19. Epilogue

Epilogue

I was going to kill Rivers. I didn't know when, and I didn't know how, but Rivers Rivera was a dead man. If he thought that abandoning me when I needed him most could be forgiven and forgotten, he was out of his damn mind.

There was a knock on the dressing room door, followed by a voice calling out from the other side. "Ready when you are, Phillip."

I swiveled around on my stool, glaring at Jordan, but he was too busy playing on that damn tablet of his to pay me any mind. I fully planned on reprimanding him later. "Would it kill you to pay the slightest bit of attention to me? It's what I pay you for."

He rolled his eyes. "For the nine-hundredth time this week, you don't pay me, Phillip."

"Well, with that attitude, can you blame me?" I demanded. Jordan powered down his tablet and hopped off the small dressing room sofa before making his way over to me. He eyed me curiously, and then he grabbed a foam applicator from the table and splotched it across my face.

"Helpless," he said. "You're absolutely helpless without me."

"Which is why you're not allowed to quit," I reminded him. "I know you have this big dream of domesticity, but if you even think of abandoning me, I'll lock you in the basement and throw away the key."

"You don't have a basement," he reminded me, setting the applicator back in its place.

"We have a wine cellar. It will suffice."

He took a step back and eyed me up and down, checking to make sure I was camera ready. "Acceptable, I suppose."

"You're fired," I said, flinging my hands in the air. "Honest to God, it's like you're actively trying to humiliate me. Is that how you roll now, Jordy? Shatter my self-confidence until I'm just a whisper of the man I once was."

"Not much of a whisper," he muttered under his breath. I chose to ignore his blatant attempt at anarchy, because I had a show to do. If I began unloading on him, we'd be there all day. Rivers was half an hour late. He'd all but demanded a ten-minute spot on the show, and now he was ghosting me. I'd be forced to make my way through the Muscadine Madness of it all on my own.

Five minutes later, chaos unfolded around us as we made it to set. As Jordan scurried around extinguishing metaphorical fires, I took my seat on the hideous floral-print sofa in the center of the set. She was already there, waiting for me with a scowl.

"Siobhan," I said, giving her a nod.

She didn't respond, not that I expected her to. We hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to each other since I'd signed my contract. If I were in her position, I'd probably resent me as well, but that didn't do much to dampen my irritation. It wasn't like I'd purposefully set out to upstage her. For God's sake, the pairing hadn't even been my decision.

Rivers was still missing when the producer held up his hand, counting down three, two, and finally, one .

"Good morning, Tallulah," Siobhan said with an overzealous smile. "I'm Siobhan Donahue, and today we have—"

"And I'm Phillip Firecracker," I interrupted, glaring at her. It was the fourth time this week she'd attempted to upstage me. I didn't know where she got off pretending like I was just window dressing to her set, but I'd be having a talk with our producer when the show ended. I would put up with many things; being ignored on my own talk show was not one of them.

She cleared her throat. "As I was saying, we've got a special treat for our viewers today. Tallulah's own Phillip Firecracker has agreed to sing an a capella rendition of Mariah Carey's 'Vision of Love' this morning. He said he wants to really show the city what his voice can do. Take it away, Phillip."

I blinked at her. "That wasn't funny the first time you tried it, and it isn't funny now." She'd been trying to sabotage me all week. Just another blip on the dossier of her misdoings that I'd been compiling since our co-hosting stint had begun. "Are you done now? May we continue the show, or is there another bucket of slime waiting for me in the rafters?"

She scowled at me before lifting the collar of her shirt, whispering into the microphone clipped to the fabric. "Cancel the bucket, Danvers."

"Today," I said, reading from the teleprompter. "We've got a special treat for you. Tallulah's own Lurlene Fletcher…" Wait, what? Had there been a last-minute change of plans? Was this Siobhan's doing? I sighed, knowing the only way out of this mess was to barge right through, so I continued. "Lurlene is here with an announcement she claims will… For the love of … she's here with an announcement that's sure to dazzle your taste buds just as much as Fletcher Family Muscadine Wine, now available in both box and travel-sized bottles."

