Epilogue Carly
The notebook sat open on the kitchen table, pages covered in my handwriting and Boone's.
I added a line to the bridge of the song we'd been working on for the last three days.
The melody had been haunting me all morning, and I finally figured out what was missing.
The baby kicked, hard enough that I put my hand on my stomach and waited.
Seven months along and she was already restless. I smiled and went back to the lyrics.
Boone came in from the porch and dropped into the chair beside me. His phone was in his hand, screen lit up. He glanced at it, then at me.
"The third verse needs something," I said. "It's good, but it's not finished yet."
He set the phone down on the table. Face down. The screen went dark.
I looked up.
Boone was watching me, not the notebook, not the phone. Just me. His eyes stayed on my face like I was the only thing in the room worth his attention. It still surprised me sometimes, even after ten months of him doing exactly that.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"Another line for the bridge. Something that ties back to the first chorus without repeating it."
"Yeah." He leaned closer, studying the notebook. "Let me see what you've got."
I turned the page toward him. My handwriting filled the margins, notes and rewrites layered over the original draft. The song was a collaboration, like all of them were now. My name sat on the publishing credits beside his. Carly Hargrove and Boone Hargrove, co-writers.
Boone's fingers traced the edge of the page. "This line here—'you were the song I couldn't finish'—that's the one."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He tapped the notebook twice. "It's perfect, Carly."
God, I loved hearing my name in his mouth when he said it like that. Not distracted, not halfway to somewhere else. Just present.
I reached for the guitar pick lying beside the notebook. It was the one we used for everything now, engraved with both our names. Carly & Boone. I ran my thumb over the letters.
"Want to try it out?" I asked.
"Yeah." Boone shifted his chair closer, close enough that his knee pressed against mine. The heat from his body radiated through the space between us, warm and solid. He smelled like coffee and the cedar from the porch, familiar in a way that settled something in my chest.
The baby kicked again, and I laughed. Boone's hand went to my stomach, his palm flat against the curve.
"She's got opinions about the song already," he said.
"She's got opinions about everything."
His grin was quick and real. "Just like her mother."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. "Shut up and play the melody."
Boone picked up his guitar from where it leaned against the wall and settled it across his lap.
He strummed the opening chords, easy and practiced.
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound fill the kitchen.
The melody was ours, built from the nights we'd spent writing together in this house, just the two of us and the music.
When he got to the bridge, I opened my eyes. Boone looked at me, waiting.
"You were the song I couldn't finish," I sang, soft and tentative. My voice caught on the last word, but the line held. It worked.
Boone kept playing, his fingers steady on the strings. "Again," he said. "With the harmony."
I sang it again. Boone joined me on the second half, his voice blending with mine. The harmony locked into place, two voices that needed each other to make the sound whole. The baby moved under my hand, a slow roll that felt like she was listening too.
We finished the bridge and Boone set the guitar aside. He was quiet for a moment, just looking at me. Then he said, "I love you."
My throat went tight. Even now, hearing it never got old. "I love you too."
He reached for my hand and laced our fingers together. The silver wedding ring on my finger caught the light. Boone's thumb brushed over it, slow and deliberate, like he was reminding himself it was still there.
"You've been doing the grocery run every week," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"The grocery run. You go into town every Thursday and haul everything back yourself." He frowned, like he was working something out in his head. "You're seven months pregnant, Carly. That's ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous. It's groceries."
"It's heavy." His hand tightened on mine. "Let me do it."
I stared at him. "You want to do the grocery shopping?"
"Yeah. I'll go Thursday." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You shouldn't be hauling bags around when you're this far along. I should've offered sooner."
My chest did something stupid and warm. It was just groceries. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did. He was paying attention. He noticed.
"Okay," I said. "You can do the grocery run."
"I'll do it," he said. Not I'll try or I'll help. Just a flat statement. He would do it, himself, without me having to ask twice or remind him or pick up the slack when he forgot.
Boone stood and grabbed his phone off the table. He opened the notes app and started typing. "What do we need?"
"Are you seriously making a list right now?"
"Yeah." He didn't look up. "I'm not going to forget half of it and come back with the wrong kind of milk. Tell me what we need."
I laughed, and it felt easy. Like breathing. "Eggs. Bread. Coffee. The good kind, not the stuff you bought last time."
"I bought coffee," he said. "It wasn't my fault you didn't like it."
"It tasted like dirt, Boone."
"It was on sale."
"It was terrible."
He grinned at me, and God, that grin still did things to my pulse I couldn't control. "Fine. The expensive coffee. What else?"
I rattled off the rest of the list while he typed it into his phone.
Milk, chicken, vegetables, the barbecue sauce he liked that they only carried at the store in town.
He added everything without complaint, asking questions when he wasn't sure what I meant.
When I finished, he set the phone down again and looked at me.
"Anything else?"
"That's it."
"Good." Boone reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Living room. I want to try the song with both guitars."
I followed him into the living room, my hand still in his. The space was warm with afternoon light coming through the big windows that looked out over the property. My guitar leaned against the couch where I'd left it that morning. Boone grabbed it and handed it to me, then picked up his own.
We sat together on the couch, close enough that our knees touched. Boone played the opening chords and I joined in, picking out the harmony. The sound layered and built, two guitars weaving together into something that was bigger than either of us alone.
