I think about how far we’ve come. From that one night in July to this moment right here. From me running scared to me choosing him, choosing us, choosing this life we’re building together. I’m finally letting myself believe in something I thought was impossible. He leans forward, cupping my face with his good hand, and kisses me. It’s soft and sweet and tastes like promise.
From the crib, Isla makes a small sound. We both turn to look at her—our daughter, sleeping peacefully in the room her father built, surrounded by love. And I realize I feel something I never thought I’d feel. Hope. Not the false god I convinced myself it was, but something real and solid and worth believing in. Hope for tomorrow. Hope for our future. Hope for all the messy, beautiful, imperfect moments ahead.
epilogue
. . .
Jake - Six Years Later
The backyard ismadness in the best possible way.
I’m standing at the grill, flipping burgers and trying to keep track of all the children running around the pool. My pool. In my backyard. With my wife inside getting more drinks and my daughters somewhere in the pack of kids screaming with laughter.
Forty years old. Never imagined it would look like this.
“Dad! Watch me!” Isla’s voice cuts through the noise. She’s standing at the edge of the pool in her purple swimsuit, goggles already on. Six years old and fearless.
“I’m watching!” I call back.
She jumps in with a spectacular cannonball that soaks Hazel, who’s sitting on the edge with her feet in the water, scrolling through her phone. At sixteen, Hazel’s too cool to swim with the little kids, but she’s good-natured about getting splashed.
“Nice one, Isla!” she calls, brushing water off her face.
Wyatt appears beside me, beer in hand. “You need a refill?”
“Not yet. How’s Ruby doing in the deep end?”
“Like a fish. She and Isla are trying to teach the younger ones how to dive.” He takes a sip of his beer. “June’s convinced she can do it, but she’s only five, so Blair’s hovering.”
I spot Blair in the pool, keeping a careful eye on her middle daughter while also managing Ivy, who’s three and determined to swim without her floaties. She’s managing three kids as efficiently and competently as she runs a talent agency.
“Where’s Brandon?” I ask.
“Kitchen, helping Nat with the drinks. Or trying to. You know how Natalie gets about her kitchen.”
I do know. Over the years the kitchen has become her domain. Not that I’m complaining, the woman can cook.
Stella emerges from the house carrying a tray of lemonade, Brandon right behind her with a tray of adult beverages. Their son Beckett is attached to Brandon’s leg, riding along.
“Drinks!” Stella announces. “And before anyone asks, yes, the lemonade is fresh-squeezed, and yes, Nat made me do it the hard way.”
Natalie follows them out, laughing. “I didn’t make you do anything. I just suggested that fresh is better than powder.”
“Suggested very firmly,” Stella says, grinning.
Natalie catches my eye across the yard and smiles. Six years of marriage and that smile still does things to my chest. She’s wearing a sundress and her hair is up in a messy bun, and she looks exactly like home.
“Mommy!” Sloan’s voice rises above the pool noise. Our three-year-old is paddling toward the shallow end in her mermaid floaties. “Look! I’m swimming!”
“I see you, baby! You’re doing so good!”
Sophia and Grant finally make it out back. Sophia’s carrying a bakery box that I’m hoping contains the chocolate cake she promised, while Grant has Violet perched on his shoulders. At five, Violet is tiny and fierce, just like her mom.
“Sorry for the delay,” Sophia says, kissing my cheek. “Someone decided she needed a wardrobe change right quick.”
“I wanted the sparkly one!” Violet announces.
“And you look beautiful,” I tell her.
