Epilogue

Epilogue

Nicole

Mountain Crossing looked the same as we left it—not that we’d been gone that long, but it felt like a lifetime ago, two whole months on tour. The scenery out the passenger side window rolling by, the mountain all covered with snow as Christmas came on again—it was beautiful, but I was much more occupied with the beautiful sight in the driver’s seat next to me.

She wore her hair a little shorter these days, just barely past her shoulders, but she’d kept the same city-chic wardrobe no matter how long she spent making her indie records out here in Mountain Crossing. It didn’t matter how she wore her hair or what clothes she had on, though. She was Brooke Carston, and that was enough.

Or, she was Brooke Carston for another few months, anyway.

“Do you think your mom’s going to pass out?” I said, glancing down at the engagement ring sparkling on her finger. Only three weeks in, I still wasn’t used to seeing it, couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I was the one who’d put it there. Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever get used to seeing it.

“My mom?” She laughed. “Probably not. She’ll just pat me on the shoulder and say something like, oh, it’s about time, sweetheart. I think your mom will be the one to pass out.”

“Oh, that one was a foregone conclusion,” I said, turning the music up just one notch as the next song came on, God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen from her newest album. “Hey, listen to this one. I love this artist.”

“She loves you too, dear, but she’s heard more than enough of that one lately,” she sighed, but she didn’t turn it down, and I was smug about my girlfriend being a famous artist who’d just gotten back from a tour with me, so I settled back in my seat and left it on.

My fiancée. Right. I still couldn’t get my head around the fact that I could call her that, after a rooftop dinner at Michelin-starred restaurant Sapphire Dragon while we’d been on tour in Port Andrea, overlooking the bay. We’d been celebrating her biggest performance of the tour, and with the way the sunset sparkled over the water, I figured there was no better time than that to get down on one knee and ask her, hey, since we’ve basically known from when we were kids that we’d get married, do you want to just go ahead with it?

In—you know—different wording. Something a little more romantic.

The Carston house came up ahead of us before long, and Brooke let out a little laugh as she pulled into the driveway. “God, whole town’s here,” she said, looking at the line of cars packed in along the front.

“Well, of course. They’re celebrating their idol’s return. Mountain Crossing just about worships you, and I’m the one who gets to call you her girlfriend?” I put a hand to my chest. “Lucky.”

“Pretty sure you can call me something else now,” she said, putting the car in park and waggling her fingers at me. “Or else what’s the point of this very expensive ring you bought?”

“Oh my god. My fiancée. That’s even better.” I stretched out my arms, taking the opportunity to admire my own engagement ring. “I can only think of one thing that would be better to call you.”

“The woman who’s going to cook dinner for you tonight?”

I swatted her arm. “Oh my god. I’m trying to be romantic, dear. I’m talking about calling you my wife, and you know it.” I paused. “But… yes to dinner?”

She grinned, leaning in and planting a quick kiss on my lips. “You got it, Agent Silver.”

The snow fell down around us like soft white confetti heralding our return as we stepped out of the car and walked hand-in-hand up to the front door, where I could already hear the sounds of about every last person in Mountain Crossing chattering inside. I squeezed Brooke’s hand as we came up onto the front stoop.

“Might be noisy,” I said. “Especially once they see the rings. You know the code if you need me to invent a pretense and take you away.”

“I remembered the secret handshake better than you or Agent Banana, you know I remember the code, too,” she laughed, kicking the snow off her boots before she pushed open the door, into where the foyer was dressed up for Christmas. Garland and red ribbon ran along the stair banister, around a big Christmas tree dressed with red ornaments, and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas played from the next room—not from Brooke, but from an artist Brooke had performed with just two weeks ago and who I’d gotten to shake hands with, so saying it was surreal hearing her sing over the speakers now—getting engaged to a famous musician led to an interesting life. The smell of eggnog and gingerbread cookies filled the air, and I was so occupied with breathing it in once I stepped inside and knelt to take off my boots that I was caught off guard when Brooke shut the door behind us and called, “We’re home! And engaged.”

“Oh my god,” I sputtered, nearly falling flat on my face as I stood back up. “Dramatic entrance, much, dear?”

But we didn’t really get the chance to say anything else before the archway into the living room was flooded with people and noise, cheering celebrations as Brooke flashed her ring.