Siobhan glared at the producer on the other side of the set. "Are you hearing this? I was almost fired for promoting my own brand. You're really going to let him peddle his family wine to the mindless masses?"

"Your brand—and I use that term loosely—is an adult sex toy line with your name signed in cinnamon-scented marker. The show was sued for pain and suffering after Eulah Smith got third degree vaginal burns from one. What the hell did you expect?" I said.

"That was never proven," she said with a huff, folding her arms against her chest.

"Oh, it absolutely was proven. In court. You were ordered to pay her a quarter of a million dollars. Had to sell your condo in Dallas just to cover the legal fees."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

I opened my mouth to continue the verbal annihilation of Siobhan Donahue, only to be stopped dead in my tracks when music began blaring from the speakers at a deafening volume. I covered my ears and winced. The off-screen television monitor played a video of a younger version of myself. In it, I was prancing around in front of a pink backdrop. Dear God. It was the music video for Methods to My Madness.

"Did you do this?" I screamed at Siobhan over the unbearably loud music. "If you think you can bully me into quitting, you've got another thing coming. Give it a rest, Donahue."

Siobhan shook her head, just as confused as I was. On screen, the image of a twenty-year younger version of me disintegrated into tiny pixelated squares. I wasn't sure who was responsible for the editing here, but it looked like they'd just run it through Windows Movie Maker on some decades-old laptop still operating on Windows XP.

"What the hell is happening?" I wailed as an image of Aunt Lurlene now filled the screen. She was wearing a replica of the outfit I'd worn in my one-and-only music video. As she pranced around the screen in nothing more than a nude-colored catsuit with strategically placed rhinestones covering her whosits and whatsits, the music shifted. Someone had created a mash-up with Bruno Mars' Marry You.

"Oh, dear God," I said, scrubbing my face with my hands. "It's a medley."

I didn't realize what was happening. Not at first. Then I saw them. Just past the cameraman, a janitor tapped his foot to the beat before flinging his mop to the ground. He reached for his ridiculous ball cap, ripping it off and throwing it on the floor. He was wearing a pair of coveralls, and once he'd ripped them open, shucking them off and leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor, I realized it was none other than Preston Fletcher. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but he didn't let that stop him as he awkwardly performed a poorly choreographed jig, sashaying his way toward the set wearing a t-shirt with my winking face front and center.

Behind a table displaying a vast assortment of bagels and donuts, a tiny caterer ripped off his apron and chef's hat. It was Beau Rivers incognito. Beau pointed at me, mouthing about it being a beautiful night and that he was looking for a dumb thing to do, but I couldn't think of anything dumber than what was transpiring in front of me.

Unfortunately, the Muscadine Madness didn't end there. Seated on a metal folding chair, Jordan set his tablet on a small table at his side, winked at me, and rose like a traitorous phoenix from the ashes. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt as he eyefucked my father from across the room. Preston blushed and looked away, muttering something under his breath. With the last button of his shirt undone, he pulled it open, revealing a picture of Rivers' face.

"What the hell is happening?" I cried out.

Then I saw him. With flushed cheeks and a pained expression, Rivers emerged from the shadows. He was wearing the same tuxedo he'd worn to the muscadine king and queen crowning three months ago. He stalked slowly toward me holding a small red box.

My eyes must have been bulging out of my head, because he immediately began shaking his head. When he reached me, he held his hand out for me to take.

"Firecracker," he said, a nervous smile locked in place. "I promise this isn't what it looks like."

"What the hell is going on?" I hissed.

Then, Aunt Lurlene's voice bellowed out of the speakers like a foghorn. "Dearly beloved—"

"Oh my God. Please tell me you're not…" I said as Rivers squeezed my hand, still shaking his head like he was scared I might run off. "Rivers, we've been dating for three months. This is fast, even by my standards."

"I'm not—"

"We've come together today to celebrate a blessed union," Aunt Lurlene said as she approached. "Two hearts beating in time with the rhythm of a stunning stanza."

"Is that beat poetry?" Jordan asked her. "Because it was absolutely stunning."

"Our city's Muscadine King and Queen, coming together to—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher," Rivers said, grabbing the microphone out of her hand. She let out a small huff and folded her arms against her chest. Rivers turned back to me and flashed me a nervous smile. "Hey, Firecracker."

