Epilogue
B eneath a canopy of lights strung between aged oaks and whitewashed trellises, the vineyard glowed with a kind of golden magic.
The surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains rose like quiet sentinels in the moonlight, their slopes a tapestry of periwinkle peaks darkening to inky indigo.
Rows of vines stretched behind the reception area, their harvest just finished, the air scented faintly with pressed grapes and the first crisp bite of fall.
Lanterns lined the gravel paths, flickering amber against the cool night, and a string quartet played under an arbor wrapped in rust-colored leaves and ivory roses.
Every table was dressed in soft linen and scattered with pears, fall florals, and tea lights, the kind of intentional beauty that felt almost effortless.
Jack and Jazz’s wedding reception was in full swing.
The dance floor, a polished wooden platform beneath the stars, was full of movement and laughter—dresses twirling, glasses clinking, arms lifting in rhythm.
Tall patio heaters flickered at the corners, giving off cozy warmth as guests shed jackets and heels, their cheeks pink with wine and October Virginia air.
Inside the tasting room, warm from stone fireplaces and candlelight, dessert bars overflowed with caramel-dipped apples, cinnamon tarts, and glasses of bourbon-spiked cider.
It was the kind of night that glowed from the inside out—breathtaking, charming, timeless, and brimming with life.
I was barefoot now, heels abandoned under the table, my peach silk bridesmaid dress softly whispering against the floor.
I clutched the bouquet I had accidentally caught during the bouquet toss—right after Jazz had winked at me, focusing her attention on my location before aiming right into my hands.
Fitz had just laughed when I caught it, mouthing ‘ you’re mine’ across the dance floor and blowing me a kiss.
Now Fitz stood alone at the front of the dance floor, bourbon glass in hand, tie loosened, jacket abandoned somewhere back at our table. The sunset threw a halo of gold across his hair, and I swear my heart physically ached just looking at him.
Jack slung an arm around Jazz’s shoulders as they stood off to the side, grinning like lunatics.
Fitz cleared his throat, tapping his glass with a fork. The crowd quieted immediately, all eyes turning toward him. And God, when he smiled—slow and full of something ancient and aching—I knew this was going to be an unforgettable moment.
He lifted his bourbon in salute. “To Jack Winslow,” Fitz said, his voice carrying clean and strong across the party. “My best friend since third grade, when by pure random luck of alphabetical order, Whitmore sat next to Winslow.”
The crowd laughed softly, and Jack grinned wide at the memory.
“I got the better end of that deal,” Fitz went on, grinning. “Because I didn’t just get a friend. I got a brother. I got a family.”
Jazz wiped at her eyes, already sniffling.
“And then, somehow,” Fitz said, voice thickening just slightly, “life went and handed me another gift. A sister. Jazz, I loved you from the moment you turned Jack from a lover boy with too many terrible first dates and not enough second ones into a man who only ever wanted one love story—yours.”
There were a few “aww’s” and gentle chuckling again—Jack included, who flipped Fitz off good-naturedly.
Fitz’s grin softened. “I’ve admired your love from the very beginning. Watching you two made me believe that maybe, maybe, I’d find someone who lit me up the way Jazz lights up Jack. Someone I couldn’t imagine living without.”
He cleared his throat. “So let’s all raise a glass to Jack and Jazz, an inspiration for the kind of love that makes everything—even the hard days—better just by being together.
I have no doubt that you two will keep making each other laugh, driving each other crazy, and loving each other even better every year. ”
Fitz smiled out at the crowd, as he took a sip of his drink in cheers.
But then he cleared his throat, as if to continue.
“Jack and Jazz are proof that sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you sit down next to someone and just know. You find your person early, and somehow—against all odds—you don’t screw it up. ”
Everyone laughed softly and murmured in agreement, Jack and Jazz grinning at each other like idiots.
“But not everyone’s that lucky,” Fitz continued, his voice dipping a little lower. His eyes flicked to mine, and my breath caught. His voice was steady, but I could hear the edge of something truer underneath.
“Some paths to love aren’t straight. They’re winding.
Messy. Full of wrong turns and missed chances.
You throw away the map more times than you can count.
You choose the wrong turn and have to backtrack.
And when you’re lost and you’re just about to give up, you look to the stars, and you find your way back home. ”
He shifted slightly, glass lowering, eyes flicking to me across the dance floor—holding.
“Jack,” he said, turning to him, smiling the way only Fitz could—steady, fierce, sure. “I hope you’ll be my brother not just in spirit, but in law too. And tonight, I’m hoping I can make it official,” he said, dropping to one knee right there on the dance floor.
My hands tightened on the bouquet I’d caught just moments ago. I forgot how to breathe.
Fitz smiled again, wide and boyish and so full of love it made my chest crack open. The crowd erupted into gasps and shouts—Jazz covering her mouth with both hands, Jack letting out something between a laugh and a whoop.
Fitz pulled a small velvet box from his jacket pocket. He flipped it open with one hand, revealing a sparkling antique diamond ring—his grandmother’s ring, I would find out later. A piece of his history, a piece of his heart.
