Page 131 of That Reunited Feeling

But then, haven’t we all.

Hannah sits on the other side of Dylan, and we link arms on the back of the seat behind his head.

Perfect.

And we sit here, together on the bench. On the patio of our first home. Looking out over the city.

Our city. Our home.

Where we all belong. Because we all belong together.

EPILOGUE

HANNAH

Walker and Emily couldn’t have hoped for a more beautiful late August evening for their wedding.

And their brewery resort on quaint Hornby Island, just off Cape Cod, has been decked out like the most spectacular garden party.

A couple dozen round tables are set out on the central lawn, where we’ve all enjoyed a fabulous dinner of local seafood and locally grown produce, rounded off with the most delicious wedding cake I’ve ever tasted. It was made by a baker in the small town at the other end of the island, and I’m definitely going to see if they can make a chocolate one for Tom and me.

Yes. A chocolate wedding cake. No dicks in sight. But definitely a chocolate cake.

Beyond the tables, strings of lights crisscross above a driftwood dance floor that looks out to the ocean and, currently, has a stunning pinky-peach backdrop of the setting sun. Posts at the four corners are wrapped with spirals of wildflowers, and a band plays on a raised area at one side.

The band is a mishmash of people I was worried would never work well together. But after just two rehearsals, you’d think the guitarist and vocalist from Walker and Emily’s favorite local island pub band, the drummer from Jane Doe and the Stags, and Emily’s concert pianist sister had been playing together for a lifetime.

The nerve-racking job of kicking off the entertainment for the evening fell to me.

Walker and Emily wanted Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend”—a terrifyingly difficult song—for their first dance. So I came over earlier in the week, and the singer from the pub band and I practiced the ever-loving crap out of it. And tonight, with her as my backing—yes, someone singing backup forme!—we totally pulled it off and everyone loved it.

I couldn’t have been more honored and touched that they asked me to perform their first dance song as well as an old boyband hit—a standing joke between Walker and Emily—that got everyone smiling and dancing.

Not that everyone wasn’t already beyond happy. After an emotional ceremony, the delicious dinner, Tom’s fabulously hilarious and tear-jerky best man speech, and more Toasted Tomato craft beer than any of us should probably have had, the air could not be more alive with joy.

And sitting here at an otherwise empty table in the back corner is the perfect spot to soak it all up.

Tom’s dancing with a barefoot Maggie—she gave up on her heels a while ago—while Dylan bops carefully with Max’s heavily pregnant wife, Polly, who’s due any day now. The whole family is bursting with anticipation, awaiting the imminent arrival of the first Dashwood grandchild.

“This knee has done all the dancing it can manage for one evening,” Hugo says, taking the seat next to me.

Walker suggested Tom invite him over from London for the weekend because Tom’s been increasingly worried about how well Hugo’s been coping, or rather not coping, these last few months since the end of his soccer career. And Tom feels guilty for no longer being in London to offer moral support.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask.

“Not all the time now. Only if I overdo it. This helps.” He raises his beer glass and drains it. “I always thought American beer was total crap. But I have to say, Walker makes a fine pint.”

“You were chatting for quite a while there with Chase Cooper.” I nod toward Hollywood’s favorite good-guy movie star, who’s a big investor in the resort. “Did you already know him?”

“Only met him recently,” Hugo says. “It’s a bit of a story.”

“Good God.” Tom flops down beside me and drapes his arm around the back of my chair. “Maggie could dance me under the table.”

“Now you’re both here and we have a quiet moment…” Hugo casts his eyes around the area. There’s no one at the tables anywhere near us. Everyone else is either sitting closer to the action, dancing, or at the outdoor bar. “I have some news.”

There’s a glint in his eye.

“Finally met the woman of your dreams?” Tom asks, as if it’s as inconceivable as him meeting Elvis. He gives me a quick peck on the temple.

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