15. Epilogue
Jared
I am absolutely going to drop this ring into the Atlantic Ocean.
The thought’s been circling my brain like an anxious seagull for the past hour, despite the fact that the box is strapped into my kayak’s front hatch with enough bungee cords to launch a small spacecraft. I’ve checked the waterproof seal approximately twenty times since we shoved off this morning.
Mila, naturally, is oblivious. She’s in full scientist mode, calling out across the water as her pencil flies across her clipboard.
“Nest twenty-three is showing definitive signs of imminent emergence,” she says, balancing the board on her knees. “Surface temperature dropped two degrees overnight, and we’ve got those telltale depressions around the perimeter. Priority monitoring for tonight.”
“Sounds perfect,” I manage, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile.
She doesn’t notice. When turtles are involved, the rest of the world vanishes. It’s one of the things I love most about her.
And I love a lot of things about her.
It’s been exactly eleven weeks since she showed up with apologies in her eyes and a clipboard in her arms. Nearly three months of sunrise paddles, Sunday family dinners, York’s endless turtle questions, and Pete sneaking her lemon bars like they’re classified contraband.
I know some people will say we moved too fast. But as the saying goes, when you know, you know.
And if I know anything, it’s that Mila is the woman of my dreams, and I’d be a fool not to put a ring on it.
By the time we reach the beach and haul the kayaks onto the sand, my pulse is doing double-time. The evening is pure magic—pink sky, clear water, and the kind of gentle breeze that makes you believe in perfect timing.
When we finish the survey, I spread out the blanket she keeps in her dry bag and we settle in to watch the light fade. She leans against my shoulder with a sigh. “I think we’re finished. All of our known nests have hatched for the season. It’s time to put down my clipboard.”
“Actually,” I say, reaching for the hatch with shaking hands, “there’s one more thing we need to document.”
Her head tilts. Curious. Expectant.
I pull out the box.
Her eyes go wide, and suddenly I don’t hear the ocean or the gulls or even my own thundering heartbeat. My entire focus is on her beautiful face.
“Mila Aronson,” I say, voice rough but sure, “this summer with you has been the best of my life. You’re my favorite discovery, my greatest adventure, and the only woman I ever want to paddle through life with. Will you marry me?”
Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes brimming. And then she laughs—bright, beautiful, unstoppable—and tackles me onto the sand hard enough to nearly knock the ring box from my grip.
“Yes!” she says, laughing and crying at once. “Absolutely, yes!”
I slip the ring onto her finger. A simple solitaire, catching the sunset light like a tiny flame. She stares at it as if it’s the most miraculous thing she’s ever seen.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers.
“You’re perfect,” I say, and mean every word.
She grins through her tears. “You realize this means we have to name a few hatchlings after you next season. Jared Junior, Jared the Second…”
“As long as they’re the fastest ones,” I tease, pulling her close.
“Deal.”
And right there, on our favorite stretch of beach with the ocean at our feet and her laughter in my ears, I know with absolute certainty that finding the right woman—my perfect fit—was worth the wait.