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“Such a fucking good girl, holding out for your man,” I say, and then I follow her over the edge, pumping her full of me.
Minutes later, when her words come back, she opens her eyes and smiles.
“Was that supposed to deter me from breaking rules?” she asks, and then I laugh because I know there is nothing in this world that will make Lola listen to me.
The next day we brought home Cooper, a yellow lab mutt.
* * *
Hey reader!!
In this last section of the epilogue and Lola and Ben’s story, there is a mention of pregnancy. If you are struggling with infertility, miscarriage, or if foranyreason you don’t enjoy reading about that topic, you can skip the last few passages and know that Ben and Lola have their own happily ever after.
You are loved, you are important, and you are seen.
Love,
Morgan
* * *
-Lola-
Seven years later
I walk through the front door, dumping Cooper’s leash and James’s helmet that he threw to the ground as soon as we reached our house in the corner.
Looking around, I don’t see Ben.
And I don’t see Kayla.
“Jay, go upstairs and make sure you tidy up your room, yeah?” I say, directing my seven-year-old up the steps with a tip of my chin. He rolls his eyes, a new trait that drives me wild (Benlovesto remind me where he got it from) before lugging up the stairs, feet slamming with more sound than absolutely necessary.
Just wait until he’s blaring music at midnight, I think to myself, catching myself rolling my eyes.
Entering the kitchen, I look toward the family room to see if maybe the rest of my family is there, but nothing. Silence. Sighing, I grab some water out of the fridge and take a deep gulp. My eyes move to the family room, instinctually finding the three frames I love the most. Our entire home is a gallery of art and photos but those three . . . They are my favorite.
Hands on a rolling pin.
A braid.
A collar bone.
Me.
Turns out that the bidding war I saw the day of the auction included Ben’s own bids. He paid way too fucking much for his own art because even though he listed it, he couldn’t let it go.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about some asshole having a part of you in his home forever,” he’d said late one night when I’d brought it up.
So Ben bought them, bought them before we were even truly an us.
They are my favorite.
Movement on the back deck catches my eye. The screen doors are closed, but the glass one is open. I move that way, stopping when I see a sight I love even more than those photos.
“Daddy?” I hear her sweet voice say, eyes focused on the paper in front of her where she’s swirling colors into a rainbow.
Ben is sketching the trees that line the back of our property.
