Epilogue
“Can we wear our trenches to the first event?”
I laugh from the walk-in closet. Reed comes up behind me, twists his arms around my torso, and nips my ear. “Only if we wear cute outfits underneath them. We can’t walk into the Union Square Barnes & Noble as a flasher couple.”
He presses his lips into my neck. “It’s in the book.”
I let go of the hanger I’m examining to lean into his chest. “Yeah, but stop one, no one’s going to have read the book.”
His chest rumbles against my back. “Mm, good point.”
Message in a Bottle by Reed Tyler and Rose Thyme (we needed at least one of our known names in there for brand recognition) comes out in three days.
We have an eleven-stop book tour over the next two weeks, and then we come back to our place in Atlanta to start shooting season two of Love Today.
Season one was kind of a Netflix rom-com phenomenon?
The internet was a tither with excitement and memes.
It was such a trip. And Reed has joined the Love Today writers’ room for season two.
“Should we bring the journal?” Reed murmurs, lips pressed to the slope of my shoulder. I stifle a shiver. “One jump left. Maybe we use it at the end of the tour, before we come back?”
I glance up at the leather notebook on the top shelf of our closet that now has both of our names carved into the back.
Our trips with it together have been some of the most magical days of my life.
Saying goodbye, in tandem with the release of our book about a long-distance relationship feels pretty poetic. “That sounds perfect,” I say quietly.
Reed nods behind me, before scraping his teeth up the slope of my neck. “I thought so too.”
I exhale a breathy laugh. “Are we going to leave packing to the very last minute?”
“Yes?” He kisses my cheek, and my chin, all the while directing us back out toward our bedroom. I swivel my head to the right and catch his full mouth. Glittering heat dances up my torso.
Ed Sheeran’s playing lightly from Reed’s Spotify.
When we step out into our blue-walled room, I stop short. There’s a long, flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper propped up against the shams on our blue-and-gold comforter.
I laugh. He’s made a habit of bestowing random, extremely thoughtful gifts on me this past year, and they always bring me so much joy. “What’d you do now?”
He casts his eyes skyward for a moment before pulling me tight against his chest again.
“We’ve had a good year—would you agree?” he says over my ear. I nod, closing my eyes as his voice rumbles through me. “The show got picked up for a second season after a week on the air. We wrote a book. I feel like living together’s going pretty well.”
I spin to face him, slipping my hands into his back pockets. “Agreed. We’re surprisingly good at this.”
He raises his brow. “I never doubted us.”
I scoff.
“Renee Granger. I know you stressed, I know you tired, I know you hangry, I know you happy, I know you sad. I love every iteration of you.”
“You can’t love me hangry. I’m so mean.”
“Hangry Rikki is sexy.”
I laugh.
“She loves to roast the shit out of me.”
“She’s cutting.”
“She’s hot and quick on her feet.”
“My favorite Reed is post shower. He’s cuddly and vulnerable and sexy all at the same time.”
“All right, we’re losing the plot here—I like this thing we’ve got going. And I think it’s worth celebrating. Do you agree?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Okay, go unwrap it.”
I walk over to the bed and start to tear the paper off.
“Oh! Is it a bottle-cap art?” The little triangle of paper I ripped from the middle has revealed a palette of gold, deep-metallic blue, and silver that matches our bedroom aesthetic. I stuff my hand through the hole and rip it in both ways. It’s words—It’s—
In giant metallic gold script against a backdrop that’s been painted to look like the universe . . . it says something real. The stars in the background behind the words form an infinity sign.
Emotion pricks at my eyes. “Reed, it’s perfect.”
I glance back at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, holding an early copy of Message in a Bottle, mouth rolled up the side of his face.
I narrow my eyes. “What? What’s happening?”
He slides off the bed, onto one knee, and holds out the book. “Rikki Romona. I know you’re convinced you’ve been cursed to be forever alone, but if you let me do the honor, I’d love to prove you very, very wrong.”
I laugh and hop off the bed, heart thrashing in my chest. I take the book from him. “What now?”
He snorts. “I’m thinking you open it.”
I inhale a stilted breath. “Are you sure?”
His mouth curls at the edges. “Don’t fucking play with me, Romona. Open the goddamn book.”
I pull open the hardcover to find that he’s carved up the entire inside and painted it white. He’s created a sort of circular word-spattered dais out of the pages to hold the coolest ring I’ve ever seen.
The gemstones are yellow and orange. They’re cut like a sun, glittering in the light with tiny white diamonds laced between.
The dark-gold band is made of delicate twisting pieces that rotate over and around themselves.
My hand’s shaking as I pick it up. Engraved on the inside in delicate script, it says see you at the airport.
That phrase is about to become our readers’.
But right now, in this moment, it’s still just ours.
It will always be ours. I clear my throat. “What if I said no?”
Whip-fast, Reed snags me up by my thighs. I’m laughing maniacally as we fall onto the bed. He hovers over me, smiling as I catch my breath.
I sober quickly, soaking in the adoration beaming out of his eyes. “I love you so much.”
He leans in closer, pushing a lock of hair off my face. “Is that a yes?”
I lock my legs around his torso, flip him onto his back. “Okay, yeah, but if we get married, like . . . what are the rules? Are we only married when we’re in the same state? And like friends when we’re not?”