RHETT

ONE AND A HALF MONTHS LATER

          "Can we really not convince you to—"

          "No, Mom. We have enough food."

          My mom looks at me with those big, pleading eyes of hers, and my resolve almost breaks. "But it's your favorite." She all but pushes a bowl of food against my chest. She's not wrong, though; the characteristic scent of a baked beans casserole swirls around me and my stomach growls—audibly. "See? I know you're on a meal plan, but you can always make room for a homemade casserole. Now let me through; I want to see what you and Brie have done with the place."

          I step aside to let her through, with my dad shooting me an apologetic look that tells me he really isn't sorry. My mom is just better at expressing her feelings, both through words and actions, and there's no way of underestimating the need to show love through food in this family.

          Brie has handled most of the decorating, even though she struggled with the idea of a nearly unlimited budget. I told her she didn't have to worry, that my family has more money than they know how to use, and they were the ones helping us paying for an apartment in New York City—which is also more expensive than it should be.

          I have no eye for decorating, picking stuff out of a catalog just because they look good to me and not necessarily because they look good together, but I asked her to let me keep some of my mom's handmade baskets to honor her Native heritage. It's something she hopes to pass down to my future daughter, if that is ever in the cards, but Brie drops everything she's holding whenever someone mentions motherhood around her, so I'm guessing it'll take us a while.

          I'm in no rush, though.

          Everything is perfect as is.

          For now.

          I don't want to get ahead of myself and think this is as good as it gets, that everything will come crashing down once the season starts and we get busy with our respective careers, but it also teaches me to take things one day at a time. That includes not rushing the natural course of our relationship, although there have been some developments I'll have to talk to her about eventually.

          "Have you done it yet?" my dad asks me, pouring himself a generous glass of lemonade. It's hot as balls today, so Brie and I took a break from our crash course on learning to live by ourselves and focused on feeling fresh and not melting. The lemonade was my idea.

          I shake my head. "I keep waiting for the right moment, but I can never find it. Something always comes up."

          He sips his lemonade. "Needs more sugar." I point him to the jar where we've stored the sugar and to the drawer where the teaspoons are. Everything is labeled, since Brie is Brie, and I know I'd probably get lost without the labels. "Sometimes there's no right moment. If you want everything to be perfect, you'll keep missing out on chances to do it and you might regret not having done it sooner."

          "I know, but you know Brie. She's all about the romance and the grand gestures. I'm convinced there's not a single romantic comedy she hasn't watched." I pour myself a generous glass of lemonade and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "How am I supposed to compete with that? Even Dante managed to get something creative done for his proposal."

          "Please don't use Dante Sheridan as a role model. I love the kid, but sometimes it's just too much."

          "Sorry."

          "Point is, you don't have to plan a grand gesture. Fictional proposals are great because they're fictional, because of the escapism. You can dream all you want, but they're so spectacular and swoonworthy because they're fabricated. Those are actors playing a role and following a script. Sure, they're creative, but I'm certain Brie would much prefer something heartfelt and genuine over what you're assuming she wants based on the movies she likes. If it's something unique, something meaningful, it will be a lot better."

          I groan, falling to one of the kitchen high stools. I've spent countless minutes spinning around on them, losing track of time. "So you think I should just go for it? Take her out, slide the box across the table, do the whole old school proposal thing?" He shrugs, sliding to the stool next to me. "Very helpful, Dad. Maybe I could get Mona to come visit us—"

          "I'm sure Andy would take great offense."

          "Probably, yeah. He'll be offended no matter what. It was supposed to be me and him. Bros before—"

          "Please don't complete that sentence."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I'm a changed man now.

          Not only will I start playing professionally for the New York Islanders in just a matter of months, I also know how to take and follow advice from other people besides my therapist (and even then . . . a few months ago I wouldn't even heed his advice). Even though there's a side of me that's panicking about the proposal not being special enough and that I'm just rushing it to get it done, I push it aside and believe that I'm doing what's right for Brie.

          Regrettably, I decide to not get Mona involved. Someone has to watch the diner and it's something that's more my and Andy's thing, a pivotal part of our friendship, and it wouldn't feel as perfect as I want it to be. Ideally, we'd go back to Bennington so we're somewhere that feels familiar, that feels like home, but home has been New York for the past month and a half.

          I ask her to dress up, tell her we're going out for dinner instead of staying in. Summer nights in New York are still warm and, even though she prefers fall, I know she doesn't want to miss out on wearing a summery, fresher dress, so she all but jumps at the opportunity to try one of the new ones she inherited from Lorelai. I watch her get ready with a glint in my eye, watching her twirl around the apartment, skipping from room to room as she puts on her makeup and styles her hair.

          The ring, resting comfortably inside a velvet box, is safely tucked in my jacket's pocket. It seems to weigh twenty times more than it actually does and, whenever Brie's gaze lingers on me for longer than it usually does, I'm convinced she can see through my clothes.

          Ahem. Just as far as the ring is concerned, of course. I'm a changed, decent man.

          "This place is nice," she comments, shrugging off her cardigan and wrapping it around the back of her chair. I hum, pushing the chair forward before occupying my own seat in front of her. When I do, she flashes me a gentle smile, like she's magically able to sense the turmoil in my head. "What prompted this?"

