“You live in Tennessee,” I say like I’m explaining basic math. “My life is a bookstore in Colorado.”
“I’m getting too old for the road,” he says, as if it all adds up.
I roll my eyes. “You’re notthatold.”
“Old enough to know I don’t want to spend whatever I’ve got left living out of that.” He tips his head toward the duffel by the door. “I want a quieter life.” He threads his fingers through my hair. “With more books in it.”
Now he’s truly speaking my love language. “How many books?”
“A whole store’s worth, if the owner will let me hang around.”
I couldn’t stop smiling if you paid me. “I’m all about the books.”
“I’m all about you.” He pulls me in all the way, and our kiss is slow and certain. A promise and a vow.
When we finally break apart, I tuck my forehead beneath his chin. His heart beats steadily against my cheek, and I think about the hit that made him a legend twenty years ago, before he disappeared into a different future.
“You once sang that luck was a thing that happened to you,” I tell him. “Like you were just standing in the right spot when the sky opened up.”
“It felt that way for a long time,” he says into my hair.
“This isn’t that.” I tip my head back and cup my hands around his face because I don’t want him to miss a single word. “We didn’t get lucky, Nashville. This is a thing we made on purpose. And the best part is that we get to keep making it, for as long as we both keep choosing to.”
“I choose you forever, Sloane.” His arms tighten around me. Then, against the top of my head, soft enough that I feel the words more than hear them, he whispers, “Lucky me.”
Lucky us.
EPILOGUE
SLOANE
The Following May
Molly’s bathroomcounter is buried under five open eyeshadow palettes, a curling iron that’s tripped the breaker twice, and enough hair product to stock a small Sephora.
I’m so damn happy watching my six best friends alternately cram into the space while a Bluetooth speaker blasts Avah’s “elite” throwback playlist. Did you catch the figurative air quotes around elite? I stand by those, but every time one of us complains, Avah turns up the volume.
“You can’t follow Ke$ha with an Adele ballad,” Iris says. “I’m getting vibe whiplash.”
“Love me, love my vibe,” Avah counters as she leans toward the mirror to apply a coat of mascara. “We’re honoring an entire era here.”
The era is my senior year of high school, when I didn’t make it to my prom. I still can’t believe Jensen remembered the story, but one of his most annoying and also amazing skills is the ability to hear all the things I don’t say, even when they mean the most.
So tonight, Molly and Chase are hosting the Cool Girl Book Club prom in their barn. All because the man I love heard a throwaway story about a ruined dress and a missed teenage milestone and decided to give me a new memory to replace it.
I still don’t know the theme, although Jensen has been working on decorations for a week. He and the rest of the guys, along with Molly’s twins, spent most of last night getting the barn ready for the big event. Word on the street is my brother developed an unnatural attachment to the staple gun. That was as much detail as Jensen was willing to give me when he crawled into bed after eleven, but he promised the surprise would be worth waiting for.
I love that he fits here with my found-family friends. The nine months of back-and-forth between Skylark and Tennessee haven’t been easy, but they’ve solidified Jensen’s place among my people. Chase and the twins take him on long trail rides while Ian drags him to the gym and calls it altitude acclimation. He’s a regular at Eric’s pick-up hockey games and has read all of Jake’s books. He even cheers for Felix and the Denver Grizzlies every Sunday during football season, so long as they aren’t playing Tennessee. It took Jeremy a minute to warm up, but the day my brother realized Jensen could handle a fly rod, their bromance was born.
It’s been a lot of miles and logistics as we both traveled back and forth. We’re making it work, and I’d choose the effort a million times over.
Molly tips my chin up with two fingers and goes after my lash line with a pencil. “Hold still, lady. I’m not sending you down those stairs with one raccoon eye.”
“Jensen would try to convince everyone it’s his favorite look,” Taylor says with a laugh.
I try to hide my smile, but warmth rushes through me in happy waves because she isn’t wrong.
Piper gently rocks her three-month-old from her perch on the edge of the tub. Isla’s onesie reads “Daddy’s Girl. Backoff.”, and she’s holding onto a fistful of Piper’s blonde hair like she never plans to let go.
