I’m so proud of you. For the work you’ve done, for the person you’ve become, for choosing to keep going even after you could have stopped. ”
“I love you,” I tell her, because it’s the only response that encompasses everything I’m feeling.
“I love you, too.” She rises on her toes to kiss me, soft and sweet. “Ready to go?”
Recovery isn’t a destination—it’s a daily choice to be better than you were yesterday. And standing here with the woman I love, surrounded by the community that helped me find my way back to myself, it’s a choice I’ll keep making, day after day.
“Ready,” I tell her, taking her hand as I guide her around to the passenger side of my car.
Behind us, the community center goes dark, but the work of Stalkers Anonymous remains lit up inside me.
Next week, there will be another meeting, another chance for us to struggle and learn and support each other.
Maybe new members will join and resist the process like I did.
Maybe others will embrace it more quickly.
But all of them will have the chance to discover what I’ve learned: that it’s never too late to become the person you were meant to be. Even if—especially if—that person is completely different from who you thought you were.
The End