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It makes me smile.

I still suspect that when I’m on my deathbed, Benji’s name is going to be on my lips.

Although maybe not as a curse.

Epilogue

Benji

Three years later

“Ithink you should carry me over the threshold,” I say.

“I need my back in working order,” David replies, his lips twitching into that half-smile that always crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Our new home sits proudly on what was once the infamous thistle paddock, a two-story timber-and-stone affair we’ve named Thornfield. Not after the Jane Eyre mansion, but because it made David snort with laughter when I suggested it.

The wraparound porch faces both our properties, with matching rocking chairs positioned to watch the sunset.

We’re standing on the porch now, debating the best way to mark this milestone.

“Trust me, I have a vested interest in keeping your back in working order,” I say with a lewd wink that leaves subtle in another time zone entirely.

David’s ears turn that adorable shade of pink. His jaw works in that oh-so-familiar way as he fights a smile while trying to maintain his stern farmer facade. It’s been three years, and I still live for the moments I break that stoic exterior.

“That whole carrying over the threshold is meant for newlyweds, and we’re not newlyweds anymore,” he rallies.

He’s right. We’re no longer newlyweds, having celebrated our first wedding anniversary last month with an epic trip to Queenstown. Racing each other down the luge, dining out at a top restaurant where David critiqued the quality of the beef, holding hands while walking along the lakefront.

It never fails to amaze me how David has never flinched when showing his affection for me in public. The guy went from being the most stereotypical straight-presenting farmer you could ever imagine—he wore the same polar fleece with a hole in one elbow to every single woolshed party for five years, for fuck’s sake—to walking square-shouldered and straight-backed into the Farmers’ Collective holding my hand, like anyone who was remotely homophobic could just fuck right off.

Our relationship did cause quite a stir initially. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been given a pass for my sexuality due to the fact I wasn’t originally from around here. But David was a different story. He was a fifth-generation farmer here, the gruff local institution with his immovable opinions on everything from stock rotation to the correct way to stack hay bales. When he became half of David-and-Benji, gossip ricocheted through Canterbury like a stray .22 round in an empty wool shed, pinging from one farm to the next until even the sheep looked scandalized.

Rumor has it that Old Thompson actually spit out his mouthful of beer at the pub when the news finally reached him.

Pete, the stock agent, had sidled up to us at the pub barely a week after the Farmers’ Collective meeting, his weathered face a curious mix of embarrassment and fascination.

“So it’s true,” he’d said, fiddling with a beer coaster rather than meeting our eyes. “You two are…” He’d trailed off, apparently unable to find the right farming metaphor for our relationship.

David had given him that patented Harrison stare, the one that made members of the shearing gangs quake in their boots.

“Yep. Got a problem with that?”

The way Pete had backpedaled, you’d think David had threatened him with sheep shears.

“No. No problem. Just like… I was surprised, you know, the fact you guys are neighbors…”

“Must be something in the water around here,” I’d said airily.

Which apparently had two of our other neighbors frantically cleaning out their water tanks the next day.

The fact we’re officially no longer in the honeymoon phase of our relationship doesn’t concern me at all. We were like an old married couple long before we ever got together.

“Does not being newlyweds anymore mean we’ve got no excuse for our lunchtime quickies?” I tease David now.

“I didn’t say that,” David says quickly.

I laugh because, despite David and I still having spirited discussions about nearly everything, our arguments transform into a different kind of negotiation in the bedroom. The type where we both always win.