“So,” Jessica says, slightly breathless. “What now?”
I look out at the crowd—my neighbors, my friends, the family I never knew I was building. “Now we stay for the party. We all sign some books, and let Grandma Hensley take approximately seven hundred photos.”
And standing there on that stage, surrounded by people who somehow became family when I wasn't paying attention, holding hands with the woman who saw through every wall I ever built?—
I finally understand what I've been writing about all these years.
Love isn't just a feeling. It's a choice you make every day. It's showing up even when you're scared. It's letting people see you, really see you, even when you'd rather hide.
It's finding your people and holding on tight and trusting that they'll catch you when you fall.
“I love you,” I say to Jessica after we’ve left the stage and found a more private area to speak on the side of the house. I want to tell her every day for the rest of my life.
“I know,” she says. “You wrote a whole book about it.”
“I'll write you a hundred books.”
She bites her lip, suddenly looking almost shy. “Speaking of books...I've been working on mine. More seriously this time.”
My heart stutters. “Jessica.”
“It's still rough. Probably terrible. But I'm hoping to finish by next spring.” She shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the vulnerability underneath. “Maybe you could read it when it's ready.”
“I would be honored.” I pull her closer. “I mean it. I've been waiting to read your words since you told me you were writing.”
“It might be garbage.”
“All first drafts are garbage. That's what revision is for.”
She laughs. “You've said that before.”
“Because it's true. And because you're going to be brilliant.”
“Start with redecorating your apartment. We can discuss my literary career later.”
She pulls me back toward the crowd, where the book club is waiting with champagne and tissues.
And for the first time in my life, I don't feel like hiding.
I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Home.
EPILOGUE
DELILAH
One Year Later
Istand in the doorway of The Fiction Nook breathing vanilla candles, letting the scent calm my racing heart. Three days in Twin Waves, and I’m still adjusting to the fact that this is home now. That Mom’s florist shop—my florist shop—sits across the street from here. That I’ve left everything familiar behind for a fresh start in a town where I know exactly one person.
And that person is currently living in Florida, enjoying her well-earned retirement.
“Welcome to The Fiction Nook!” A woman with warm auburn hair looks up from behind the counter, her smile genuine. “Are you looking for anything specific, or just browsing?”
“Both?” I manage, moving farther into the room. “I’m new to town. Just taking inventory of the neighborhood.”
“Oh, wonderful! Welcome to Twin Waves.” She comes around the counter, extending her hand. “I’m Jessica. I own the shop.”
