To be everything.
Epilogue
Roderick
April 12th, 1999
“Are you ready?”Kit asks as she straightens my tie, her fingers smoothing over the fabric like it’s the final stroke on a masterpiece.
“No.I’m wearing a fucking tie.”I dip down, catch her mouth with mine—part kiss, part silent plea for mercy.Maybe if I kiss her long enough, deep enough, she’ll forget this whole tie situation and let me ditch it altogether.
She doesn’t.
Everyone says it’s just for today.That this is temporary.That I can breathe through it, get through it, and go back to being myself after.But temporary has a way of overstaying its welcome.First, it’s a tie.Then it’s a blazer.Next thing I know, I’ll be asked to waltz into the office like I belong in a corner suite.I don’t.
I refuse to be that person.
It’s been nearly two years since I walked out of rehab and never looked back.Seven hundred fifty-eight days of sobriety.Seven hundred fifty-eight chances to fuck it all up—and somehow, I didn’t.
In that time, I learned how to cook without burning the apartment down.Earned an associate’s degree in business.Started a nonprofit.Got the girl.
That part?That’s everything.
Kit and I ...we’re us now.It all shifted that day I stood before her and confessed that I’d been the anonymous guy messaging her on EchoZone for months.That all those long, late-night conversations about lyrics, life, and everything in between?That was me.She looked me right in the eye and said, “Of course it was you.”
Of course it was.Who else would obsess over double meanings in David Bowie songs and spiral about their existential crises in the same thread?
These last two years with her have been a fucking dream—equal parts ordinary and extraordinary.I’ve watched her build a life she’s proud of.She launched a production company from scratch.Auditioned for a few philharmonics, each rejection hitting her a little too close, a little too personal.They told her she wasn’t a good fit.But she didn’t give up.She’s still practicing, still playing, still showing up.Maybe one day she’ll walk onstage at Carnegie Hall and play her heart out alongside someone she helped make shine.
After everything with her father’s agency unraveled, she took what was left—his estate—and used it to do something good.She poured the funds into the places we volunteer at every week.Places that actually help people.
The agents at D&D Talent were blacklisted.Deservedly.A whole damn chapter we avoid bringing up because it still tastes bitter.Bernice tried to ask Kit for severance, but all she got was a civil lawsuit from Alec.
The day Connor Dempsey died, the rot he’d hidden cracked wide open.Everything he destroyed came crawling into the light, and many people paid the price.
We’re okay now.Not perfect, but better.We fought for that.
“Okay, the tie is done,” Kit says with a soft sigh, tugging at the knot like she’s not entirely happy, then stepping back.“You behave until this is over.”
“Why are we doing this again?”I ask, even though I know the answer.
“It’s the opening of the youth center.”Her voice lifts like it’s supposed to cheer me up.“You have to look official, but after that I promise to take you home.”
Last December, I got my license back.After everything.After the DUI and the wreck and the fucking spiral, I clawed my way through the requirements and got the DMV’s stamp of cautious approval.
Not that I leave the house much.The thing is, I don’t need to.I have an office in the converted barn and run the non-profit from there.That’s the beauty of owning a ridiculous amount of land and dating a woman who’s halfway to building us a self-sustaining homestead.
We’ve got a greenhouse.Chickens.A root cellar in the works.Kit’s been stockpiling canned goods and powdered milk like it’s 1950 and we’re about to be bombed.Which, I guess, depending on which late-night news special you watch, might not be that far off.Everyone’s convinced Y2K will knock us back into the Dark Ages.There’s talk of the grid failing, planes dropping from the sky, banks eating our savings.Kit swears it’s probably bullshit but also insists we need to learn how to make our soap and maybe churn butter “just in case.”
So yeah.We’re ready to ride out the apocalypse with farm eggs, Beethoven on vinyl, and a stack of batteries taller than me.
“Not the point.”She rolls her eyes, but I catch the twitch of a smile threatening the corners of her mouth.“I know you don’t love crowds, but it’s thirty minutes.That’s it.In and out.”
“What’s at home?”I ask, pretending not to know exactly where I’m steering this.
She sighs like I’m exasperating, which is fair.“Me.Of course.”
“You naked?”
