Epilogue 1
MORGAN
The moment I decide to stay at this barbecue instead of fleeing to my car might be the bravest thing I’ve done all month, which includes facing down Galloway with an army of athletes. And if that's not a testament to how much I'm falling for James, then I don't know what is.
As I stand on the deck, gripping a sweating bottle of Bud Light, I'm watching the Fitzgerald family chaos in full sprawl. Kids are playing, adults are arguing, and smoke from Sean Fitzgerald’s grill mingles with chlorine from the pool, creating a distinctly suburban chemical cocktail that burns my nostrils.
And in the middle of it all, James is the showman entertaining the kids.
“Uncle Jamie! Uncle Jamie! Watch me do a cartwheel!”
“No, watch me! I can do two cartwheels!”
“Uncle Jamie, I can burp the alphabet!”
I must admit, it's more than a little amusing watching him get assaulted by three sugar-fueled children who apparently share the sense of joyful mayhem that's in his DNA. And, right now, he’s flat on his back in the grass, his whole body vibrating with laughter.
One niece hangs off his arm, using him as playground equipment, another sits on his chest, demonstrating what sounds like the alphabet filtered through a garbage disposal, and the smallest—maybe four, with his same brown eyes—is methodically stuffing his pockets with dandelions.
The sheer chaos and volume—kids shrieking, Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from speakers held to the deck with what appears to be duct tape and prayer, Sean Fitzgerald’s voice booming over everything—should be driving me crazy, forcing me to retreat inside myself.
A month ago, it would have.
But here I stand, making the conscious, moment-by-moment choice to stay.
“Morgan, honey, could you grab the potato salad from the kitchen?” Karen Fitzgerald asks, her voice slicing through my observation.
I nod and set down my beer. "Sure thing."
And as I turn, she adds, “And make sure Sean hasn’t left his beer cans all over my clean counters.”
Inside, the kitchen feels like a shrine to passive aggression. Everything is labeled, and there's a list of “KITCHEN RULES” taped to the fridge that includes gems like “NO WET SPOONS IN THE SUGAR” and “DISHWASHER RUNS AT 8 P.M.—NO EXCEPTIONS.”
I find the potato salad on the bench. Next to it, three empty Coors Light cans stand in defiant formation on the marble counter, positioned with what has to be deliberate antagonism next to a sign reading “NO DRINKS ON THE COUNTER—Use A Coaster!!!”
I could leave them, because this is not my circus, and they're not my emotionally stunted bears. But James invited me here, into this minefield he grew up navigating, trusting me enough to show me where he came from and maybe—without voicing the words—to show me some of the history.
And partnership means sometimes you clear the beer cans even when every instinct screams to maintain a safe distance from other people’s dysfunction. So I scoop them up, toss them in the recycling, and feel a microdose of pride in dismantling Sean's landmines.
When I return outside, potato salad in hand, the scene has shifted. James has escaped the niece pile and stands near the grill where his father performs the ancient suburban ritual: poking meat with tongs while drinking beer and dispensing wisdom nobody requested.
“The key,” Sean announces to the yard at large, his voice pitched to carry his authority to the neighbors, “is the char. You want those grill marks perfect. That’s what separates real grilling from what Karen does with her George Foreman Grill nonsense—”
“You’re going to burn them again.” Karen cuts through his sermon without looking up from the salad she’s arranging. “Like last time.”
The air pressure drops, and I've played enough hockey to recognize the pause before the defenseman commits to the hit. Sean’s jovial mask slips, revealing something meaner underneath, and my shoulders tense involuntarily, muscle memory from years of reading violence in the angles of bodies.
“I know how to grill a burger, Karen,” he says, his voice no longer a boom but something harder.
“And yet somehow they always end up tasting like an ashtray.” She still won’t look at him, her hands steady on the salad tongs. “But what do I know? I’m just the one who has to watch everyone slather their burgers with condiments to make the boot leather edible."
The family collectively holds its breath. James's body changes—shoulders bunching, weight shifting to the balls of his feet—and I can actually see him calculating what chaos to unleash. Should he knock something over? Tell an inappropriate joke? Start a water balloon fight with the kids?
But then something extraordinary happens.
He goes still. Not frozen, but settled, like storm clouds deciding not to break.
