Extended Epilogue
Sarah
Two Years Later
Sunday morning light came through the curtains in stripes, falling across the bed in warm bands. Sarah woke slowly, the way she only ever woke on Sundays—no alarm, no agenda, just the gradual awareness of Lizzie’s body pressed against her back and Lizzie’s hand tracing lazy circles on her stomach.
“You’re awake,” Lizzie murmured against her shoulder.
“I am now.” Sarah shifted back into her, pulling the sheet up even though the room was already warm.
“Good.” Lizzie’s hand drifted lower, skating across her hip, her fingertips brushing the crease of her thigh. Sarah’s breath caught. She could feel Lizzie smile against her shoulder.
“We should get up,” Sarah said, though she was already tilting her hips into Lizzie’s touch.
“We should stay right here.” Lizzie’s mouth was on her neck now, warm and unhurried, pressing slow, open kisses along the curve of her shoulder while her hand moved between Sarah’s thighs. “Your mom and Jasper don’t get here until tomorrow.”
“That’s true.”
“And we don’t have a single thing we need to do today.”
Sarah couldn’t argue with that. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into it—Lizzie’s mouth on her neck, Lizzie’s hand between her legs, the slow build of heat in her belly.
Two years of mornings like this and she still felt a pull of disbelief every time, that this was her life now, that she was allowed to have this.
She’d spent fifteen years in a marriage built on friendship and mutual respect, and she wouldn’t trade those years with Billy for anything, but this was something else entirely.
This was the kind of want that didn’t fade with familiarity.
It only got sharper because she knew exactly what was coming and wanted it anyway.
“You’re already so wet,” Lizzie whispered against her ear.
“I was dreaming about you.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll show you later. Right now just—” Sarah’s breath hitched as Lizzie’s touch found exactly the right spot. “Right now just keep doing that.”
Lizzie knew her body. That was what two years gave you—not routine but fluency, the difference between reading from a phrasebook and thinking in the language.
Lizzie knew that Sarah liked to be touched slowly at first, liked the build more than the rush, liked being held from behind where she could close her eyes and just feel without worrying about what her face was doing.
Sarah had spent so many years keeping her expression controlled, keeping every reaction measured and professional.
In bed with Lizzie she didn’t have to perform anything. She could just let go.
Lizzie’s touch was slow and deliberate, circling Sarah’s clit with a pressure that was just enough to make her hips rock forward but not enough to take her over. Sarah reached back and gripped Lizzie’s thigh, pulling her closer, needing the full length of Lizzie’s body against her back.
“More,” she breathed.
Lizzie gave her more. She shifted the angle, pressed harder, and Sarah heard herself make a sound that would have embarrassed her in any other context.
Lizzie’s free arm slid under her, wrapping around her chest and holding her close while her other hand kept working between her legs.
Sarah felt held in a way that went beyond the physical—contained, safe, like she could fall as hard as she wanted and Lizzie would catch her.
She came like that, on her side, with Lizzie’s arm around her and Lizzie’s mouth on her neck and the morning sun warm on her face.
It was slow and rolling and it went on and on, spreading through her body in waves rather than hitting all at once, and Lizzie held her through the whole thing, whispering words Sarah couldn’t quite make out but that she felt in her chest.
When it was over, she turned in Lizzie’s arms and kissed her, long and deep and grateful. Lizzie’s cheeks were flushed and her breathing was unsteady, and Sarah recognized that look—the one that said touching Sarah had wound her up just as much.
“Come here,” Sarah said, and rolled Lizzie onto her back.
Lizzie let herself be moved, her hair fanning across the pillow, her arms going above her head in that unconscious way she had that always made Sarah’s mouth go dry.
Sarah didn’t rush. She kissed Lizzie’s throat, the dip of her collarbone, the freckle on her left breast that she’d memorized the first time they slept together in Key West and could still find with her eyes closed.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Lizzie said, her voice already thick.
“What thing?”
“Where you kiss every single part of me like you’re trying to catalogue me.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’ve had two years to catalogue me. You could do it in your sleep.”
