There are fifteen new people. And several of them seem very comfortable carrying weapons and seeing to business. We’ll meet the bulk of them tomorrow. Right now, we’re all still busy catching our breath and processing. But I am told there are four children with the group, which is wonderful.
As for the cleanup…all of the bad guys have run or are dead. Pedro is taking Honey around town to sniff out any lingering danger. Dean and Charlie boarded up the broken windows of the house. And tomorrow we’re going down to Sonoma to kill any stragglers. They don’t get to survive after the harm they’ve caused. We won’t allow them to keep kidnapping and killing, or to restart Porter’s kingdom elsewhere. Fuck no. Their stores will also come in handy.
Jack wanders over and shouts at me, “You blew up people with our grenades. Good work.”
“Thank you. I really am sorry about your grandpa. He was a wonderful person.”
He just nods. His eyes are red and his expression is strained. Grief is hard.
Wyatt joins us with three crystal glasses and hands me one. The amber liquor smells like whiskey. “To Grandpa and grenades,” he says, raising his glass in toast.
Jack and I do likewise before drinking.Oof.Yeah. Now I know I am still alive. The alcohol burns the whole way down.
Dean walks in from outside and comes straight over to me. His gaze runs over me and Sophie, making sure we’re okay. Then, since the sofa is full, he sits on the rug on the floor at my feet with his back against the bottom of the couch. He stretches his legs out in front of him and crosses them at the ankles and rests his elbow on my lap.
Something in me relaxes with him here. He feels like a missing part of me returned. As if some of my heart and brain and spirit were waiting for him to make it whole. Which sounds horribly codependent, but he doesn’t make me weaker, and I know I would walk away if we were untenable. But we’re not. We make each other better. This world is better with him.
I hand him the glass of whiskey, and he takes a sip.
“Are you supposed to be drinking?” he asks in a raised voice so I can hear.
“It’s medicinal.”
He shakes his head.
I hold the cold pack to my face with one hand and run the fingers of my spare hand through his dark hair. It’s damp from the rain outside. He might be right about me giving him grays. There do seem to be a few extra in sight. But he’s going to make one heck of a gray fox. Me getting him there is basically a community service. People should thank me. Those small wrinkles radiating out from his blue eyes and the lines upon his brow. Ogling him until the day I die sounds sublime.
“Going to have to fix the holes in these walls,” he says in the same raised voice.
“I love you.”
He turns his head to me and says, “Do me a favor and tell me that every day?”
“You got it.” It feels wrong to be this happy on a day like this. But I am. And I am going to stay that way for a long time to come.
EPILOGUE
ONE MONTH LATER
Wolf Creek’s first wedding takes place in the small park. The sky is blue, and the sun is shining. Reema, Naomi, and I had a great time hunting for dresses. Mine is a vintage-style white lace with flutter sleeves, a V neckline, and pearl buttons on the back leading to a flowing skirt with a short train. Dean is wearing a white button-down with black trousers and matching boots. It’s as dressed up as he gets. And I know he has at least one gun on him somewhere.
We have trestle tables and chairs set out with daisies in small vases. With the chicken and goats providing eggs and milk, our food selection has expanded. However, Trisha has been teaching us about the delights of long-life butter and egg powder. On the menu is corn bread, grilled chicken, coleslaw, mac and cheese (the children insisted), and vanilla bean cupcakes. With the fridge working in the storage house, Dean even gets his ice-cold beer.
The thirty-something people who now live in town are gathered and Naomi has played our song on the guitar. “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty. Reema is ready to get us married. There is just one small problem. Our head flower person has taken offense at part of the proceedings and staged a revolt. She did this by climbing a tree with the wedding rings in the pocket of her dress.
Our third flower person, Bowie, then got bored and climbed a nearby tree too. Because more members of the wedding party up trees is exactly what this situation needed.
“But they have to kiss,” says Hazel for the hundredth time. “It’s what people do at weddings.”
“No!” shouts Sophie. “Nobody wants to see that!”
Bowie points to the north. “Whoa. I think that’s an eagle.”
“Dude, get down here,” says Nash, who went so far as to put on a clean pair of blue jeans and a navy button-down shirt for the occasion. He’s settling into single parenthood surprisingly well. And Bowie is generally more relaxed and happier now, which is great. “Please.”
Bowie sighs, as if he’s very badly done by indeed. But he does start the climb back down.
As opposed to my child, who is busy tearing ribbons out of her hair. “And I am not wearing these.”
