Page 125 of Female Fantasy
Epilogue
“But that’s not how it happened!”
Nico is hovering. He’s studying my laptop screen, reading over my shoulder, even though he knows that’s my pet peeve. But he’s also got my coffee in one hand, lingering by his waist. And if he leans any farther forward, that scalding liquid is going to spill all over the crotch of his pants.
That’ll teach him a lesson.
“I didnotwhimper when Clarisse and Thomas locked the car door,” he argues. “I growled. It was, like, a very manly sound.”
“Funny,” I say. “I seem to remember you being near tears.”
Nico pouts. “Baby, don’t get me wrong: I’m so happy you’re writing this story. But do you have to make me sound like such a fucking loser?”
“Would you prefer amasculinewhimper? Or perhaps a macho sniffle?”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Write whatever your heart desires. Just make sure it has a happy ending.”
I grin, spinning around to plant a kiss on his lips. “That’s a given. But this is fiction, remember?”
“Whatever you say, Joon.”
I shake my head, looking out the window. It’s late summer in Mystic, and tourist season is in full swing. The smell of ice cream and fresh fudge floods the cobblestone streets, along with selfie sticks and T-shirts featuring the drawbridge. There’s a troubadour playing his guitar on the corner outside of Sift, his song drifting up the road to the countertop at Kabobs ’n’ Bits, where I’m seated. I can’t see him from all the way up the hill, but I do have a spectacular view of the old church, empty parking lots, and the new apartment I now share with Nico—a renovated loft above an old print shop.
When I first told Nico that I felt ready to take a stab at writing a novel, he asked what story I planned on telling. I had no clue. At first I wanted to write a fantasy, like Evelyn G. Carter. After all, I had been writing high fantasy romance fanfic for years. I figured I could take everything I had learned and apply it to building a world of my own, then transfer my audience to boot. At the very least, I could pick my most successful fic and adapt it into something that was actually publishable, like all the hottest indie authors are doing these days. But after Kalli’s video went viral and everyone started asking for my side of the story, Nico convinced me to write that instead. I was hesitant to try literary fiction, but he assured me that what we’d gone through, our adventure, was moreunbelievable and fantastical than any fantasy novel he’d ever read. IncludingA Tale of Salt Water & Secrets.
And you know what? He wasn’t wrong.
As it turns out, the reason Nico’s mom saw our story on the news and came running is because Kalli live streamed the entire incident on Twitch. Local news channels like NY1 picked up the footage, which promptly went viral on X, TikTok, and Instagram. At first, I really fucking hated the idea of everyone forever associating me with the worst thing that has ever happened to me, but my Salty Girls made me feel a lot better about it. The ATOSAS community has been so supportive of my author journey, and I quickly learned that some good can come from the darkest periods of your life. It’s like stepping on a rock, cracking it open, and finding gold.
Not only did the road trip from hell provide some much-needed inspo for my first full-length novel, it also saved the family business from going under. When Nico made that bad bet, Teymoor was more than worried about our last quarter’s numbers and was considering selling the joint and cutting our losses. Ollie came into town to draw up legal documents. Tey asked the two of them to keep it from me because he didn’t want me to worry—he knew how much I loved Mystic and that I considered the restaurant my true home. But he never expected me to go viral for kicking my kidnapper in the nuts. And hedefinitelydidn’t think I’d do it while wearing an oversize Kabobs ’n’ Bits sweatshirt.
Now the restaurant has become a tourist destination for true crime junkies. Six days a week, we’ve got a line out thedoor. Some travel websites are even calling us the new Mystic Pizza, and we are not above milking it. We’re selling prophecy-embroidered sweatshirts and DON’T MESS WITH THE HEROINE mugs, and I come over once a week to sign them, much to Tey’s annoyance. He’s grateful that I saved the shop and all, but the amount of shit I give him every time I autograph merch is enough to make him reconsider.
Last week, I requested that he feed me grapes as I worked.
“Maman and Baba want to know if we’d be willing to drive up to port over Labor Day and cruise with them for a couple of days,” Tey shouts from the kitchen. “And before you ask: yes, Nico can come, and no, we will not be sailing to the Caribbean. This will be half family hang, half business meeting. They want to look over my expansion plans before I meet with that CEO in September.”
The national interest in the restaurant has investors knocking down Tey’s door, begging him to consider franchising. He always says he’ll think about it, but I know a part of him has no interest in leaving Mystic or Nico and me. He’s content here, and I can’t say I’m too mad about that.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. While a long weekend on my parents’ houseboat sounds nice and all, I know from personal experience that the lack of boundaries gets really old after day or two.
Not to mention the lack of walls.
Tey nods, reading my thoughts on my face. “Nico!” he yells from behind the counter. “Your order is getting cold, asshole. We’ve got paying customers waiting,ghologh!”
My boyfriend shoots him a cocky smirk, grabbing his plate and plopping down next to me. “Why don’t you want us to go sailing off into the sunset with your family?” he asks, popping a piece of crispy rice into his mouth. “Worried you’ll get sick of me?”
“Worried I’ll feed you to the sharks?” I ask sweetly, stealing a bite from his plate.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as he does his best to take a peek at the laptop screen without moving his head. “FUCK OFF,” I type in big, bold letters. He chokes on his next bite and starts coughing up his Kabob. I pound on his back until he’s breathing again.
“That’ll teach you to stop back-seat driving. Or back-seat writing, if you will.”
“You sure you don’t want to give my character a tail?” he jokes.
I bite my lip. “Maybe a teeny-tiny one.”
He raises his hand to his heart. “You wound me, woman.”