And then he looked only at me.
“Charlie Winslow,” Fitz said, voice low, thick, rough like gravel he wasn’t bothering to smooth out anymore.
“You’ve been my favorite person on earth since long before I knew how to admit it.
You are the smartest, strongest, most beautiful troublemaker I’ve ever known.
You make every day lighter, every breath sweeter, every minute better. ”
He looked up at me like I was the last thing he’d ever beg for.
“I don’t have the words to explain it. I never have. Not when we were kids running down the beach, not when you were breaking my heart just by laughing across a room, not all those years I spent denying what I felt for you, pretending you weren’t already written under my skin.”
He sucked in a shaky breath, the tendons in his neck standing out tight. “I spent half my life running from it. From you. But nothing—no city, no girl, no job, no distance—ever came close to touching what I felt the second you smiled at me.”
His voice dropped even lower, just for me. He swallowed hard, jaw tight, eyes burning straight through me. “I don’t want perfect. I don’t want easy. I want us. ”
He shifted a little on his knee, holding my gaze. “I want messy kitchens and missed ferries. I want lemon sugar on your lips and your sass at full blast. I want a life that starts and ends with you. You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love you.”
The ring in his hand caught the light—old, real, full of history, just like us. “So will you be mine forever?”
He smiled, a little crooked, his eyes gleaming.
The world blurred. Someone gasped—maybe it was me, maybe it was Jazz, maybe it was everyone. I dropped the flowers, falling into his arms with a broken laugh and a thousand yeses spilling from my mouth.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I said, grabbing his face and kissing him hard enough to rock both of us back on our heels.
“I’ll marry you, Fitz. I’ll marry the hell out of you.”
The world tilted on its axis in the best possible way.
Fitz’s arms were around me, strong and sure, his mouth crashing into mine as if he could stake a permanent claim right there in front of everyone.
I heard chairs scraping back, laughter, the unmistakable pop of another champagne cork somewhere across the dance floor.
Jack was shouting something like “Get a room!” while Jazz sobbed unapologetically into his shoulder, smudging her mascara all over his suit jacket.
It was chaos—the happy, messy, ridiculous kind—and somehow Fitz and I were the still point in the center of it all, breathing each other in like oxygen.
He eventually pulled back just enough to look down at me, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheekbone like he couldn’t help himself. I licked my lips, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
“Whitmore,” I said, trying for casual and failing miserably because my voice cracked halfway through, “I’m gonna need you to stand up.”
He arched a brow but obeyed, pushing up from one knee with that easy, practiced grace of his. Once he was at his full height, he leaned down and offered me his hand, palm open, steady, ready to haul me up into his arms again.
But I wasn’t ready to get up. Not yet. I swatted his hand away gently and he blinked, confused but amused, as I shifted and got up onto one knee myself.
A low ripple of laughter ran through the room. Fitz’s mouth opened like he was about to say something smart— of course he was—but I cut him off with a single finger pointed at his chest.
“Shut it. My turn.”
He grinned so wide I thought his face might crack open. God, I loved that stupid face.
I took a breath, the way he always did right before saying something that made my whole life tilt sideways. Then I went for it.
“Fitzgerald Prescott Whitmore the Third—” I said, making a dramatic show of the name until he groaned and covered his face with one hand, laughing, “—you are the most infuriating, insufferable, stubborn man I have ever met.”
I paused, letting him soak that in. Letting everyone soak it in. He nodded and shrugged in agreement, laughter tinkling in his eyes.
“And also the most loyal, infuriatingly handsome, secretly soft-hearted man in the entire goddamn world. You make me want to punch you and kiss you at the same time, which, honestly, has got to be some kind of felony.”
He was actually laughing now, eyes shining, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe I was doing this but was absolutely eating it up.
“So here’s the deal,” I said, voice dropping a little, letting the laughter fade into something steadier, something real. “I’m not just saying yes to you. I’m saying yes to every argument we’ll ever have about how many pairs of overpriced leather shoes you can fit next to my flip-flops.”
“Yes to you eating my custard straight from the bowl”—I shot him a wicked wink that made his mouth twitch.
“Yes to you rearranging every single damn bowl and utensil in the kitchen because apparently ‘organized chaos’ isn’t a real system in your lawyer brain.”
“Yes to loving you—loud, messy, real—for the rest of my life.”
“And yes…”—I leaned in, grinning wickedly, letting the crowd blur out until it was just him and me—“to being Mrs. Fitzgerald Prescott Whitmore the Third.”
I dragged out the title with a teasing lilt, just to watch him flush pink at the edges like he always did when I used his full aristocratic name. “So will you marry me, Fitz? So I can say I proposed to you…”
He got down on his knees on the floor again and leaned in close. “Yes, Winslow. And I’m not just saying yes. I’m saying fuck yes .”
I smirked, heart thudding hard behind my ribs. “Well come on then, Whitmore,” I said, voice low and deliciously smug. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got forever to get to—and it starts right fucking now.”
The End