Epilogue
The ride home from the gala is quiet. It’s not empty or awkward, just…loaded, like the air before a nor’easter—charged and waiting. Eddie is beside me with one hand on the wheel, and the other on the gearshift—steering away from secrets, confrontations, and uncertain futures, toward home.
Out past the traffic circle, the road gets darker, the ocean is on the right, and the marshland is on the left.
An occasional mailbox pops up, reminding you that you’re not as far from civilization as you feel.
I watch the reflections slide across the glass, one after another.
It’s the closest I get to meditation, settling a peace inside me, despite all my family has been through recently.
And as we near town, we pass the old seafood shack with the busted sign that’s as much a fixture of the area as the Lobster Shack, then the church with the bell above the roof that I always wanted to ring as a kid.
It’s Nantucket at its most honest—weathered, in-between, resisting the urge to tidy up after company just left.
There’s beauty in the raw way the town looks after the tourist season, when Mother Nature reclaims her space.
It’s my favorite time of year here, when the people are gone and so are the expectations.
Then, out of nowhere, Eddie finally speaks, but I notice he doesn’t glance my way. “I know it’s crazy, but for a second, when I saw that test, I wanted it to be yours—ours.”
If I weren’t watching him, I would’ve missed the way his lips turned down and his shoulders slumped with his admission. It’s something akin to disappointment, which takes me by surprise.
It’s so out of left field I almost choke. “Seriously? You thought I was pregnant?” I try to keep the shock out of my tone, but I fail miserably.
He shrugs, one hand tightening on the wheel.
His smile twists, and I love the little sheepish grin that graces his face.
“I didn’t think you were, but maybe I hoped you might be.
I guess it’s the old-school part of me. Growing up, every guy I knew had this ultimate dream of having a wife, a couple of kids, maybe a dog.
I can’t help it. When it comes to you, Mer, I’m a romantic at heart. ”
I can’t help my own smile that creeps into the corners of my mouth.
“I know we said slow. I know that’s what you need. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have been a blessing. Unexpected, sure, but it’d still be a gift. And when I saw your face across from me, I thought…why not us? I’m not trying to rush that. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have been disappointed.”
I stare at him, the words unpacking themselves in my chest. There should be pressure behind my ribs—panic, maybe—instead, there’s something gentler. And I realize he’s trying to say that he’s down for whatever mess our lives might become, and he’ll find joy in how it unfolds.
But the practical part of me needs to remind him why romanticizing an unplanned pregnancy isn’t logical.
“I love that you’re down for whatever life throws at us, Eddie.
” God knows, Mark never was. And I paid a heavy mental price for carrying that load.
“We’ll get to where we’re supposed to be.
After all, we only just moved in together.
I’ve barely managed to get it looking more like a home and less like a bachelor pad.
A baby would throw a wrench in that—and our lives as a whole.
Plus, you said you didn’t want complicated, remember?
And we both know that, with all that just happened, another pregnancy in the family would certainly be complicated. ”
I chuckle because it wouldn’t just be complicated. It would be disastrous.
He grins, this time for real—a flash of teeth, a line crinkling beside his eye.
“Tell that to my idiot heart.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.
The gesture is tender and honest and pure love.
“I wasn’t suggesting we rush anything. I just thought you should know that I’m with you, no matter what.
Even if it’s not ideal, planned, or perfect. ”
I squeeze his hand in acknowledgement, wishing I had the words to tell him just what that means. Since I don’t, I stare out the window, letting the road soak up his revelation.
He releases my hand and shifts down for the stop sign, lets the truck idle, the lights blinking across his face in rhythm. Then, soft as rain, he says, “If things had gone the way I wanted, we’d be celebrating our fifteenth or sixteenth anniversary this year.”
It’s a kick in the stomach.
Because I see it all—my rushed departure, pushing him away, the nights in Boston where I convinced myself he was better off without me. Every time I’d let Mark talk me out of coming home. Every time I pretended my choices were pragmatic, not cowardly.
Guilt sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“I’m sorry.” It’s not enough, but it’s all I have. “I wish I had done things differently.”
He glances over, and I brace for the blow. But all he does is reach for my hand after he works through the gears. His fingers are rough but warm; they’re a life raft in a sea gone stupid with old memories and regret.
He squeezes once. “Don’t be. It happened the way it was supposed to. We’re together now, and that’s all that matters.”
Simple. No speech, no drama. Just the truth, distilled down to bulletproof clarity.
And he means it.
The rest of the drive is quieter but different.
My hand stays in his. I let myself remember—not what we lost, but what we had then and what we’ve built since.
The boxes stacked in the corner of our new place, the way he makes coffee at sunrise, the shoes he keeps by the door, no matter how many times I’ve asked him to put them away when he takes them off.
