Epilogue

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER

The wheels of the plane kiss the tarmac, a lover's gentle peck that jars me back to reality from my slumber. I peer out of the window, my eyes tracing the alien contours of the Phuket airport, the green hills rising in the distance.

Beside me, Dallas playfully nudges my arm, his voice light, joking.

"How's that view, Mr. Proctor?"

I can hear the smile in his words, a private joke dancing on his lips about the minor victory of securing the window seat when we were boarding ten hours ago. I glance at him, the corners of my mouth tilting upwards. I'm still learning how to do this, how to smile more, how to laugh more.

"Can't complain," I retort, but beneath the banter, my stomach still coils tight. Customs looms ahead, an invisible hurdle—however insignificant—we're yet to clear before we're truly free.

"Let's not get arrested for murder before we even start our honeymoon," Dallas quips, and I manage a stifled chuckle.

The plane crew finally gives the okay to vacate our seats.

We rise with the tide of passengers, a sea of bodies eager to spill into new beginnings. All around us are people speaking another language, mostly Russian.

As we shuffle down the aisle, my mind retreats into the labyrinth of our journey–from Panama where Arlo took us and where I had to pull some favors, to Colombia, where Vlad's contact was our unlikely help, shepherding us across the Atlantic waters aboard a cargo plane. I suspected this was how Vlad moved product across the ocean. Be it drugs or guns or whatever else. I didn't ask. It didn't matter because I wasn't part of that world anymore.

Russia was a cold interlude, a place where our breaths crystallized before our faces as we plotted a path to Thailand, piecing together funds like a patchwork quilt of desperation and ingenuity.

Now, as the cabin door opens, forcing us into the sultry embrace of Thai air, too many emotions tangle within me. Jeremy's assurances about the passports echo in my mind, a mantra I cling to despite the doubt.

Then we step into the noise of the terminal. Dallas throws me a sidelong glance, his blue eyes a striking contrast against the sea of strangers.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter.

The line we're in moves through the bright space of Phuket's airport fast. Faster than I expected. I shuffle forward, my shoes scuffing against the polished floor, as voices continue to blend around us—Russian, Thai, a smattering of other languages I can't untangle. Dallas is silent beside me, exuding calm I can't seem to muster. And then I remember that unlike me he's been overseas before.

"Mr. and Mr. Proctor?" The customs officer's voice is clipped and heavy accented, his eyes scanning our faces with practiced indifference as he checks the photos in the passports we hand him. But he's smiling. And I can't help it—I smile back.

"What's the purpose of your visit to Thailand?" the officer asks.

"Honeymoon," Dallas replies, not missing a beat.

The officer's stamp thuds against our passports, the sound absurdly loud in my ears. "Enjoy your honeymoon."

"Thanks" is all I manage before we're waved through, past the threshold where suspicion could've spelled our doom. No alarm bells ring, no hands grab at our shoulders. Just the steady hum of an airport indifferent to our past identities.

"Can you believe it, baby?" Dallas murmurs in my ear as we push past the throng of travelers and follow the signs toward the terminal exit.

"I may need you to pinch me." My reply is a half-whisper, a secret meant only for him, "Just maybe not here."

"I can do more than that," he rasps against my cheek before pulling back a little.

We emerge into the open space beyond customs, and then I see it—two men locked in an embrace, unashamed and unguarded. One with a roller bag still clutched in his hand. Their lips meet in a kiss that speaks of longing and relief.

Envy—the good kind—and yearning stir up inside me.

Without a word, I reach out to grab Dallas's free hand. His fingers entwine with mine, a silent vow made in flesh. It feels alien yet right, this simple act of connection, and I grip him harder, holding on to something I never knew I craved.

"What now, Mr. Proctor?" I ask him as we walk outside. My voice cracks, betraying the uncertainty still filling my mind.

Dallas turns to me, his smile is big and contagious. "Now we figure out how to make money."

"The legit way."

"Of course. You do realize the Proctors are straight shooters. Don't even drink, smoke, or gamble."

"I don't know if I can give it all up."

"Well, never say never."

"Guess we'll have to find some new vices then," I reply, squeezing his hand tighter.

"Or maybe," he muses, "we learn to live without them."

Our laughter is a brief flare in the twilight of our old selves as we step into the sweltering embrace of a country vibrant with light and color—a world away from the shadows we once called home. Here, under the vast expanse of a sky tinged with the promise of a beautiful life, we walk side by side, finally free to be what we've always wanted to be. Ourselves.

THE END