"Rivers," I said, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Is today 'bring your family to work day?'" Siobhan said to the producer as she sulked on the sofa. "Did I miss the memo? My family is just as interesting as his. I don't see why he gets special treatment."

"You don't have a family," I pointed out.

"I have an ant farm. I've shown you pictures. If you think I'm going to sit back and let you demean my litter, you've got another thing coming."

"Baby?" Rivers said, gently tugging at my chin until our eyes locked. It was a good thing, too, because the glare I was aiming at Siobhan was full of pure, unbridled rage. "Hey there," he whispered, light and low. "There you are."

My knees may have trembled.

Couldn't help it.

"Sorry for the commotion," he said, flicking his finger at the ridiculous crowd of our friends and family behind him. "I promise, it wasn't my doing. I wanted to ask you over dinner tonight, but you know Lurlene. Once she gets an idea in her head, there's no stopping her."

"So you are asking me to marry you? And this is… what? Your way of making sure I can't say no. I mean, I'm not sure I would say no, because you're probably the love of my life, but God, Riv. I need you to pace yourself. You're unhinged."

"You would say yes?" He asked, his eyes widening.

"Not the point!" I growled.

He chuckled. "I'm not asking you to marry me. Not yet, at least."

I frowned. "So, this is some kind of trick? You wanted to build up my hopes just to knock them all down? I'll tell you something; this is cruel, even by your standards. You're giving me emotional whiplash." His fingers combed through my hair, and despite the fact that it had taken me an hour to style it into perfection, I leaned into his touch, enjoying the way his fingers felt against my scalp.

"Beau? Buddy?" Rivers said. His son skipped toward us, reaching for the box in his father's hand. Once it was secure, the little guy dropped down to one knee and grinned at us.

"Hey, Phillip," he said, waving at me.

I snorted. "Hey, little guy."

"So, here's the thing," he said. "Me and Daddy were talking the other day. We've both seen how sad you've been since you found out you bankrupted Nostalgia Nation the same way you bankrupted Rainbow Records."

"We don't speak of this," I hissed, narrowing my eyes at him. "It was in the contract I made you sign."

Rivers sighed. "I already told you. Nine-year-olds can't be legally bound by a contract. I don't know how many times I have to remind you."

Beau huffed. "I was speaking."

"Sorry," Rivers and I both said.

"You should be. Now let me finish, cause you're going to want to hear this, Phillip." He paused, sizing us up like he was worried we might interrupt him once he got going again. "As I was saying; we've both seen how sad you've been. We know this isn't what you planned on—coming home and losing your show before it even aired an episode—but that's where you are. Home. You're happy you stayed, aren't you?"

I raked my fingers through his hair and smiled. "There isn't anywhere else I'd rather be."

"Good. So, Daddy and I were talking, and we came to a concussion."

"Conclusion. We came to a conclusion," Rivers corrected.

He stared daggers at his father. "Would you let me say this already?"

Rivers extended his arm like he was a studio showcase model on The Price is Right. "By all means. Have at it."

His eyes locked on mine again, and he lifted the box until it sat awkwardly only inches from my face. "You've been my favorite singer ever since I can remember. Before you came back, me and Daddy used to dance around the house singing your song while we cleaned. He wasn't happy a whole lot, but when we'd dance, his whole face would light up, and he'd smile so big it looked like he was trying to swallow the world whole. He didn't do a lot of smiling, but your song always put one on his face. Then you came back."

I sniffled.

"I haven't seen him happy like this in a long time. Not after Momma died. But he's finally happy again. We both are. So, we have a question for you. Daddy says it's your choice, and you can say no and it'll be fine, but I'm not taking no for an answer."

"Beau," Rivers said, squeezing his son's shoulder. "We talked about this."

"No,' he said, flinging his hands in the air. "You talked about it. I didn't agree to anything. You're better with him, Daddy. We both are. I'm not gonna let you just sit here and let him say 'no.' He's family. He's ours. Phillip belongs with us. So, you can both be mad at me all you want, but he's moving in with us whether he wants to or not."

I sucked in a sharp breath, the cool air slashing at my throat like knives to silk. "Move in with you?"