“I still like the research.” Sarah kissed down Lizzie’s stomach and felt the muscles contract under her lips. Lizzie’s hand came to her hair, not pulling, just resting there, fingertips moving against her scalp.
Sarah pressed her mouth to the inside of her thigh.
Lizzie’s breath stuttered. Sarah loved this part—the anticipation, the tension, the way Lizzie’s whole body went taut and still, waiting.
She kissed the other thigh, then higher, and when she finally put her mouth where Lizzie wanted it, the sound Lizzie made was worth every second of the wait.
She took her time. She knew what Lizzie liked—the broad, flat strokes first, slow and thorough, building sensation in layers before narrowing down to focus on her clit.
She knew the exact moment Lizzie’s body shifted from lazy pleasure to urgent need because her hand tightened in Sarah’s hair and her hips started moving in small, involuntary circles.
Sarah could have taken her over the edge right then.
She knew how. Two years of practice had given her a map of this body as detailed as any blueprint she’d ever studied for a hotel renovation.
But she eased off instead, moved her mouth to Lizzie’s inner thigh, kissed the soft skin there while Lizzie made a frustrated sound above her.
“Sarah, I swear to God—”
“Patience.”
“I don’t have any. You used it all up.”
Sarah laughed against her skin and went back, and this time she didn’t hold back.
She used her mouth and her tongue and the heel of her hand, pressing against Lizzie’s center while her mouth worked her clit, and the combination made Lizzie’s whole body arch off the bed.
Sarah stayed with her, matching the rhythm of Lizzie’s hips, letting her set the pace while Sarah gave her everything she needed.
Lizzie came with a cry that echoed off the bedroom walls, her hand fisting in Sarah’s hair, her thighs clamping around Sarah’s head for a breathless moment before going slack.
Sarah pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and crawled back up.
Lizzie pulled her in immediately, kissing her hard, tasting herself on Sarah’s mouth.
Then she just held on, her face pressed into Sarah’s neck, her breathing ragged.
Sarah stroked her hair and waited. She’d learned that Lizzie sometimes needed a minute afterward, not because anything was wrong, but because the intimacy overwhelmed her.
Lizzie felt things so deeply. It was one of the reasons she was a good writer.
It was one of the reasons Sarah loved her.
They lay tangled together, Lizzie’s head on Sarah’s chest, Sarah’s fingers combing through her hair. The ceiling fan turned above them in lazy circles and somewhere outside a rooster crowed because this was Key West and roosters didn’t care what day it was.
“The inn’s doing really well,” Lizzie said after a while. Her voice had that quiet roughness to it that always made Sarah want to start all over again.
“Fully booked through spring.” Sarah kissed the top of her head. “Are you worried about something?”
“Not worried, exactly. Just thinking about how different everything is now. Two years ago we were fighting for your reputation and your career, and I was trying to finish school remotely while pretending I wasn’t terrified about the future.
” Lizzie traced a line along Sarah’s collarbone.
“And now we have this place. We have a life.”
Sarah understood what she meant. Two years ago the lawsuit had still been hanging over them.
Now they ran a bed and breakfast that Sarah had poured her heart into renovating—choosing every tile, every paint color, every piece of furniture.
Lizzie had finished her creative writing degree remotely and her first novel had been published last year.
It wasn’t a bestseller, but the reviews had been strong and the sales solid enough that her agent had landed her a contract for a second book.
Sarah had stepped back from her role as not only chairperson of the Barnes Hotel chain, but also from any connection to the Carlson Seaside.
She remained the majority shareholder, however, but let others run the business.
Jonathan, who had remained sober, had taken a gradually larger role in the business, with the two of them on better footing.
Derek had been fired eighteen months ago when the board discovered he’d been the one who originally approached the Gazette with information about Sarah.
Not Cynthia, not some anonymous source. Sarah had felt nothing but relief, and maybe a small, petty flash of satisfaction she chose not to examine too closely.
