Epilogue
LAUREN
“Babe, these look amazing. Truly. They complete the lobby.” Max slides his arm around my waist and draws me into his body.
“Hmm.” Whenever I see my own work displayed, I get self-conscious. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. They’re stunning. You’re stunning. Hey, look,” Max brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “There’s my brother.”
He lets go of me, which leaves me feeling a little bereft. Even after a couple of months together, I can’t get enough of Max.
“Tate,” he calls out. “Come check this out. Look what we put up today. I'm so proud of Lauren.” Max beams. “It feels like the place is finished. Finally.”
Tate ambles over, stopping in front of a massive photograph in a silver frame. It's of Paradise Springs, all water and sky. Blue on blue. I took the photo the morning Max and I talked at the springs and decided we were both going to stay in Cypress Grove.
“They're perfect.” Tate walks up to one and studies it, his nose only two inches from the glass. “And they’ll sell crazy. You'd better print more.”
“Her photos at ArtSpace already sold out,” Max chimes in, kissing my temple, while Tate wanders off to look at the photos on the other side of the lobby, closer to the reception desk.
There's a lone woman checking in; the resort hasn't had its grand re-opening yet, but it is accepting guests. Max calls it a “soft launch.”
Steve, the family's not-quite-obese pug, follows close behind Tate, his nails clacking on the polished floor.
The four photos at the gallery sold in their first month on display. Now twelve of my large-scale photos hang in the newly renovated, airy lobby of the Magnolia Grand Resort. Since the space is all white walls, white concrete floor, and white furniture, the blue in the paintings don't just pop.
They explode.
Kind of like my heart these days.
The past two months have been the best of my life.
After Max and I had our talk that morning at the springs, we continued our conversation.
About our fears, our failings, and our future.
We walked back to the resort and had coffee on the balcony and watched the Starlight River wake up, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the shape of what we were building together became clear.
We’ve been talking ever since. No grand announcements, no rushing into things — well, at least not by Hastings family standards.
Last week, while walking through town one evening, Max said quietly: “I keep thinking about what a house in one of the neighborhoods near here would look like. With a porch.” He paused. “With you on it.”
I'd looked at him for a long moment. “I keep thinking about that too,” I said.
That's where we are. It's enough. More than enough.
Here in Cypress Grove, we've been living together in the carriage house above his parents' garage while we look for a place of our own. At first I was unsure if I'd like being so close to his family.
Turns out, I adore it. His mom and I have coffee a few days a week, often joined by Kate and her mom. I see Kate almost every day, knowing she needs me — Damien's often unable to contact her for days at a time, and each time it happens, she's beside herself with worry.
When I'm not with her or Max, I'm taking photos, printing photos at a commercial studio in Orlando, and building an online photography course — actual craft, not content strategy.
I'm also in therapy, talking to someone about the patterns I learned growing up: how to be the one who holds everything together, and how terrifying it is to finally put the weight down and trust someone else to help carry it.
It turns out that people who spent their whole lives propping others up often struggle to believe anyone would stay once they stop being useful. That was me and Max. I'd been afraid to show my true, flawed self for fear he wouldn't love the real me.
Spoiler alert: he loves the real me.
I've been thinking lately about the captions I wrote on social media just a few months ago. All those words about light and sacred spaces and gratitude for my sponsors.
Perfectly curated. Completely hollow.
I don't think in captions anymore. I'm not sure when that stopped.
Today I spent the morning shooting the morning light at the springs, then met with a local inn about displaying my work there. After, I brought Max a turkey sandwich at the resort. He's mostly still his workaholic self but has been good about taking breaks. With me.
I'm also supposed to do a Steve handoff with Tate, since he's going to a meeting and doesn't want to leave the dog alone.
Tate's thinking about running for a seat on the board of the Starlight River Watershed Council.
Today's the first meeting, and I think it would be hilarious if he brought the dog.
I've already suggested that Steve appear in his political ads, but Tate says it’s not that intense of a campaign.
I kneel down, gathering the hem of my long cotton dress. “C'mere, Steve. Come on, sweet dog.”
The pug gives me a bored glance then turns back to the end of the new reception desk, sniffing its leg.
“He'd better not use that as a bathroom,” Max mutters.
“No, Steve never pees indoors. He's a good boy.” I make a kissy noise to try to get his attention, but the dog wants to stay near Tate.
“He really shouldn't be here at all.” Max's forehead wrinkles, and we watch as the guest who's checking in bends to scratch Steve under his chin.
“She's made a friend for life,” I murmur.
The dog's no longer obese, but he could still lose a pound or two. He's also not the fastest-moving animal in the world. Or the smartest. But we all adore him, and I'm totally Team Steve now.
“She sure has,” Max chuckles. “And I think she's gotten the interest of Tate, too.”
