Page 156 of When It's Us
“At the ranch. I told them we’d come back for Christmas. We might need to go shopping. I kind of…left everything behind.”
I let out a rough laugh, holding her tighter.
“If anyone can pull off a miracle, it’s you.”
She leans back just enough to meet my eyes, mischief tugging at her mouth.
“I don’t know,” she teases. “You somehow managed to get a California girl to move to a snowy cabin in the sticks. We might be fresh out.”
I chuckle, eyes closing for a beat before I meet her gaze again.
“You sure about this?”
She leans in, voice fierce and soft. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Ginger
Epilogue
Theporchcreaksgentlybeneath me as I rock back and forth in one of the chairs Hutch made this Spring—sturdy pine, smooth arms, weathered enough by the heat and sun of summer to feel like it belongs here.
Across the field, I can hear the boys laughing—full-bellied joy that carries through the still evening air. The lake beyond them is flat and gleaming, catching the amber light like glass. Long shadows stretch out across the field. And it’s one of those rare, quiet moments around here that still feels surreal.
I lift my digital Nikon, adjust the aperture and snap a few photos—the boys’ silhouettes running through the tall grass, arms flailing, faces blurred with the motion. It won’t matter that it’s not sharp. When it comes to those two, pictures rarely are. They’re wild out here, different, and yet still the same.
Tate’s anxiety has lessened a lot, thanks to Wren and her horse, Daisy. We’ve seen such an improvement in both boys since moving here, and I love that it feels like the right decision more and more every day.
Peter, Meghan, and the boys are coming to visit next month. We’ve finally figured everything out—the back and forth, the calls, the calendar. It took time and patience, which neither of us had in the beginning, but it’s good now. The boys are happy, and that’s all I ever wanted.
Not two minutes later, they come barreling up the porch steps, breathless and beaming, mud on their knees and overalls askew. One is missing a suspender clip, and the other’s curls are plastered to his forehead.
“Mom, look!”
Jordan thrusts a mason jar toward me, clutched between his muddy little hands. Inside, a fat green frog blinks up at me from a bed of grass and lake water, looking entirely unimpressed.
I grin and lean forward. “You caught him all by yourselves?”
Both boys nod furiously, eyes wide with pride.
“Well, he’s super cool,” I say, peering in closer, “but I think he misses his lily pad.”
Both boys glance down at the frog, back at me, then at each other.
“Should we let him go?” Tate asks, but Jordan looks skeptical.
I nod, brushing a damp curl off Tate’s forehead. “I think he’d like that.”
Without another word, they’re off again, bare feet pounding down the porch steps, the jar sloshing as they race across the grass toward the lake, shouting something about finding theperfectrock to set him free.
I watch them go, my heart full to the brim. I lift the camera again and snap one more photo as they crouch at the shoreline, the lake reflecting all that light back at them. It’s soft. Perfect. Beautiful. Just like them.
I’m looking down at the camera’s screen, flipping through all the shots I’ve taken in the last hour, when I feel the heat of him behind me—warm hands sliding over my shoulders, pulling meback into the solid weight of his chest. He smells like cedar and cut grass and the soap he uses that is so perfectly him.
He folds his arms around me and dips his head to nuzzle my hair, looking down as I scroll back to the picture of the boys holding the jar.
“They catch a frog?” he asks.
“Mmhmm,” I hum, turning my face to smile softly at him.