All of it is messy perfection I wouldn’t change.
The years apart shaped us so we’d fit together when we reunited.
And when I allow myself to acknowledge that, a piece of the guilt and blame for the years apart breaks away.
Eddie navigates the last turn with the kind of grace you only gain from years of knowing the island’s every rut and pothole. I lean back with a contented smile, letting fatigue hit, every cell in my body finally admitting the night is over.
Outside Birdie’s, the neon sign is off, but our windows upstairs are golden from the lamp I left on in the living room. It’s a welcoming beacon I never thought I’d love seeing. It’s not the big house I had in Boston. Somehow, it’s better because it’s our history and our future.
We head inside, tired from the long day, exhausted after the gala and all that happened there. No words. Just the two of us, walking into our place together.
But upstairs, the quiet is different.
Our apartment is hushed, half-lit. The minute the door clicks shut behind us, I’m already peeling out of the ruins of Westmoor—heels kicked into the closet, purse on the table, and beelining for the master bathroom. “If you hear me scream, it’s just the zipper winching my ribcage.”
Eddie laughs behind me, but I can hear just how tired he is, too.
The bathroom’s a shoebox, barely enough room to strip out of my dress and pull on my pajamas. I hang the gown on the shower rod and turn to the sink to wash the makeup off my face.
The mirror fogs with the first twist of the faucet. I rub off my makeup in routine swipes—crisp cotton, micellar water, then splash after splash of hot water that melts the day away.
For thirty seconds, I let myself breathe.
In here, the only thing that exists is steam and the echo of my pounding heart. I stare at the wall and let my mind blank out—no lists, no deadlines, no emergencies. Only the relief of being able to wipe the day out of existence, molecule by molecule.
Somewhere behind me, the floor creaks. I expect Eddie’s usual snark—something about how I can’t possibly spend this long washing my face without scrubbing off eighty-four layers of skin. But there’s just the hush, and then his reflection at my elbow.
He’s still in the suit. Impossibly handsome. And I grin, knowing he’s mine.
I laugh. “Why aren’t you out of that thing yet?” The words bounce off the tile. “I thought you would’ve ripped it off the second you got inside.” My smile hangs there, waiting for his, but it doesn’t come.
His hands flex at his sides. He’s not nervous, exactly, but it’s like he’s gathering himself for something impossible or maybe just monumental.
A drop of water slides down my jaw, and I reach for the towel to wipe it off.
Eddie clears his throat, but he doesn’t step forward. Instead, one knee goes down—right there, right on the cold tile…in the bathroom. His hands find mine. The other hand drops the towel to the floor.
It’s so absurd, so out-of-sync with the mess we just escaped, that I don’t even react at first.
He pulls my hand to his lips, presses a kiss to each knuckle, then pops open a palm-sized box. Black velvet, hinge stiff as if it has been closed shut for years.
The ring inside glitters—no frills, just a stunning round stone set in a simple white gold band. I freeze, pulse smashing around in my chest like it’s trying to break free.
For a second, all I can do is cover my mouth.
It’s not how I pictured it—not in a room that smells like cheap soap and Glade, not with my hair knotted behind my head, wearing my most unflattering pair of pajamas. But none of that matters because it’s Eddie. Knee on the tile, hand in mine, zero chance of ever loving anyone else.
He clears his throat again, words rough around the edges. “I should’ve done this eighteen years ago. But I didn’t. And then we lost all that time together. I’m done waiting, Mer. I won’t wait another day. Will you marry me?”
I try to find my voice. I really do. But instead, I blurt out the first desperate question my brain can cobble together because all of this is so unexpected. “When did you even get the ring?”
His smile flashes—shocked, then genuinely amused. “A long time ago. Longer than you’d believe. But that doesn’t matter. I asked you to be my wife, so stop acting like a lawyer questioning someone on the witness stand and answer me already.”
For once in my life, I don’t analyze. I just…let go.
I lower myself to the floor, knees twinging against the tile, arms around his neck. He’s solid, safe, the only thing in the world that ever felt like home.
I whisper it—not just into his ear, but into the hollow of every year I lost. “Yes.”
Just the word. Over and over.
He stands, lifting me with him. I’m weightless, and then he spins me so fast I have to lock my legs around his waist to keep from flying out of orbit.
He laughs then, full-bodied and boyish. It’s a sound I haven’t heard since we were kids. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”
I bury my face in his neck, mouthing the word again. Yes. Yes. Yes.
After setting me down, he slides the ring onto my finger, his hands shaking just a little.
He kisses me—slow, then urgent, as if we can actually make up for all the waiting.
For a moment, we just stand there, sharing the echo of a happiness I never knew existed. Then, I lean into him and promise myself I won’t waste another second.
Not one.