“Oh my god, Brooke,” my mom said, pushing to the front and pulling Brooke into a hug so tight I worried she’d break my fiancée’s ribs, “my sweet little daughter-in-law—I mean, not yet, technically, but—”

Sure enough, she looked like she was close to passing out. And sure enough, Mrs. Carston just gave us both a smug look as she came over and offered me a hug. “Welcome to the family,” she said. “Although you already were.”

“I’m sort of stealing your daughter, actually,” I laughed, stepping into the first of a dozen hugs I could see lined up for me. “She’s going to be the one to change her name…”

“Oh, thank the lord,” Mrs. Carston said. “I figured since she already had a following as Brooke Carston, she’d keep her name. I was so worried there’d be another two Mrs. Carstons to keep track of. Little Mrs. and Mrs. Livingston sounds much better, sweetie.”

“Took your time,” Daniel laughed, stepping up next in line to give me a hug. His was crushing, and I wheezed. “Finally, the last sibling gets married.”

“The last of two, Daniel,” I strained against his devastating hug. “And technically, we haven’t gotten married yet, and we never will if you kill me with this hug.”

He gave me one more near-fatal squeeze before he stepped back, eyes sparkling. Still dressed in that same corduroy jacket and newsboy cap as always, he looked like he hadn’t even gotten changed—like Brooke and I had stepped out for breakfast instead of a cross-country tour. “You made a good choice. Brooke’s a good one.”

“Well, she came back to town one day three years back, and someone kept reminding me she was single and queer.” I put my hands on my hips. “And by someone, I mean literally everyone I know.”

“You need a little pushing and prodding to actually do something to make yourself happy sometimes, you know,” he said. “You have a way of walking into a buffet and just getting a side salad.”

“I read your book, and it didn’t have anywhere near as many food metaphors as you always use. I know you can speak not in terms of food.”

He grinned. “Oh, my editor works hard making sure I mix it up sometimes. I use a lot of them otherwise. I call it my signature style. And it’s been selling like hotcakes, too, you know, so it’s all gravy.”

“Ugh, now you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Daniel,” Brooke said, coming over to give him a hug, but he stopped her. She didn’t even hesitate this time, going in for the secret handshake and then a hug where they both seemed to compete to out-crush the other. “Hey, you big oaf. How’s that second book coming along?”

“Good, you little oaf,” he said. “Publishing’s a slow process, but we’ll be getting publication dates for it soon.”

“Just gives you more time to dither and not write,” she said, stepping back from the hug, and he folded his arms.

“Oh, I see. You just think you get to be even meaner to me now that you’re going to be my sister-in-law. I see how it is, troublesome Mrs. Brooke Livingston.”

I could have fainted just listening to people call her Brooke Livingston. I wanted to get a recording of everyone I knew saying it and just listen to it on playback. Brooke Livingston and her wife, Nicole Livingston—also known as me. Was I swooning? I probably looked like I was swooning. She wasn’t even Brooke Livingston yet, and already I was swooning. When wasn’t I swooning over Brooke?

“Good news for you,” I said, nudging him in the shoulder, “is that soon enough you’ll have a poor innocent sister to harass at Smoky Mountain every morning again about how slow writing is when you don’t do it.”

“Oh, Nicole,” my mom said, pushing through to get to us. She handed me a mug of hot eggnog, and frankly nothing could possibly have sounded better right now, so I took it and sipped and nearly choked on it when she said, “When are you two having kids, then?”

“Uh—maybe later,” I said, once I regained speech. “Let us maybe get married first?”

She winked. “I’m just saying, if you two had a little slip-up and accidentally got pregnant early…”

I blinked. “Mom, that… we can’t do that.”

Brooke put a hand up. “All right, you rowdy lot, I’m getting a headache. Let’s go sit down, because Nicole and I have been driving since five and we need to rest.”

I loved seeing her vocalize her needs these days. A million times a day, I felt like I could burst with how proud I was of her.

“And eat,” Mr. Carston said. “I tell you, just about everyone in Mountain Crossing brought a different kind of Christmas cookies to celebrate our nationally acclaimed star, and the kitchen is about overflowing with the things now.”

“Good lord, Dad, I can’t eat that many cookies,” Brooke said, but I reached through the crowd and took her hand.

“I can,” I said. “I volunteer. You know—for this noble task.”

