Epilogue — Isla
Four Years Later
His thumb traces lazy circles on my jeans and I press closer to his side.
"Hungry?" he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest.
"Starving. Where are we?"
"About an hour out. There's a diner up ahead if you want to stop."
I sit up and stretch, my neck stiff from the angle. Through the window the late afternoon sun cuts gold across fields that look like every other field we've passed today. This is the part of the drive where everything starts feeling like home territory.
"The one you used to stop at?" I ask.
"Yeah. Haven't been there in years."
"Let's do it."
He signals and takes the next exit. The diner sits alone off the highway, exactly the kind of place that serves breakfast all day and has coffee that tastes like it's been sitting since morning.
We pull into the gravel lot and I'm out of the truck before he kills the engine, my legs grateful for the movement after six hours.
Inside smells like grease and coffee. We take a booth near the window and a waitress appears with menus and waters without being asked.
"Haven't seen you in a while," she says to Chuck. "You used to come through pretty regular."
"Yeah. Been a few years."
She looks between us with obvious curiosity but doesn't ask. Just takes our order—burgers for both, fries to share—and disappears.
Chuck leans back against the booth and stretches his legs under the table. His boot finds mine and stays there.
"You used to stop here alone?" I ask.
"Every few months. Breaking up long rides. Good coffee, fast service, back on the road." He looks around the diner like he's seeing it different now. "Never stayed longer than twenty minutes."
"And now?"
"Now I'm in no hurry."
The food comes fast and we eat without talking much. I steal fries from his plate even though we're sharing and he lets me. His hand finds my thigh under the table and stays there, warm and solid, while we finish eating.
When the waitress brings the check Chuck leaves cash and a generous tip. As we're sliding out of the booth I catch him looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just thinking."
"About?"
"How many times I sat in this exact booth alone. Never thought I'd stop here with someone."
I step close and kiss him quick. "Good thing you were wrong."
His hand finds my hip and pulls me closer. "Best thing I was ever wrong about."
The waitress watches us from behind the counter with a knowing smile and I'm suddenly aware we're the only customers and we're taking up space. I pull back and grab his hand, tugging him toward the door.
Back in the truck I climb in first and slide to the middle seat instead of staying passenger side. He raises an eyebrow when he gets in.
"What are you doing?"
"Sitting here. Problem?"
"No ma'am." He starts the engine and his right hand immediately finds my thigh again. "No problem at all."
The last hour of highway passes in comfortable quiet. I doze against his shoulder and wake up when he slows for the Bloomfield exit. Late afternoon has shifted to early evening, the sun low and orange through the windshield.
"We're almost home," he says.
Home. Four years and the word still does something to my chest. Not because it's new but because it means something it never meant before. Not a place you leave from but a place you come back to.
We drive through town and everything looks exactly right. The Anchor as we pass it. The turn onto residential streets where houses have porch lights coming on. The community center where I still keep an office three days a week.
Our driveway appears and Chuck pulls in. The house lights are on—we set them on timers before we left—and the sight of those lit windows makes something in me settle.
He kills the engine and we sit there for a second.
"Long week," I say.
"Good week though."
"Yeah. Good week." I turn to look at him. "Thank you for coming with me."
"Always do when I can."
"I know. But still." I lean in and kiss him properly this time. "Thank you."
His hand slides into my hair and he deepens the kiss until I'm breathless. When we break apart, he's grinning.
"Welcome home, darlin'."
We unload the truck together, both of us moving slowly because we're tired and there's no rush. My consulting work bag. His duffel. The container of leftovers from the family dinner Tuesday night that we meant to eat and forgot about.
Inside the house is exactly how we left it. Clean dishes in the rack. Mail on the counter—Chuck's brother Knox must have brought it in. The couch still has the throw blanket I was using Sunday morning before we left.
I drop everything by the door and head straight for the bedroom. Kick off my shoes and fall face-first onto the bed.
"I'm never moving again," I announce into the pillow.
"That so?" Chuck's voice comes from the doorway.
"Completely serious. This is my life now."
The bed dips as he sits next to me. His hand runs down my back, slow and warm. "You got work tomorrow?"
"Not till Tuesday. Monday's my day off."
"Good. We can sleep in."
I roll over to look at him. He's already pulled off his boots and his cut, down to jeans and a tee shirt that's seen better days. Four years and he still looks at me the exact same way he did that first Thursday night at The Anchor. Like I'm the best thing he's seen all day.
"Stop looking at me like that," I say.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about things that require energy I don't have."
He grins. "Can't help how I look at you."
"Yes, you can. Look somewhere else."
"Don't want to."
I sit up and kiss him because if I don’t, I'll keep bantering and we'll never actually sleep. His hands find my hips and pull me closer and for a minute I forget about being tired.
When we break apart I'm breathing harder and his eyes are dark.
"Thought you didn't have energy," he says.
"I lied. But I'm still not moving from this bed."
"Wasn't planning on making you."
We undress and fall into bed properly, him pulling me against his chest, his hand settling on my hip where it always goes.
This is the best part of coming home. Not the house or the driveway or even the bed.
Just this. Him solid and warm beside me.
His hand on my hip. The specific comfortable intimacy of four years together.
"Missed this," I say. "All week."
"Me too."
"Even though you were there the whole time?"
"Even though." His thumb traces circles on my hip through my underwear. "Hotel beds aren't the same."
"No. They're not."
We lie there quietly and I feel sleep pulling at me. Real sleep this time, not the half-dozing from the truck. The kind that comes from being home and safe and exactly where you want to be.
"Chuck?"
"Yeah?"
"Love you."
"Love you too, darlin'."
His hand stays on my hip, and I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, thinking about how four years ago I proposed one night no strings and he agreed, and how we were both spectacularly wrong about how that was going to work out.
Best wrong I've ever been.
Thank you for reading!