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EPILOGUE

WARREN

Maggie’s is mostly empty, just a few scattered tables and a jukebox in the corner that’s humming faintly. The dinner rush is over, but the faint scent of grilled something still lingers in the air.

I reach for my glass, turning it slowly in my hand. The ice clinks, water tracing lazy lines down the sides. Across from me, Quinn’s twirling her fork in what’s left of her pasta, barely eating.

I presume it’s because she’s too busy being happy. Beaming with the kind of smile that starts slow and stretches wide until her whole face is glowing. It’s radiant.

And I can’t stop staring at her.

“You’re still floating a little,” I say. “Still grinning, too.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, like a little weirdo.”

“I’m just happy,” she says with a half-shrug. “I think I’ve earned it.”

She has. Quinn doesn’t just look lighter; she feels it. The weight she used to carry around, the tension that clung to her like armor, it’s ... softer now. She’s figured out how to breathe easily again.

“You should be happy,” I say. “Winning the Blackthorn Prize is a big deal.”

She worked for it. Bled for it, in her own quiet way. I know because I watched her do it.

Stretched herself thin to finish a brand-new short story. Ten thousand words about a girl who returns to her coastal hometown to clean out her grandmother’s house, only to find a salt-stained journal filled with entries she doesn’t remember writing—entries dated weeks after she supposedly left.

A story with teeth, a little bit horror-edged and aching.

On top of the writing, the rewrites, and the gnawing self-doubt, she also picked up a few weekend shifts at Sycamore just to cover the submission fee. Bar backing, not caddying, so she could avoid running into the three stooges entirely. I offered to spot her, but she waved me off, said she wanted to pay for it herself. That it mattered more that way.

And after the contest, she finally plucked up the courage to talk to her parents. Really talk. Not just about the contest but about everything. About how it felt growing up a little off-center, the third wheel in her own family.

And for once, they listened. They asked questions. They even framed the letter she got from the contest committee—her first-place award—and hung it in the living room like it belonged there.

“I’m not just happy because of the contest or because my parents finally saw me as more than background noise. I mean, yeah, it’s all great stuff. But I’m also just so happy because you made it.”

What she means is that I made it to Nationals. Placed ninth in the prelims. The kind of finish that didn’t just mark the end of the season; it rewrote how I’ll remember it.

“You’re proud of me?” I ask, half-joking.

“Of course I am.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “You were incredible out there, Warren. B-class cut or not, you swam your ass off this season. You earned it.”

I huff a laugh, staring down at my glass. “I barely scraped by. Qualified last-minute.”

“And then placed ninth,” she points out. “Ninth, Warren. Out of everyone.”

“I still didn’t make the finals.”

“You made it to Nationals, though,” she counters, voice firm. “And you didn’t just make it, you held your own. That’s huge.”

I let the words sink in. She’s right, of course. That last B-class cut came late in the season, later than it should have. I hit my time at the conference championship meet and pulled my fastest 200 free split all year. Just in time to sneak into Nationals. Just in time to squeak by with a finish that fell just short of the final heat.

Not enough to qualify for finals, but enough to know I belonged there. To prove to myself that I was good enough. I swam among the best collegiate swimmers in the country, and that’s worth something.

I’m not going pro. I know that. No offers came afterward, and honestly, I’m okay with it. I’m heading into grad school next year. I’ll stick with kinesiology and pursue a career in sports performance and rehab.

I’ve already accepted a spot in Dayton’s program, and I’ll be working with the swim team, too. An assistant position that pays modestly but keeps me in the pool. Voss is excited to have me on board, and I’m grateful for the trust.

It feels right. The right way to stay close to the water. The right way to stay close to everything I’ve worked for.

“I’m proud of you too, you know,” I say.

Quinn’s smile falters, but she can’t hide from me. I know she’s proud of herself, too. She carries herself differently now, like someone who finally stopped apologizing for taking up space.

“I still can’t believe you’re writing a novel,” I say.

“I can’t believe it, either. But I figured ... why not? After the last contest, I finally remembered what it felt like to love writing again.” She pauses, tucking her hair behind her ear. “And I don’t know ... I think I’m ready to try for something bigger.”

“You should be,” I say. “You’re the best writer I know.”

She snorts. “How many writers do you know?”

“Just one,” I admit. “But she’s still the fucking best.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again. She reaches across the table, her fingers finding my arm and tracing the ink just above my wrist. Her thumb glides over the words— I dwell in Possibility —soft and lingering, like she’s reading them through her fingertips.

“I can’t believe you actually went through with it.”

I turn my wrist under her hand and catch her fingers in mine. “You knew what you were doing when you made the suggestion.”

She laughs quietly, then leans down and presses her mouth to my wrist, her lips brushing the ink like it’s something sacred. It makes me ache in that deep, quiet way that feels like being cracked open and put back together all at once.

I don’t know what I expected when we found our way back to each other. I don’t know if I thought it would feel like this. So steady and certain and full of soft, stubborn hope.

“I love you, Quinny.”

She lifts her head, her eyes warm and sure. “I know,” she says. “I love you, too.”

God, if it doesn’t feel just as good to hear it now as it did the very first time. Back when we were eighteen, when we were still figuring ourselves out. Just two headstrong kids fumbling through something almost too big to name.

And now, it feels inevitable, like a path we mapped out in the dark and still found our way back to. We just turned a corner, I think, kept walking, and then realized we were already home.