“He has no idea he was giving us the perfect ending to the strangest love story ever told.”
“Strange, maybe. But ours.”
Ben spins me around the empty suite, my dress flowing around us. When he sets me down, we’re both laughing, both glowing with the kind of happiness that comes from finally being exactly where you belong.
EPILOGUE
BEN - ONE YEAR LATER
The Puerto Rican beach stretches endlessly in both directions, white sand meeting turquoise water under a sky so blue it looks like something out of a postcard. I’m lying on a blanket next to my wife, my actual wife, not my fake fiancée or best friend, watching her paint watercolor sketches of the ocean while I hold a book I haven’t opened in an hour.
A year ago, the idea of taking two weeks off work would have given me physical anxiety. The thought of being unreachable, of deals progressing without my input, of the company running without my constant oversight, would have been enough to trigger a panic attack.
Now, I can’t remember the last time I checked my email.
“You’re staring at me again,” Freya says without looking up from her sketchpad, her voice warm with amusement.
“Can you blame me? My wife is beautiful and talented, and she’s wearing that bikini I bought her in St. Thomas last month.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Lawlor.”
“I certainly hope so.”
She sets down her brush and turns to smile at me, and my heart still does that ridiculous skip it’s been doing for the past year. Even after twelve months of marriage, of waking up next to her every morning and falling asleep with her in my arms every night, I sometimes can’t believe this is my life.
“How’s the painting coming?” I ask, scooting closer to see her work.
“Good. The light here is incredible. Look at the way it plays on the water.” She shows me the sketch: loose, impressionistic strokes that somehow capture the movement and vitality of the ocean better than any photograph could.
“It’s perfect. You should do a whole series of these when we get home.”
“Maybe I will. I’ve been thinking about exploring travel as a theme for my next exhibition.”
The ease with which she talks about her next exhibition fills me with pride. This time last year, Freya was struggling to get gallery owners to even look at her work. Now, after the success of her show at The Jetson and the attention that followed, she has galleries competing for the chance to represent her.
The painting that launched everything, the one she created during that awful period when we were both lying to ourselves about our feelings, ended up being acquired by the Art Institute of Chicago. When we went to see it hanging in the museum, Freya cried. I almost cried too, thinking about how that piece came from such a dark moment in both our lives, and how far we’ve traveled since then.
“Speaking of travel,” I say, pulling her closer so she’s nestled against my side, “where should we go for our next adventure? We’ve done Japan, Italy, Greece…”
“Mm, somewhere with great food and amazing art. Maybe Morocco? Or we could finally do that African safari you mentioned.”
Over the past year, we’ve traveled more than I did in the previous decade combined. The Japanese honeymoon we originally planned as part of our business arrangement turned into three magical weeks exploring Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka together. Since then, we’ve managed to take at least one international trip every quarter, along with countless weekend getaways around the United States.
Learning to delegate, to trust my team, to believe that SkyNova can function without my micromanagement has been one of the most difficult and rewarding challenges of my adult life. Anthony deserves most of the credit. He’s basically been running my calendar and managing my priorities to ensure I take the time off I promise Freya.
“The wind farm projects are practically running themselves at this point,” I say, thinking out loud. “Red’s been amazing to work with, and the Texas operation has exceeded every projection. We could probably manage a month away if we wanted to.”
“A month?” Freya raises an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic husband?”
“Your husband learned that there are more important things than quarterly earnings reports.”
“Such as?”
“Such as watching you discover that you enjoy snorkeling in Greece. Such as getting lost in back alleys in Tokyo because we were too proud to ask for directions. Such as lying on a beach in Puerto Rico with the woman I adore, talking about our next adventure.”
Freya smiles and leans up to kiss me, soft and sweet and tasting like the tropical fruit we shared for lunch. “I cherish our life,” she says simply.
“So do I.”
