They both look at me.
“He’s sorry,” I say. “He wants to make it right.”
Seth nods. He sets a plate on the table. “Good. It’s about time this family was under one roof.”
I sit on the couch next to Billy. Sedona reaches out, grabbing my hand, linking her fingers with mine.
We’re messy. We’re complicated. We’re unconventional.
But as the smell of roast fills the house and the sound of Joey’s truck pulls up outside, I know one thing for sure.
We are whole.
Epilogue
SEDONA
ONE YEAR LATER
I holdthe manila folder against my chest. It feels heavier than it should, weighted down with six months of data, spreadsheets, and the kind of meticulous annotations that Dr. Alistair demands.
But it’s done. The final draft of the cardiovascular study on canine hypertension is finished.
The hallway of the research facility is quiet. The HVAC system creates the only sound, a steady, monotonous drone that I’ve learned to tune out over the last few years. But today, it sounds different. It sounds like an ending.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My boots squeak faintly on the linoleum.
I raise my hand and knock on the frosted glass of Dr. Alistair’s door.
“Come in,” a voice calls out.
I push the door open. Dr. Alistair is sitting behind his desk, surrounded by towers of journals.
He looks exactly the same as he did the day I interviewed for the position—wire-rimmed glasses, a cardigan despite the summer heat, and a pen tucked behind his ear.
“Sedona,” he says, looking up. He offers a small, tired smile. “You have the report?”
I walk forward and place the folder on the only clear spot on his desk. “Final draft. All the variables are accounted for. I double-checked the statistical analysis. The p-values are solid.”
He picks up the folder and flips it open. He scans the summary page. He nods slowly.
“This is exceptional work,” he says. He looks at me over the rim of his glasses. “As always.”
“Thank you.”
He closes the folder. He takes off his glasses and polishes them with the hem of his sweater.
“I’m sad to hear you’re not renewing your contract,” he says. His voice is polite, but I can see the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes. “We were hoping to keep you on for the next phase of the trial. The grant money came through last week.”
“I know,” I say. My throat tightens. “And I appreciate the offer. Truly.”
“Then why?” he asks. “Is it the salary? We can negotiate.”
“It’s not the money,” I say. I shake my head. “It’s the distance.”
He frowns. “Distance?”
“Dr. Alistair, for the last six months, I’ve been flying back to Texas every other weekend. Sometimes more. I’ve been trying to maintain a relationship with my family, with my… partners… while holding down a position here.”