"Yeah. And you know what? It's like what Daddy says when he tells me to eat my spinach: 'you're gonna like it and love it and want some more of it.'"

"I don't think that really applies here, son."

"I don't care. Phillip's ours. He's coming home with us, and that's the end of the discussion. Then, after a few more months, you're gonna buy each other rings, and you're gonna get married, and I'm gonna start calling him Dad. Cause that's what he's gonna be. Family."

"Oh my God," I said, unable to do much more than blink.

"Son of a…" Rivers closed his eyes and shook his head. "This isn't how this was supposed to happen, Phillip. I swear."

Beau rolled his eyes. "It don't matter how you wanted it to go. All that matters is that we get there in the end. You love Phillip, don't you?"

Rivers blushed, looking everywhere except at me.

"Exactly. And you love Daddy, don't you?"

"Yeah," I said, mortified that this was all playing out on local access television for tens and tens of early-bird Tallulahns unlucky enough to be tuning in.

"So, what's stopping us from being a family, huh? We love each other, so just shut up and move in already."

"Manners," Rivers croaked, his eyes wet with hope. He reached for me, sliding his hand in mine. "I'm sorry, Firecracker. This isn't how I wanted to ask you."

"You want us to live together?" I said. "You want us to be a family?"

He smiled nervously, tussling his son's hair. "We already are, aren't we?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but when I caught sight of Jordy, my heart cracked. He was standing next to my father doing his best to put on a brave face. We hadn't spent a day apart in almost ten years. He was my best friend. My only friend, when it had really counted. Our eyes met, and he gave me a quick nod.

"Rivers," I whispered. "I can't just–"

Rivers' hand was tight around my wrist, and when our eyes met, he was smiling just as brightly as before. "Jordan is your family, Firecracker. That makes him ours, too. We've got a nice-enough guest room downstairs. If it isn't up to your standards, he can have my office. I'd never ask you to leave him behind, baby."

I stared around the studio at a sea of familiar faces. Friends and family I hadn't known I needed until returning to Tallulah. The old me might have scoffed at the notion. This wasn't my plan. Not a single second of it. The comeback I'd been working for had been an absolute failure. I'd bankrupted a multimedia conglomerate… again. The news of my failure had barely been a blip on the celebrity radar. The man I wanted to avoid more than anything had somehow wormed his way into my heart, bringing with him sunshine and warmth, and a son I loved with my whole heart.

When our flight touched down in Tallulah four months ago, I couldn't wait for it to be over. Now I never wanted the moment to end. So, with Rivers and Beau staring at me so much hope in their eyes that I almost couldn't stand it, I said, "Yes."

"Fuck yeah!" a familiar voice called out from behind the camera. The television monitor flicked over to a commercial for Yoga by Eulah, and then the sound of high heels clicking against linoleum made their way toward us. My kinky-haired, one-time reality television showrunner lifted her hand for a congratulatory high-five, and when I refused to indulge her, she slapped my bicep with far more force than the situation called for.

"Brenda/Carole—"

"I don't know why the hell you keep calling me that. You know my name's Bernadette."

I narrowed my eyes. "Old habits. As I was saying, as much as I love every second of what just happened, if you ever pull something like this, I will destroy you."

"Yeah, you just go ahead and try, cupcake." She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me away from the group. "Listen, this was fantastic. The ratings are going to go through the roof. But this isn't the end." She walked us toward an empty space beside the day-old danishes and stale bagels. "KARQ didn't hire me to deliver lackluster ratings. I'm here to shake shit up. We both are. So, I figure we can turn this into a six or seven-month plot arc. We can chronicle your moving in, the eventual proposal, maybe even air the wedding live. Everyone loves a wedding. I've got a vision, Philly, and I'm ready to see you sparkle. And don't even get me started on your father and the little twink. They might still be giving each other bedroom eyes, both of them too scared to make a move, but there's a love story in there that's just begging to be told."

As she droned on about talk show-slash-reality show plotlines and character arcs, I peeked my head over my shoulder and caught sight of Riv, who was staring right back at me. And I knew. I fucking knew!

Worldwide fame didn't hold a candle to my Muscadine King.

The End