“You can’t just make up rules for a celebration that doesn’t exist.”
“It exists to me!”
A year ago today, Ella Gibson was pronounced dead. Rest in peace, etcetera. When I woke up from surgery, my dad had done everything I’d asked him to do—with X, Y and Z’s help, we managed to fake a code in the middle ofthe night and pay off the right people to stay quiet. It took us a while to organize, and even when I was moved, I was still recovering, so I had to rely on my dad to do everything for me.
I didn’t know he hadn’t told Gable the plan. I wrote letters to the prison, all of which my dad kept without telling me. He said he did it because he needed Gable to understand the seriousness of what had happened, and honestly, I haven’t forgiven him for it. Gable didn’t deserve that, because none of this was his fault. It was cruel, and Gable hasn’t spoken to him since—not that I blame him.
My dad handed over to the drive to Internal Affairs, severing any connection with Ranger Luxe. The power Ranger held was gone, and even he must have understood how reckless it would be to kill the chief of police, so my dad has been safe—so far. We all know that could change quickly, especially given how quickly my bounty was picked up.
We’ll never know the reason Hunter tried to kill me that night. There’s every chance he just picked up the job and decided I was worth the money, despite him not needing it and one of his sons being in love with me. All we know for sure is that he saw me standing outside a building with someone, not realizing it was Asher. In trying to kill me, Hunter killed his son.
Gable still isn’t over it, but I don’t think he ever will be. He admitted that while he was locked away, he didn’t give a thought to Hunter and why he’d done what he did. He was more focused on me, and I honestly think he didn’t have the strength to process the betrayal. His heart is still broken over losing Asher, and finding out the person he cared most about had done it only deepened that wound.
We’ve both lost so much. I think about Matilda every day and have nightmares over what she probably went through with Ty. But day by day, we’re getting through it.
We’re both in therapy. A hell of a lot of it is needed, but sometimes it’s … exhausting. Painful. I buried what happened to me in that cabin until, one night, I broke. I sobbed in Gable’s arms, unable to form words, but I didn’t need them. He just held me, told me he’d always keep me safe, told me he loved me.
We share the pain, and we’ve got a long way to go, but we’ll get there. Together.
The fresh start has helped somewhat.
We’re in Canada now, in a small town where nothing much happens. Someone stole a trash can last week and it was all the neighbors could talk about. Gable andI plan on stealing another one soon, hoping to get a cool nickname in the local paper.
And of course, our names aren’t Ella and Gable anymore.
I’m Esme, and he’s Garrett. Keeping the letters seemed cool.
My dad’s middle name is Gideon, so we went for that as a surname after we got married.
Gable proposed during our first Christmas as a couple. Over s’mores and beers, cuddled together on the couch, he had Motor carry in a small, blue box with a ribbon wrapped around it.
I said yes before I even saw the ring, and Gable called me presumptuous.
“It could be earrings!” he’d said.
It wasn’t.
Being married to Gable is the same as dating him. I annoy him, he annoys me, we bicker, we make up with wild, animalistic sex. He still complains I’m too warm, I still tease him for his obsession with Oreos, and we still take long walks in the snow with Motor.
He holds my hand.
He tells me he loves me. I say it, too.
And once a year, we sit together, eat s’mores and read stories about Asher. Beneath the good memories, there’s a layer of guilt we’ll probably always have, but I think Asher would want us to be happy.
And I am so incredibly happy.
It is my Death Day, after all.
“I really don’t like celebrating the day I thought you died, Gibson,” Gable says, adjusting me on his lap so he can keep reading. I love that he still calls me Gibson—something we can only do behind closed doors. Our secret. Heshows me the pages I printed for him. “This is great, by the way.”
I grin. “I know. But you also said you knew I wasn’t dead. You felt it.”
His smile stops my heart as always. “Connected forever in your annoyingness.”
I snuggle into his chest, and he reads quietly, one arm around me.
Later, when we’re in bed, Motor curled up by our feet, Gable pulls my back to his chest, sighing softly into my hair. Our days are quiet now. Perfectly still. Everything we need after the hardest months of our lives.