Giggling, I wrap my arms around Max's neck.
Tate's always flirting with someone. “I bought steak.
Want to grill tonight? I also wanted to tell you about the real estate agent I met today.
She pulls tarot cards before she shows clients any homes.
Says the house has to match your energy or it'll never feel like home.”
Max brushes his lips against mine. “Absolutely on the steak.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “And the tarot thing — do you think it works?”
“She pulled a card for me.” I pause. “Then she showed me a place on Magnolia Street with a wraparound porch and a fig tree in the backyard.”
“Sounds like we should call her.”
“Mmmm, okay.” I nuzzle his warm skin, inhaling his lime-spice aftershave. “It's hard not to want to kiss you.”
“I know, babe. Hard same. But I have to get back to work.” Max glances around the nearly empty lobby and pulls me close. “Dang, look at that. Tate moves fast. He's already chatting that woman up.”
“All you Hastings men move fast.”
“That woman looks really familiar.”
I twist in Max's arms to peek. The woman has the most gorgeous, shiny, straight brown hair I've ever seen.
Long, past her shoulders. She looks like she should be watching a polo match or some luxury sport played by men with accents.
A sleek black suitcase sits nearby, and I'll bet she's the kind of traveler who can pack a month's worth of impossibly stylish clothing in a carry-on.
“One of your old girlfriends, perhaps?”
“No. Definitely not. You jealous?”
“Nope.” I give his shoulder a soft bite. “You're mine. I know it. You know it.”
“Damn straight I'm yours. No, she looks like someone I've seen in the news.”
I watch as Tate — dressed in a charcoal gray suit, not his usual faded T-shirt and cargo shorts — blasts her with his dazzling grin. The woman tucks her straight, brown hair behind her ear, and a blush creeps across her tanned cheeks.
“Oh, she's under his spell already. I think this is a record for Tate,” Max says.
“Shhh.”
“We're far enough away that they can't hear us.”
“Don't stare.”
“I'm serious. We've seen her somewhere. Who is she?”
The woman, who is taller than I am and wearing crisp white pants, a pink polo, and white sneakers, swivels her head in our direction and gives us a wary glance.
“Wait a minute,” I mutter, taking my phone out of my purse. “Wasn't she —”
I swipe and tap, and there she is on a celebrity news app, in photo after photo. “Babe. I know who she is. Her fiancé was caught in some scandal in Las Vegas a few months ago — it was everywhere.”
“That's right,” he hisses as he glances at my phone screen. “Isn't that — what's her name? The one from that tiny European principality?”
“Princess Isabella.” I lean in and whisper in Max's ear. “The tabloids called her the plain princess. But she's pretty. She's not plain at all.”
“I can tell Tate doesn't think she's plain.” Max grins.
“Should we go introduce ourselves?”
We stand there, watching the Princess and Tate flirt. Tate says something to the receptionist, who rummages around and hands him a folded brochure.
“Oh god, he's probably telling her about Salty Sadie's sunset pirate cruise,” Max groans.
I glance at him. “What's wrong with that? I've been meaning to buy tickets for us, by the way. I'm kind of fascinated by the pirate lore in Florida. Kate's been filling me in on all the legends.”
“I wouldn't think royalty would go for something touristy like that. Look at Tate. Any second he's going to ask her to dinner at the Casual Clam. I'm going back to work.”
“Wait. Should we say something to her? Welcome her?” I frown a little. “And why isn't she with an entourage if she's royalty? Something's weird about this.”
“Nah, we should leave her alone. She probably wants her privacy.” He kisses my forehead. “Especially after everything.”
Tate and the Princess shift so their backs are to us. They're standing shoulder-to-shoulder, poring over the brochure spread out on the reservation counter.
“Looks like she wants privacy with your brother... Max, oh my word, look.” I point. “Steve's sniffing her pillow. He probably thinks it's a toy because it kind of looks like that stuffed octopus your mom gave him. It's the same color.”
The dog is on his hind legs and scaling the Princess's suitcase, where her travel pillow is artfully draped on top. He grabs the U-shaped pillow in his small, stubby snout.
As Max and I rush forward, we watch in horror as Steve shakes the light blue plush object as if murder's the only thing in his walnut-sized brain.
“Steve, bad dog,” I shout. “Let go!”
Everything unfolds in slow motion. The dog drops the pillow on the floor and lifts his leg. Max yells, his voice echoing around the lobby.
Visions of vicious tabloid headlines about the newly renovated Magnolia Grand Resort fly through my mind. Scathing reviews. Total ruin.
I lunge for the dog while a startled Tate tears himself from his seduction.
“Noooo,” Max hollers.
But we're too late.
A long, yellow stream hits the royal pillow.
THE END