Epilogue
Five years and change since the great British invasion, and I am—against all predictions—alive, solvent, and in a cottage so close to the North Sea I can taste the brine if I breathe deep enough.
There’s a window in the bedroom that faces east, which means I get the full glory of the sunrise every day, no matter how determined I am to be a petulant night owl.
This morning the sky is that flat, washed blue you only get in northern England, streaked with clouds like a toddler’s attempt at tie-dye.
Sloane is dead to the world and sprawled half-naked on top of our covers, limbs akimbo, drooling into a pillow like she’s trying to waterboard herself with her own spit.
She’s aged exactly how I’d hoped—by which I mean she looks even better now than she did at seventeen, which is so unfair it should be illegal.
Gone is the anxious overachiever’s edge.
What’s left is all muscle, scars, and a sleep-heavy face that could make even a devout cynic believe in the possibility of love.
I should let her sleep. I really, really should.
But there’s something about the way the light falls over her stomach, the perfect little divot above her hip, the constellation of freckles on her shoulder, that makes it impossible not to immortalise the moment.
I reach for my sketchbook (one of about twelve scattered around the house) and set to work before the spell breaks.
A crash from the kitchen reminds me that we do, in fact, have a child, and Olivia is every bit the Hellspawn that genetics and fate intended.
She’s probably mainlining Nutella straight from the jar again, or trying to repurpose the kettle as a frog habitat.
She’s definitely awake and, more distressingly, silent now—never a good sign in this house.
I finish the rough lines and glance over at my subject.
Sloane’s hair is longer now, the colour of dried wheat, pulled back into a careless bun that’s come mostly undone.
Her lashes are stupidly long, like she paid extra for them at the spa.
She’s still got her runner’s legs, but they’re softer at the edges now, thanks to a steady diet of scones, northern beer, and the occasional late-night curry.
She snores in short, determined bursts. I adore her.
I sit at the edge of the bed and finish the sketch: the curve of Sloane’s rib, the knotted scar above her knee, the way her hands always end up under the pillow even when she’s pretending not to sleep. I decide to call the piece “Morning, North Sea.”
When I’m done, I watch her for a minute. I can see the proof of age starting to gather at her eyes, but she’s never looked happier or more beautiful. I want to keep her like this forever.
But the real fun is in the waking.
I launch myself onto the bed, landing directly on her ass, which makes her yelp and then laugh, rolling over to pin me beneath her. She’s stronger than ever, but so am I, and we wrestle for a minute, arms tangled and legs kicking, until I give in just for the pleasure of having her on top of me.
“You’re such a brat,” she says, breathless.
“I learned from the best.” I smirk, and bite at her jaw gently.
She kisses me hard, then softer, then lets her head fall to my shoulder. “I love you.”
“I know,” I say, just to be difficult, and she pinches my thigh.
Wasting no time, I strip until we’re both naked, bodies warm and close, and I can feel her hands start to wander, slow and deliberate. “Liv’s outside,” I whisper, but she shakes her head.
“Ten minutes. She’s probably building a frog army.”
“Sexy,” I say, and she laughs into my mouth.
We fumble with each other, the way you do after a million years together—never entirely smooth, but all the more fun for the mess of it. She palms my breasts, traces my stomach, then slips her hand between my legs, already knowing exactly what I need.
“God, I missed this,” she says, and I don’t bother correcting her, because I missed it too.
Sex is never a given when you have a kid, or have to deal with life in general. Days can turn into weeks, so we both savour the time we get and express how much we love and miss each other in this context. Sappy, but essential.
I let her take her time, hands and mouth everywhere, my own fingers finding her and stroking in tandem. We’re both so easy now, so responsive. Maybe that’s just age. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s knowing that we can have this, always, whenever we want, so there’s no need to rush.
She makes me come first, holding me tight while I shudder and gasp, then presses her hips into mine until I feel her spasm, hard and perfect. We lie together, sticky and laughing, until the sound of Olivia thumping through the house reminds us again that we are, in fact, parents.
“Was that two minutes?” I say, out of breath.
“Three, at best,” she says, grinning. “We’re losing our edge.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m in my prime.”
She licks a stripe up my neck. “You wish.”
The house is messy, bright, and absolutely full of art and books and whatever weird artefacts Sloane brings home from the town market every week.
The only “theme” is that there is no theme.
Olivia’s drawings are stuck to every vertical surface; even the refrigerator can barely close for the weight of magnets and child-made creatures. I love it.
When I finally relent and get out of bed to make Sloane a tea, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
The undercut I swore I’d grow out is still in full force, just with a bit more grey.
I’m wearing an old band tee and boxer briefs with paint stains that are almost as old as Olivia.
The look is…a choice. Sloane says I’m hot.
I say she needs to get her eyes checked.