          I shrug, try to remain nonchalant about it even though relaxed is one word that definitely doesn't accurately describe how I'm feeling right now. "I figured we could use a change. We've been here for nearly two months and we've barely done any sightseeing. Restaurant-wise, I mean," I clarify, as we have gone on several walks to visit everything New York has to offer . . . or at least try to. People aren't lying when they say New York City is a world on its own. "We haven't properly enjoyed the New York food."

          "Where do you think the food in the fridge and the cupboards comes from? Nebraska?"

         "You get what I mean." She smiles again. "Order anything you want. It's—"

          "—on you. Yeah. I know."

          Her shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, even though she tries to mask it by remaining all happy and peppy. This isn't how I intended for the night to begin and, if it's any preview of how the rest of dinner will unfold, the proposal will have to wait another day . . . and another . . . until I can stop postponing it.

          My dad's right when he says there won't ever be a 'right time' for it, but it still doesn't stop me from wanting it to be perfect. Even if it's not perfect, I don't want her to be upset right before and only say yes out of pity or because she feels like she owes it to me or something.

          "Do you want to split the bill?" I tentatively ask, as she hides behind the menu.

          With a sigh, she peeks from the side. "If you'd be okay with it, yeah. I know you mean well, but . . . it's one of those things I want to be able to handle myself."

          "Of course. Sorry."

          "I'm not mad, I promise."

          "I know."

          I take off my jacket, weighing my possibilities, wondering if I should do the whole ring-inside-a-champagne-flute trick, but then I remember neither of us drink (she used to, but not since we've come to New York), so that falls flat. I can wait for her to leave to go to the bathroom and slip it into her food, but she can swallow it by accident and choke . . .

          In the middle of all my thinking, one of the cufflinks on my jacket's sleeve gets stuck on the table towel and, though I rush to fix everything—don't I always?—I nearly push everything on the table off it. To stop it all from falling, I shrug off my jacket, which is the first to slip from the chair, followed by me, and then the box. The box falls right in the middle, so both Brie and I bend down to pick it up and end up headbutting each other.

          "Ow," she laughs. It's such a warm, cheerful sound, and my chest still tightens in panic. "If this is your way of gifting me jewelry, you didn't have to headbutt—"

          "Marry me," I blurt out.

          She blinks, momentarily confused. "What?"

          "Marry me."

          She sits back, while I slide forward to kneel on one knee. It's an awkward position (and opening the box with one hand isn't nearly as swift or as easy as it is in the movies, good lord) and not at all how I wanted it to go, but we're doing it now. I can't take it back.

          At least people aren't staring, so that's a good difference from the movies; if anything, they think I'm knees deep into a long journey of picking something off the floor.

          I take a deep breath, finally get the box to open, and the lights above us reflect off the shiny surface of the diamond ring—a little heart, all for my romance-loving girlfriend.

          "I know this isn't how you pictured this to happen—or if you even pictured me at all—and I know you deserve a proposal that's a million times better than this one, but we're here. Against all odds, we're here, in New York, together, and there's no one else on the planet I'd rather spend my days with. You're sunshine personified, even when everything is gloomy and miserable, and I love that about you. I love your optimism. I love your laugh, even when you snort and cover your mouth in embarrassment. You think it's lame, while I think it's fucking adorable." Her eyes well up with tears. "I've told you this so many times, but I'll continue saying it until it sticks, and will continue even after. You're fucking fantastic, Brooke Sheridan. You're the love of my life, and you'd make me the happiest man on Earth if you say yes and let me try and make you as happy as you've made me."

          Brie gulps, looking down at the ring, then at me. For a moment, I fear she might say no.

          "No one has ever made me as happy as you have," she murmurs, voice clogged, "and I don't want that to change."

          "It doesn't have. I can keep—"

          "It has to change, because it'll be different. Marriage is a long-term commitment, something you spent so long avoiding." She takes the box from my hands, sets it on the table, and joins me on the floor. "But that's not you anymore. I loved you then, and I love you now." Her hands cup my face, as gentle as if she were cradling a baby. "Nothing would make me happier than continuing to love you day after day. With or without a ring."

          "Is that a yes?"

          "Of course." She nods, resting her forehead against mine. "Yes, I'll marry you, Rhett Price."

          I knock the box off the table when I crash my lips against hers, drawing the attention of the other patrons, but I don't fucking care. They're staring and can stare all they want, but all I care about is her—Brooke Sheridan, ring on her finger (once I remember to put it on), my fiancée.

          She's not a prize to be won, but she's still my golden girl. Now and forever.

THE END

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

this epilogue is dedicated to all of you who have been here from start to finish, those of you who stuck with me through thick and thin (ha ha ha), those of you who never skipped a chapter (iykyk), those of you who made posting this book a real joy. i can't thank you enough.

HOWEVER. THIS ISN'T THE END.

book TWO comes out this november and it's . . . dun dun dun . . . PAIGE'S BOOK. trust me when i say you're not ready for it. mwah

(hint: best friends to estranged former friends to partners to friends to lovers)