Epilogue
SUTTON
Standing by the lake, the water shimmering with the gold of the setting sun, memories of that fateful night flood my mind. Two years have passed since I stood here and told Laine that my feelings for her were genuine. And yet, the scene before me feels untouched by time—like the lake, the sky, and the smell of pine are holding their breath, waiting for something inevitable to unfold.
Life hasn’t unfolded exactly as I planned. I held out hope that the job with Imagineer Books would be doable from Montana. It wasn’t. And so, the final anchor to a life in New York slipped through my fingers. But instead of drowning, I reached for something steady—Laine.
For months, we built our lives on flights and FaceTime calls, on rushed weekends stolen from our calendars. She’d fly to Montana to sit with my father in the sunroom, wheeling him out to his favorite spot in the yard to watch the cows graze in the fields.
But somewhere between missed flights and tearful goodbyes at airport gates, we realized we couldn’t keep living in limbo. Laine moved to West River. Slowly, she built her world here—a small home on the outskirts of the ranch. Her laughter started to feel like part of the Montana wind, something that belonged here, with me.
Eventually, I found solace not just in Laine, but in something else—a new endeavor. I wrote a book. Something young Sutton would have needed. Something, I suppose, I still need.
From the tent pitched near the shore, Laine emerges, her hair tousled by the breeze and her grin wide enough to disarm the world. In her hands, she carries a gift wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red bow, the same shade as her lips.
As always, I gravitate toward her, drawn by that pull I still don’t entirely understand but no longer question.
She holds the gift out to me. “To changed plans.”
I unwrap it carefully, the paper crinkling under my fingers. Inside is a book—my book. I run my thumb across the title embossed on the cover: Echoes of Home.
“It’s the first proof copy,” Laine murmurs. “I convinced your agent to send it to me.” Her hand cradles my jaw, her thumb brushing lightly over my cheek. “I’m proud of you, Sutton. You always said you wanted to write stories that helped people. And now you have. You’ve done it.” Her voice catches. “Your dad would be so proud.”
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and meet her gaze, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. “Have you read the acknowledgments yet?”
She tilts her head, her brow arching in curiosity.
I hand her the book. “Last page. Last paragraph. Read it out loud.”
She turns to the final page, clears her throat, and begins to read.
“‘And last of all, thank you to the love of my life. Laine, this book wouldn’t be what it is without you. I wouldn’t be who I am without you. Falling in love with you wasn’t according to my plan. But here we are. Will you…’”
Her voice falters, cracking on the last words. When she looks up at me, her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and her lips part slightly, as if she’s trying to form a response but can’t find the words.
I step closer, taking the book from her trembling hands and setting it gently on a nearby stump. “I had a big evening planned to a T,” I admit, my voice low. “There were supposed to be fireworks, flowers, music. But this—right here, right now—feels better.”
She exhales a sharp breath, a teary laugh escaping her lips.
“Laine, will you marry me?”
The world stills, even the crickets going silent. It’s just her and me, nearing the edge of something vast and terrifying and beautiful.
Laine nods, her tears spilling over as a smile breaks across her face. “Yes, Sutton. Yes!”
Above us, the stars burn bright. The water laps gently at the shore—a quiet applause for a love that, against all odds, found its way home.