I lower myself fully beside her, gathering her into my arms until her back is snug against my chest. She fits there perfectly,like the last piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving. I press a kiss to her shoulder, then another to the nape of her neck, breathing her in.
For the first time in years, the holiday doesn’t feel like a countdown to heartache. It feels like a beginning. Her hand finds mine where it rests on her stomach, and she laces our fingers together. A future, bright and terrifying and wonderful, stretches out before us, and for the first time, I’m not afraid to reach for it.
I hold her close, and I know, with a certainty that roots deep into my soul, that this is it. Everything I could ever ask for.
11
Mason
Epilogue
The scent of pine and woodsmoke hangs in the air, a crisp breath of freshness that feels right. From the sprawling deck of our cabin, I take in the sign planted in the dirt across the road.
SOLD.My favorite word now. One word ending the stress of dealing with the realtor.
A moving truck left hours ago, and now, a young couple is unpacking their lives inside. Nova’s already done the work of introducing us, making us seem friendly. It’s a strange thing, but I just go along with it.
“They seem nice,” Nova says, her voice a soft melody beside me as she steps out onto the deck. She comes to my side, her arm instinctively slipping around my waist. Her touch is still, after all this time, a brand and a balm.
She coaxes me inside, leading me to the kitchen. I spot a paper bag and two wine glasses waiting for us.
“It’s a celebration, Mason,” Nova reminds me, separating away from me. “A new beginning for them. And for us, too, in a way.”
I press a kiss to her hair. “You want a drink? To toast to them?”
She nods against my shoulder. “Sure.”
Moving to the wine rack, my fingers find the bottle of her favorite kind without having to look.
“How much should I pour for us? How long are we celebrating for?” I hope all night. Even if I shouldn’t fuel bad habits, Nova becomes very touchy and feely at even a single drop of alcohol. It feels like it’s been forever since we let go.
Selling that cabin and dealing with offers have taken up a lot of our time.
There’s a beat of silence from her end. I turn, bottle in hand, to see her pulling out a new bottle from the bag. Not a new brand of wine, but sparkling cider.
“Actually,” she says, her voice calm and impossibly steady. “I think I’ll have this.”
I pause, surprised. Pretty sure she doesn’t actually like that. New Year’s, she called it spicy grape juice.
She drifts past me, her movements fluid and purposeful. Reaching the glass, she pours her glass half-full. She holds it up, the smile on her lips softening as she sniffs the glass.
“Since it’s bad for the baby,” she explains, her gaze locked on mine, “you can drink the wine.”
I nod slowly, my brain sluggishly trying to process the words. “Yeah. Bad for the…”
The sentence dies in my throat. The world tilts on its axis. The bottle of wine almost slips from my hand.
The baby.
My eyes snap to hers, wide and disbelieving. “The baby?” The word is a rasp, tight in my throat.
Her composure finally breaks, and a beautiful, watery smile blossoms as she nods. “The baby.”
Forget the alcohol. I’m moving before I even consciously decide to, the bottle of wine forgotten on the counter. I cross the space between us in two long strides, my hands finding her waist, then sliding under her thighs to scoop her up into my arms. She lets out a small, surprised gasp that turns into a laugh as I hold her against my chest, her face level with mine.
With a laugh, she sets down her glass before we accidentally make a mess.
“The baby,” I breathe again, the word full of awe now, no longer a question but a confirmation. I’m shaking my head, but my eyes won’t leave hers. I can’t believe it. I can’t process the sheer, terrifying, magnificent magnitude of it.
