Pen dabs her eyes. Marty whoops. Someone yells, “She’s something else, Callahan.”
I kiss her back.
Longer this time. With everything I never said, with everything I almost lost, with every note I thought I’d buried.
When we break apart, the lights stay bright. The crowd quiets. Not because they’re waiting, but because they understand.
This isn’t part of the show.
This is the finale.
The real one.
And as the hush wraps around us again, I realize that our love didn’t just happen by chance. It was already here, woven into late nights on porches, hidden in handwritten lyrics, buried in hurt and healing. It took a mess of mistakes and the matchmakers’ meddling to uncover it.
But now, love stands tall under the lights, happily on display, unbreakable, and ours.
It’s in the bravery we showed by being ourselves, the music we made, the truth we told out loud. And somehow, it feels as if the whole town is singing with us.
Love finally takes center stage.
Epilogue
Maisie
The spotlight is still warm on our skin, the stage alive with laughter and the dizzy joy of the unexpected, when the next chapter of our story begins.
The kiss has barely ended. My cheeks are flushed, my heart tumbling, and the whole town is on its feet—clapping, cheering, tearing up. Someone tosses a handful of rose petals into the air. They drift slowly in the early evening light as if the town itself is blessing this moment.
Beau stands beside me, eyes wide with wonder. The applause still rings in our ears, but I see something else in his expression, a stunned, glinting sort of awe that has nothing to do with the crowd, and everything to do with me.
Then suddenly, I see a shift in his expression, as when fog clears out over a harbor. It’s unmistakable, and his face settles into the kind of resolve I’ve only seen when Beau’s made up his mind to do something whole-heartedly.
He moves slightly, and without letting go of my hand, he lowers himself to one knee.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. I cover my mouth with a shaking hand, and my breath catches as he pulls a small burgundy velvet box from his pocket. He opens it, revealing a vintage ring, yellow gold with a rose-cut diamond, delicate and dazzling in its simplicity. I recognize it immediately.
It’s the ring I admired in an antique shop we discovered in the tiny town of Idaville about ten minutes north of Tillamook.
Beau looks up, voice wavering slightly, but full of conviction.
“Maisie Camille Quinn, will you marry me? Not someday. Not eventually. Right now. Tonight.”
My eyes sting. I nod so hard the floral scarf tying my hair back almost falls off. I’d knotted it there this morning, not knowing it would become part of something unforgettable.
Something unforgettable that I haven’t verbally confirmed yet. With exuberance that almost surprises myself, I answer loudly, “Yes, no longer fake boyfriend, Beau! Yes!!! Yes!!!”
I’m bouncing like a pogo stick. But then I look down and realize Beau is still kneeling, trying unsuccessfully to give me the engagement ring.
I laugh and stop being a Tigger. He grins widely as he slips the ring on my finger. It fits perfectly, as though it was meant to find its way to me. Beau must’ve gone back to Idaville another time. Because that’s the ring gleaming on my finger now. And we find ourselves kissing again.
Tess has been in on the plan the whole time. Of course she has. She must have smuggled one of my rings out of my apartment to make sure Beau got the ring resized properly, then smuggled both rings back into town. That friend of mine has become quite the stealthy ninja girl, and the moreI piece it together, the more I realize just how many thoughtful, behind-the-scenes ways she’s been showing up for me. She entered Beau in the matchmaking festival, and now she’s handling the secret details of a spontaneous wedding.
And it hits me like the loud crash of a gong. This whirlwind of a wedding isn’t some wild fluke. It’s possible because Beau and I planned for it, without knowing exactly how it would all pan out.
We’d already talked about waiting—for that physical bond to mean something more, to be rooted in intention and commitment. He wanted to be married. So did I. We didn’t map everything out, but we knew what we were building.
The day after our first real date, the shared milkshake and a long walk through Sweetpines, we were still riding the giddy, sort-of-maybe-almost-permanently-together feeling of it all. We were thrilled to be courting, which is perhaps the best word to describe where we found ourselves.