The baby kicked again, strong and insistent. I laughed and missed a note.
"She's got timing," Boone said.
"She's got your timing." I adjusted my grip on the guitar and found the melody again. "Impatient."
"That's not impatient. That's involved." He leaned over and pressed his hand to my stomach, keeping his guitar balanced on his knee. "She's already part of the band."
My chest tightened. Not with panic or fear or any of the things that used to live there when I thought about the future.
Just with something warm and solid and real.
This was my family. Boone and the baby and the music we made together in this house that was ours.
Not his mother's, not his father's. Ours.
"Play it again," I said.
Boone picked up the melody and I followed him into it. The song was still rough in places, unfinished, but it was good. The kind of good that came from working together, from knowing each other's rhythms and giving each other room to breathe. The harmony needed two voices. It always had.
We played through the whole song twice. The second time, I sang the bridge and Boone joined me on the harmony. His voice wrapped around mine, steady and sure. The baby moved again, slower this time, like she was settling in to listen.
When we finished, Boone set his guitar aside and pulled me close. His arm went around my shoulders, solid and warm, and I leaned into him. He smelled like cedar and soap and the faint tang of the coffee he'd been drinking all morning. I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes.
"This is good," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
"I mean it, Carly." His hand moved to my hair, fingers threading through it. "This. You and me and the baby. The music. All of it."
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. He knew.
Emily had cried when we told her, her arms wrapped around both of us in the front hallway.
Tuck had grinned and clapped Boone on the shoulder, told me he was glad I'd said yes.
That was back in winter. Dee had known first—I'd gone to the bar the morning after Boone asked, and she took one look at my face and pulled me into a hug before I'd even said the words.
The three of them had dinner with us here a few months ago.
Tuck and Boone talked about the tour while Emily and Dee sat on either side of me on the couch, both with their hands on my stomach, waiting for the baby to move.
When she did, Emily laughed and Dee's eyes went bright with tears.
Boone caught my eye from across the room, and I knew what he was thinking. This was the family that mattered.
Boone's hand slid down to my stomach, his palm flat against the curve. The baby kicked under his touch, and he laughed, soft and amazed. I felt the sound vibrate through his chest into mine.
"She's going to grow up hearing us play," I said.
"Every day." He pressed his mouth to the top of my head. "She's going to know every song by heart before she's two."
I smiled. "That's a lot of songs, Boone."
"We'll write more."
"We've already written fifty."
"Then we'll write a hundred." He said it like it was simple. Like there was no question that we would keep doing this, together, for as long as it took. "She'll know all of them."
The baby kicked again, and I put my hand over Boone's. His fingers tightened on mine.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too."
We sat like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the quiet of the house.
Outside, the Tennessee hills rolled away toward the horizon, green and endless.
Inside, the guitars leaned against the couch, ready for the next song.
The notebook sat open on the kitchen table, filled with our handwriting and our music.
The baby moved between us, restless and alive. Boone's hand stayed on my stomach, steady and sure. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of his breathing, the rhythm of it matching my own.
This was what mattered. Not perfection. Not some grand gesture or apology that fixed everything in one sweeping moment. Just this. Him, here, paying attention. Doing the work. Showing up every single day and choosing me.
It was enough.
The afternoon light shifted through the windows, warm on my skin.
Boone's thumb traced slow circles on my stomach where the baby was.
I could feel the tension I used to carry in my shoulders, in my jaw, in the tight knot behind my ribs—it was gone.
Not because everything was easy now, but because I wasn't doing it alone anymore.
Thursday morning came with frost on the windows. I woke to an empty bed, heard Boone moving around downstairs. By the time I made it to the kitchen, he was dressed and checking his phone.
"I'm heading out," he said, crossing to me. He kissed me, his hand resting on my stomach where the baby was. "I'll be back in a couple hours."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." He kissed me again, quick and sure. "Work on the song. I'll help you finish it when I get back."
I watched him leave, the sound of the truck fading down the driveway. Then I made tea and settled into the living room with the notebook. The baby kicked, restless, and I worked through the bridge while the house stayed quiet around me.
When Boone came back, I heard the truck before I saw it. He came through the front door with bags filling both arms, shaking his head when I started to get up. "Stay there. I've got this."
He made three trips from the truck, carrying everything in himself. Then he moved through the kitchen, putting it all away—eggs in the fridge, bread on the counter, coffee on the top shelf, vegetables in the crisper. He didn't ask where anything went. He'd already learned.
When he finished, he came into the living room and sat beside me on the couch. His shirt sleeves were pushed up, and he was a little out of breath, but he was smiling.
"All done," he said.
"You put everything away?"
"Everything." He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Even got three bottles of that barbecue sauce. They were on sale."
I laughed. "You're really going to do this every week."
"Every week," he said.
The baby kicked between us, and Boone's hand moved to my stomach, his palm warm against the curve.
I picked up my guitar from the couch and settled it across my lap. Boone reached for his. We didn't need to discuss it. We just knew.
He played the opening chords, and I joined in. Our voices blended on the first verse, and the baby moved between us, part of the music, part of the harmony. The sound filled the room, two guitars and two voices weaving together into something whole.
THE END