In the kitchen, Olivia is indeed spooning Nutella directly from the jar, her entire face painted brown. She’s wearing a frog costume. It’s a Tuesday. There is no context.
“Hey, love,” I say, and she points at me with the sticky spoon.
“Can I have pancakes?”
“You can if you ask your mum to help you. I have to work in the studio.”
She sticks her tongue out, then runs off, trailing bits of frog suit in her wake. From the bedroom, Sloane shouts, “She’s asking for pancakes!” and I laugh, because sometimes life is just that predictable.
I pour myself a mug of yesterday’s coffee, reheat it in the microwave, and step into the garage-turned-art cave.
The space smells of linseed oil, newsprint, and the last of summer.
My latest painting is on the easel: a kind of stormy, impossible sea, all blue and white and thundercloud, with the vague outline of a figure standing at the edge of a cliff.
It’s dramatic as hell, and I’m not sure I love it, but the gallery in Paris is already begging for new work.
I stare at it for a minute, then set the sketchbook next to it for later.
For now, I’m content to let the paint dry and the world spin.
At nine, Sloane’s in her business casual, which consists of a knit jumper and the only jeans she owns without rips in the knees, and sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over her laptop.
She’s got a half-eaten pancake on a plate in front of her and is toggling between three different medical databases, a Zoom call with a client in Spain, and an Instagram page about muscle knots. She looks up when I enter.
“How’s it coming?” I ask, stealing a triangle of pancake.
She shrugs, then gestures to the screen. “It’s like every soccer injury in the western hemisphere now has my phone number. It’s exhausting, but at least I can charge a fortune for remote diagnostics.”
“Who knew tele-physio would be your calling?” I say, and she flicks a blueberry at my face.
“Who knew you’d be famous?” she counters, nodding at the pile of press clippings about my last solo show. “Or that you’d be so fucking humble about it.”
I roll my eyes. “If by famous you mean dealing with the existential horror of being in group chats with people named Felony, then sure. I am the queen of postmodern angst.”
She stands, shoves the laptop shut, and comes around the table to kiss me, slow and thoughtful. “You’re the queen of my heart, too,” she says, which is so embarrassing I have to flick her back.
“Stop. Olivia will see and get ideas.”
“Already did!” shouts our child from under the table, where she’s constructing a fort out of cereal boxes.
I love these people so much it actually hurts.
Both our phones begin pinging like crazy, reminding me we have a video chat organised for this evening with the gang.
Becca and Bella did exactly what everyone predicted: got themselves on a plane to London two years ago and never returned to the US.
Bella works for a company that does techy things, and she makes a lot of money from it.
I’m pretty sure she spends the majority of her paycheck on Doc Martens, ironic tees, and gifts for Olivia.
Becca moved away from Etsy and now designs patterns for luxury brands, teaches classes, and does the occasional protest art piece about the gender binary, which landed her a BBC interview and three marriage proposals.
Bella found it highly amusing when Becca realised one of the proposals was from her, and now they’re planning a wedding.
They visit us every month, and we all sleep on the floor, drinking gin and reliving our mutual trauma with increasingly creative insults.
Pia and Bryce moved to New York, because of course they did.
Their kids are officially the most bilingual, overeducated, and emotionally stable humans on the planet, and I love them.
They FaceTime us from wherever they are—sometimes Brooklyn, sometimes Thailand, once from a yurt in the Scottish Highlands.
I guess that’s the thing about growing up: you think everyone will drift apart, but instead you just start collecting stories, like a splotch for every square on your mental bingo card.
That night, after Liv is asleep—eventually, after three stories, two arguments, and a minor fistfight over toothpaste—and we’ve laughed our arses off with our friends, Sloane and I sit on the back step and watch the sky fade from blue to black.
The sea is wild tonight, with waves crashing hard against the rocks.
I think about the years, the mess, the fact that we survived all of it and somehow landed here: two disaster lesbians in a cottage on the edge of the world, with a frog-obsessed child and a lifetime of chaos ahead.
Tomorrow we will go over to my parents’ place, where they will hold the annual Sawyer Barbecue.
The weather is predicted to be nice, so we’re jumping on it before we get a week of rain, as is the norm.
Olivia is under Gran’s tutelage regarding art, even though I could teach her myself.
We paint together, but I love watching my daughter learn from her great-grandma, who is just as sarcastic, witty, and loving as always.
Grandad is still the silent type, but Liv has him wrapped around her little goblin finger.
I’m guessing the day will unfold as usual.
Mum will prepare enough food for the masses.
Dad will stand at the grill with Kiera, debating the correct charring ratio of veggie burgers.
Jenna will do nothing, which is fine because she is heavily pregnant and Lucifer has re-inhabited her body.
Sloane will make cocktails and laugh with my mum, probably at my expense.
And as for me? I’ll soak it all in, and thank the universe I agreed to take a walk with Sloane Bishop all those years ago.