“Your mom and Jasper are staying through the weekend?” Sarah asked, running her thumb along Lizzie’s shoulder.
“The whole weekend. Both her brothers are in college now, so it’s just the two of them, and Jasper’s been wanting to come down to Key West again since the wedding we went to last spring.
” Lizzie propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Sarah with that expression she got when she was working up to something.
“Maya texted me yesterday, by the way. She’s thinking about coming down next month for a long weekend. ”
“That would be great. I liked her the last time she visited.” Maya had come down twice now from New York, Lizzie’s closest friend from college, and Sarah had genuinely enjoyed her company.
She was loud and opinionated and made Lizzie laugh in a way that reminded Sarah of how young Lizzie still was sometimes—not in a bad way, but in a way that made Sarah grateful that Lizzie still carried that lightness despite everything they’d been through.
“And Chrisla said she can come over from Miami the same weekend if we want to make it a thing.”
Sarah smiled. Chrisla had moved to Miami a year ago after finishing nursing school, but she came back to visit regularly. She and Lizzie had stayed close, and Sarah was glad for it.
“We should plan something. Take them out on the water. Make a weekend of it.”
Lizzie grinned. “Look at you being social.”
“I can be social.”
“You can be social when I drag you into it.”
Sarah pinched her side and Lizzie yelped and rolled away, laughing.
They settled back together, legs intertwined, and for a few minutes they just lay there listening to Key West waking up outside their window—a scooter buzzing past, someone calling out in Spanish, the clatter of the café two doors down setting out chairs.
“Have you checked your phone yet?” Lizzie asked, and there was something careful in her voice that made Sarah go still.
“No. Why?”
“Because Dr. Reeves said she’d call this weekend with the results.”
The air in the room changed. Sarah felt it in her chest, a tightening, a held breath.
They’d been waiting for this call for two weeks.
Their surrogate, a kind, steady woman named Grace whom they’d found through an agency in Fort Lauderdale, had done the embryo transfer eighteen days ago.
Sarah and Lizzie had spent the last four days swinging between hope and dread, trying not to talk about it every five minutes and failing spectacularly.
“It’s Sunday.” Sarah’s heart was hammering. “She might not call today.”
“She said this weekend. She knows we’re going out of our minds.”
Sarah reached for her phone on the nightstand. Her lips parted. “There’s an email.” Sarah slipped next to Lizzie and wrapped her arm around her while opening the email with the other. And then, they both gasped.
“Grace is pregnant,” Lizzie whispered.
Sarah’s vision blurred.
“We’re having a baby,” Lizzie whispered.
“We’re having a baby.”
They lay there wrapped around each other for a long time, talking about nurseries and names and all the things they’d need to do in the months ahead.
Who would tell whom first. Whether Carlos would cry.
Whether Esmeralda would immediately start knitting.
They laughed and cried and talked over each other and it was messy and perfect.
Sarah thought about the road that had brought them here.
The lawsuit settled. Her parents in treatment, money set aside for them in a trust they couldn’t touch.
Her reputation not fully restored but solid enough that it didn’t keep her up at night anymore.
The inn thriving under their care—the Writers Inn, with its hand-painted sign and its bookshelves in every room and the framed first page of Lizzie’s novel hanging behind the front desk.
And now this. A baby.
“I love you,” Sarah said.
“I love you too.” Lizzie pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes still wet, smiling so wide it looked like it hurt. “We should probably get out of bed at some point.”
“Probably.”
Neither of them moved. Outside, Key West hummed with Sunday morning life—scooters buzzing down the street, tourists heading toward Duval, the roosters still crowing like they had important announcements of their own.
Inside, Sarah held the woman she loved and thought about the life growing somewhere across the water in Fort Lauderdale, and she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Not lucky. That wasn’t the right word. Lucky was what happened to you. This was something she’d fought for, built, chosen—every day, through every hard thing, she had chosen this.
She felt whole.
They stayed in bed until noon, making plans and promises and love. The rest of the world could wait.
Today was theirs.
THE END
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