Page 160 of Only the Wicked
Two movers exit the house headed to the truck, but we disregard them.
“I want the same, Rhodes. This year has been everything to me. I want countless anniversaries with you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She kisses me and the world falls away. She’s always been able to do that. Carry me away to a mental space where it’s only the two of us and I’m my old self, free of the weight of the world.
“Marry me,” I say, the words emerging so naturally they surprise even me—light on my tongue, barely audible above the distant sounds of furniture being arranged and the mountain breeze rustling through nearby pines.
Time seems to pause as Sydney’s eyes widen, those remarkable golden-brown irises catching the morning light. For a heartbeat, I see a flicker of wariness.
“Are you sure, Rhodes?” Her voice carries that blend of teasing and vulnerability that I’ve come to recognize as uniquely hers. But beneath the question is a deeper one—are you sure about me, with all my complexities, my history, my inherent distrust of permanence?
The weight of the two rings sitting in the glove compartment of my car—one classic and elegant, one uniquely designed for her—suddenly feels insignificant compared to the weight of this moment.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” I tell her, my voice steadier than my racing heart.
Something shifts in her expression—the last wall coming down. Her smile breaks across her face like the sunrise across the mountains we both love, transforming her features with a joy I’ve seen glimpses of but rarely this complete, this unguarded.
“Then yes,” she says, and then louder, as if testing how the commitment feels in the mountain air. “Yes!”
I lift her off her feet, spinning her in a circle as her laughter—that open, full-throated sound I’ve spent a year working to earn—echoes against the mountainside. The movers pause their work, watching us with knowing smiles, as Sydney wraps her arms tighter around my neck.
When I set her down, she presses her forehead against mine, both of us breathless from spinning and laughter. “You know what Nana would say about this?” I murmur.
“That her mythology stories finally taught you something?”
“That the greatest hubris isn’t flying too close to the sun,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s believing you can build a life worth living without love.”
Her smile softens. “And what do you say?”
I look around at our half-unpacked home, the mountains stretching endlessly before us, this woman who saw through all my carefully constructed walls to something worth saving. “I say the ancients were wrong about one thing—sometimes the gods reward those brave enough to reach for what they need most.”
Her commitment is absolutely everything. But this—our quiet defiance of the tragic endings that fill mythology stories—this is everything else.
Bonus Epilogue
Sydney
Buying for a man who has everything has its challenges, especially when said man employs a house manager tasked with anticipating his needs. Caroline questioned if I really wanted to do this after she saw the property report. Due to gradient inclines, associated risks of landslides, and the proximity to state-owned land, most of it can’t be developed, which is why the land has been used for pasture for ages. But when I ran into the owner while hiking one day last fall and struck up a conversation, I mentioned that if he ever decided to sell, to please call me before putting it on the market.
My skin tingles with anticipation…literally, tingles. I’m not sure how many more times in our lives I’ll be able to surprise him, so I want this to be perfect.
Quinn’s helped me. She and Hudson mostly work from the Highlands, and to avoid detection, I’ve been going to the office, leaving my phone—which I know Rhodes tracks from time to time when he’s curious about where I am—and heading out with a Garmin Hudson insisted I take if hiking alone, as he says it’s common sense to take a communication device when heading out on a trail.
My husband comes out of the house, backpack slung over one arm, phone held out below his chin, dictating a message to someone somewhere. I take a minute to take him in. He’s in hiking boots with bunched thick socks that complement his strong calves. His shorts cover his muscular quads and thighs. The t-shirt he’s wearing beneath his faded flannel fits snugly over the muscular landscape I know intimately. The flannel, thrown on likely as an afterthought given it’s unbuttoned, catches the wind. He stops, squints at his screen, presses what I assume is the send button, and lowers his shades.
His thick dark hair has grown long enough that it catches in the mountain breeze, and he’s growing his beard out again—oscillating between meticulously trimmed and the kind of scruff that makes him look like he belongs on these mountains. The contrast between the polished tech mogul and this rugged version of my husband never fails to stir something primal in me. Whether clean-shaven in a boardroom or windswept on a trail, he remains one of the most compelling men I’ve ever encountered.
“Gorgeous day.” He joins me at the back of my Scout and throws his backpack in. “After our hike, we should head over to the apple orchard.”
“We can do that.” His hand rests on my hip and he brushes his lips against my temple. “Ready? Want me to drive?”
“Nah, I’ll drive. That way you can catch up on your email.”
Rhodes got in last night from a conference on the West Coast where he was a speaker. He’s turned his attention to efforts for environmentally-friendly data centers that recycle water to minimize environmental impact and water use.