The party wound up being two in one: the celebration planned for Brooke coming back from her first tour as an indie artist, and the nationwide acclaim and stunning sales numbers from her first indie Christmas album, All Is Calm, along with an impromptu celebration of our engagement. We gathered around over food and drinks as people cried over us—some just shedding a single tear while giving us hearty pats and some blubbering until I worried they’d choke on their own tears—and Brooke and I recounted stories from our tour. One heartfelt speech after another congratulating us on our engagement had me sitting next to Brooke holding her hand and just ready to burst with how much I loved her, and—well, batting off the sheer number of people asking us when we’d have kids and how many we wanted.

Not that we didn’t know. We’d already talked it through with Daniel, because he and Georgia just wanted to have one kid but felt bad about them being an only child, and Brooke and I felt the same way. Raising one kid each side-by-side as cousins was the obvious answer.

But we didn’t need to get into all of that with every single person gushing over us, so Brooke and I just exchanged knowing looks with Daniel and Georgia every time it happened, and we’d say something like, we’ll get there when we’re ready.

And that was the beautiful thing. There was no rush, no expectations—just us, and the town we called home.

Brooke was exhausted once we got back to the cabin at the end of the day—our familiar cabin feeling like I hadn’t seen in ages, along with the little extra room built onto the side that served as Brooke’s recording studio. Mr. Travis had built it himself, mostly in an attempt to salvage his pride after his sunroom at his own house turned into an abstract art piece, but I loved the sight of it, knowing countless album sales had come from that one little room.

“Do you want me to cook dinner?” I laughed, watching the way Brooke stumbled into the front room, twilight creeping in over the valley past the balcony view. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Don’t worry. Give me two seconds, and I’ll look dead on my back on the sofa instead.”

I took her coat, hanging it up by the door as she stepped out of her shoes, and she headed into the den and collapsed straightaway onto the couch. I sat next to her, and sure enough, a second later, she was horizontal, her head on my lap as I stroked her hair.

“I’ll make dinner,” she mumbled. “Just give me two hours to take a quick nap first.”

“Darling, that’s not a quick nap.” I squeezed her hand. “But take all the time you need. After that much food for lunch, I think we’ll be full until midnight.”

“Probably,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s perfect, though. Gives us time to put up the decorations.”

And so we did. A few minutes later, Brooke fell asleep, and I put on a fire and pulled the bins of Christmas decorations out from under the stairs. Luckily, with a small place like this, it didn’t take a ton of decorations to make the place feel dressed up, and half an hour later, I woke Brooke back up with peppermint tea as we put up the Christmas tree.

Night had set by the time the tree was up, and through the valley we could see out the door, little houses and tiny strips of towns twinkled with Christmas lights, the snowy sweeps of the valley all aglow. I paused as I reached for the next ornament in the box, and like clockwork, the song ended on the speakers and the next one came on, Brook’s new version of Silent Night—the indie one on her latest album that, after countless hours with her around the cabin or in Smoky Mountain strumming chords slowly trying to find the right feeling, she’d played a beautifully simple version on our balcony one morning that left me breathless, and she’d been quiet for a long time before she whispered, I think that’s the one.

And she’d been right. The music critics had loved it, praising its distinctive feel above her original version, calling it whole, saying it felt like her entire soul was in it. And every time it played now—I’d played it a lot of times this year getting sentimental over her—I felt it all over again, what it was like to fall in love with Brooke.

“Here,” I said, pulling the ornament from the bin and handing it to Brooke. “This one’s ours.”

“Oh… the octo-reindeer,” she laughed, taking it gingerly. “Hey there, you creepy little bastard. Haven’t seen you in a year.”

I sighed, leaning against her, resting my head on her shoulder. “Let’s hang it up together.”

“Oh, you know I can’t say no to your mushy side,” she said, planting a kiss on the top of my head, before we locked hands on the ornament and hung it onto one bough of the tree together. “There. Now the creepy little guy can hang there reminding me how lucky I am to be with a much better artist than me.”

I snorted. “You’re perfect, Brooke. Just absolutely perfect.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so, because I’d like to marry you,” she said, kissing me again, and I laughed, sinking into her, meeting her lips with mine.

“I think that is a fantastic idea, my little partner in crime,” I murmured, my lips against hers, and she laughed quietly, pulling me into another kiss as the firelight danced over us and that song played through the room—that one song, Silent Night, that meant just one little thing, and meant everything, all at once.