He walks to his mother, places a gentle hand on her shoulder—the touch brief but meaningful—then turns to face his father.
When he speaks, his voice carries none of its usual performative volume.
It’s quiet, level, and absolutely immovable.
“Dad, knock it off," he says. "Morgan's here, and we're trying to have a good time, so not today, OK?”
The words land in my chest like swallowing sunlight, because this is James choosing differently, too. I'd chosen to stay and keep myself open, and he'd decided to defuse the situation not with gags and melodrama, but with the quiet authority of an eldest son.
Sean’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He's clearly trying to come to terms with the new information, the fact that his son—the family's emotional janitor, the one who’s supposed to deflect, not confront—just drew a line in the sand in front of everyone.
“Excuse me?” Sean’s voice drops to that dangerous quiet that makes children and dogs nervous.
“I said we're not doing this.” James doesn’t move and doesn’t flinch. His stillness is magnetic, and he crosses his tree-trunk-like arms over his chest.
“Cook the burgers however you want, and Mom can think whatever she wants, but we’re not turning this into a thing. Not today.”
I watch Sean’s face cycle through confusion, anger, and then calculation. He can tell the tide has gone against him—with his son in outright rebellion and others looking uncomfortable—so he pivots. His arm goes around James's shoulders, the gesture looking paternal but feeling predatory.
“Speaking of ‘not today,’” Sean’s voice carries that particular tone of fathers who peaked in high school, “I read an article the other day saying you might not be drafted in the summer.” He lets that sink in, takes a pull of his beer.
“All that talent wasted, James. Is that what we sacrificed for?”
The words hit right on target. They're public enough that James can’t retreat without losing face, specific enough to wound, and delivered with just enough disappointment to activate every childhood fear programmed into him.
It’s masterful in its casualness, and I hate him a little for how good he is at this.
Sean Fitzgerald is an expert composer of emotional manipulation and family misery.
I see the words land right on target, the moment the wound tears open in James's eyes, that flash of little-boy fear that he’s not enough.
The joke is forming—I can see it building behind his teeth, ready to explode and deflect—because it's clear that no matter how much progress he's made, some pain cuts too deep.
So I don’t think, I just move.
I cross the yard and take his free hand, lacing our fingers together with deliberate certainty. His palm is warm, slightly rough from his glove, and I squeeze hard enough for him to feel it through whatever spiral he’s entering. The touch says what I can’t speak aloud.
I love you. All of you. You’re enough. You're safe with me. And he's an asshole.
His fingers tighten around mine, almost desperate. The tremor in them steadies. When he speaks, his voice stays calm. “Actually, Dad, I just got named NCAA Goalie of the Semester and my agent just told me I'm pretty much a lock to go in the first two rounds."
The words land with perfect precision. Sean’s mouth works soundlessly. Karen’s hand freezes mid-salad toss. Even the kids sense something significant, their chaos dimming to watch. It turns the spotlight back on Sean's bullshit and cruelty, and he withers under the glare.
But I'm too busy celebrating James to care.
He never told me about this giant achievement, this concrete proof that he’s not just good but exceptional. Something fierce and protective floods my chest. He kept this quiet truth to himself, valuable for its own sake, not needing to perform it for validation.
“But that’s my business,” James continues, still steady, still holding my hand. “My career, my choices, my life. We’re not dissecting it over burgers anymore.”
Sean’s face runs through rapid recalibration.
The criticism script has shattered, making him look like a fool, so he defaults to excessive, performative pride.
“Goalie of the Semester!” His boom returns, arms spreading wide.
“You hear that, everyone? My son! That’s what I’m talking about! I always knew—”
“Yeah,” James cuts him off with a small shrug. “It’s nice to have your support as always, Dad.”
That’s it, one little sarcastic quip, and we move on. He squeezes my hand once more, and gives me a smile that’s entirely private, a secret shared in plain sight. The smile makes something in my chest pull tight with recognition, because this feels like the biggest win for him.
“Morgan knows all about building success,” James says, smoothly redirecting. “She’s building a D1 program from scratch.”
And just like that, he’s made me part of the conversation without making me the center of attention. I realize he's still managing the emotional temperature, but by choice now, not compulsion. It’s actually kind of hot, watching him work a room with intention instead of panic.