On the far edge of the party, near a newly planted flower bed, my mother stands. She’s not in the center of the fray, but on the periphery, quietly helping Maggie hand out cups of punch. She still looks a little lost, a little out of place, but she’s here. Our eyes meet across the yard, and a brief, silent understanding passes between us. Not forgiveness, not yet. But a tentative, fragile step toward something new. Hope.
A warm hand slides around my waist, pulling me back against a hard, familiar chest. East.
“Busy, princess?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.
“Always,” I reply, leaning into him. His familiar strength is a comforting anchor. “You?”
“Just watching my kingdom,” he says softly.
He turns me in his arms, his gaze sweeping over the scene—the laughter, the music, the faces of our family and our town. His eyes land on Carol and me working together at the theater table. A slow, proud smile spreads across his face.
He pulls me in closer, his arms wrapping tightly around me, holding me against him as if I’m the only thing holding his world together.
“Declan told me to take care of you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his breath warm on my neck. “Seven years ago, lying in the gravel, he made me promise. I never really knew what that meant then. I thought it was just keeping you safe from him.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine, full of a deep, profound love. “I think… I think this is it. This. All of it. A home. A life. A future.”
He dips his head, his mouth finding mine in a slow, deep kiss that is a public declaration, a quiet promise, and a celebration all at once. It’s not about possession; it’s about partnership. It’s about two broken pieces finding each other and making something whole.
We are solid. We are home. And as the sun sets, casting long, golden shadows across the yard, I know, with absolute certainty, that our future is finally, beautifully, gloriously just beginning.
Epilogue
Darla
A Few Months Later
Thesmellofcoffee,a scent I once loved, is now my mortal enemy. I clamp a hand over my mouth as a wave of nausea rolls through me and make a desperate dash for the bathroom. This has been my morning routine for the past week. I tell myself it’s a stomach bug, a lingering flu, anything but the one, terrifying, exhilarating possibility that’s taking root in the back of my mind.
After, I’m leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink, my heart hammering against my ribs. I can’t ignore it anymore.
The two pink lines appear almost instantly, a stark, undeniable verdict on the little white stick. Positive. The world tilts on its axis, a slow, dizzying spin of pure shock that quickly gives way to a joy so potent it makes my eyes sting.
I press a hand to my still-flat stomach. A baby. A tiny piece of me and East. Our future.
I need to tell him. But how? The man alphabetizes his spice rack. A simple announcement feels… inadequate. It needs to be something special. Something us. A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. I know exactly what to do.
A quick, cryptic call to Frankie and a secret rendezvous later, I have it. It’s the most ridiculous and most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. A tiny leather vest, no bigger than my two hands put together, with a miniature, perfectly stitched Outsiders patch on the back.
That evening, I don’t put it on his meticulously organized bookshelf. I put it somewhere he can’t possibly miss it. I place it right in the middle of his pillow.
When he comes to bed that night, I’m pretending to read, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. He stops dead in the doorway. I watch his eyes go from me to the pillow. He just stares at the tiny cut, his face completely blank.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice a rough, uncertain thing.
My voice trembles. “I thought it was time we got the prospect their first cut.”
He looks from the tiny vest back to my face, and I see the moment the pieces click into place. The dawning realization. The shock. His eyes, usually so full of easy charm or cold fire, fill with a raw, unguarded emotion that makes my own tears spill over.
“Are you serious?” he chokes out, crossing the room in two strides. He sinks to his knees by the bed, his hand trembling, reaching out to touch the tiny patch. “Is this… are we…?”
I just nod, a teary, laughing sob escaping me. “We are.”
He lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob and buries his face in my lap, his shoulders shaking. I run my hands through his hair, my tears falling freely now. He pulls back, his face wet, and frames my face with his hands, his mouth crashing into mine in a kiss that is full of a joy so profound it feels sacred.
The next day, we’re in Sloane’s makeshift clinic at the clubhouse, the air smelling of antiseptic and a nervous, hopeful energy. East is holding my hand, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the small black-and-white screen of the portable ultrasound machine.
“Well, everything looks good,” Sloane says, a small, professional smile on her face as she moves the wand over my stomach. “And there’s a strong heartbeat.”
The sound fills the small room with a fast, frantic, beautiful rhythm, and East’s breath hitches. He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving the screen.
