by Harlow Cole
His eyes brushed past me and then snapped right back. His mouth gaped open a little, his expression not too unlike the awe on the faces surrounding him. A smile blossomed on his lips. My smile. The one he’d reserved for me since our first days in the library.
I grinned in response. He quickly said something to the group around him and held up a finger before he started toward me, slowly at first and then gaining speed.
I’d temporarily forgotten Brayden’s teammate was still standing beside me, watching everything unfold.
He flipped his hat around backward and gave me a cocky grin. “If things don’t work out with Ross, you be sure to come back and see me.”
When Brayden was a few yards away, he called out my name. The sound came with a question mark attached, like he needed to make sure it was really me in the flesh. I smiled softly as I placed two fingers over my lips and then down over my heart.
He broke out into a jog. On the way, he called out, “Sampson, get away from my girl.”
The first baseman chuckled as he started back to his post.
Brayden’s arms engulfed me over the fence, tugging me against his chest, so my feet momentarily left the ground. He kissed the top of my head and then gripped my shoulders, pulling back to see my face. He flipped his hat around, blinding me with bright, happy eyes.
“This is the best damn surprise I’ve ever gotten. You’re here. You came.”
My palms reached up to ghost over his cheeks. “Kiss me.”
“What . . .” His question died as his eyes searched mine. He hesitated and then glanced over his shoulder. “There are cameras everywhere. Reporters and fans and—”
“I know. It’s okay. I don’t care.” I raised up on my tiptoes and wound my arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Brayden. It’s time.”
His megawatt smile eclipsed the sun.
As his lips met mine, he softly murmured, “Welcome home.”
I Know
Epilogue 2
Ashley
There were a million things to love about Paris. Quaint cafés. Centuries-old buildings. World-renowned art. But the way the city lit up at night was what I would always love most. My little-girl dreams looked just like the Champs-Élysées bathed in twinkling light. No matter how many times I’d been here the last couple years, the sight never got old.
Sadly, I’d spent most of this latest trip walking that street alone.
My schedule had been packed all summer. An entire athletic wear campaign, three magazine covers, and this catalog shoot for an up-and-coming designer the fashion world had dubbed the next Ralph Lauren. Being in high demand was great; it was also tiring.
Of course, this job just happened to coincide with the late July stretch. After the all-star break, the Yankees followed up a home stand against the Sox with a long trip out west.
Two time zones farther away.
But, this weekend, we were going to make up for it. Brayden had flown for twelve hours, leapfrogging across the country and an entire ocean, so he could hold my hand, walking beneath those glittering lights.
And, so he could help me find my way back home.
I’d already found my way there. In his arms. An hour after he got off the plane yesterday.
“Did you get a good one?” he asked, smiling.
I flipped through the pictures on my phone. We’d gone up to the top of the Eiffel Tower like a couple of silly tourists, laughing and snapping ridiculous selfies.
“This one is hysterical,” I said, holding it out for him to see. “Even when you’re being a goofball, you’re still way too pretty. I’m putting this one on Instagram. Your fangirls will spend all night Photoshopping their faces over mine.”
Usually, that would’ve garnered a witty retort, but he just smiled sheepishly and ducked his head to look out the window.
I put my hand on his knee where it bobbed up and down. “You okay?”
The car slowed to a stop. Vincent got out in the front.
“What’s this? Where are we?” I asked, trying to look around him.
He cracked open the door.
Vincent nodded to him and then added, “Everything’s in place, boss.”
The door swung open farther. We were parked in front of a white stone building. Red velvet ropes and a thick carpet spread between us and the door.
“What’s going on?” I asked again.
Brayden hoisted himself out of the car and reached a hand back to me. “Another surprise. We’re gonna knock two more dreams off the list tonight. Half mine, half yours.” He shook his hand, coaxing me to take hold of it and follow his lead.
Vincent had walked ahead of us to hold the door.
I stepped over the threshold, straight into another fairy tale. One dotted by familiar smiles. Deep purple walls lay beneath black-and-white prints. Huge canvases were highlighted by pinpoint lights that brought them alive. I strode forward, my mouth hanging open as I realized the significance.
Every single one was mine.
At the center of the back wall, huge, scrolling letters spelled out my name.
“How did you do this? What is this?”
“Our story,” he said. “As told by your lens.”
“How did you get all these here?”
“Nathan helped me.”
“He did?”
We walked slowly, studying our own faces. Watching them age and grow wiser. The backgrounds changed. There were people we’d loved and lost. People we’d lost touch with. And some people we’d never let go.
Seeing them all together, stacked side by side, in a time line of years, completely overwhelmed me. My work had appeared in magazines. On the sides of buildings. On TV. But I’d never seen so much of it all in one place. I’d never connected all the dots at once. Never laid them out in one long row where I could finally see the greater pattern unveiled.
As we neared the back wall, I started to begin putting my feelings into words of thanks. But, as I turned, I suddenly realized the space was larger than it had first appeared.
Leading into a second room were a series of shots I had taken my first year in art school, for a class on motion and perspective. They looked larger than life. Dominoes tumbling into one another. The blur of the little white dimples as the blocks connected, toppled, and leaned.
“There’s more?” I asked, already moving forward.
The second room was different. Bright white walls glowed under candlelight. Hundreds of lit votives were lined up, pressed together, like the prayer vestibules in Notre Dame. It cast a mood, a feeling of stepping onto hallowed ground.
At the end of the space sat one pure black wall. A spotlight shone down on it, highlighting the empty spot where something lay missing.
“What’s going there?” I asked, pointing.
“That’s where we’ll hang the picture you take of us. On our wedding day.”
I suddenly turned around, my mouth open wide.
He was kneeling down on one knee.
“Oh my God.”
The brightest light in the room shone from the box in his hand.
“This is where my half of the dream comes in. The part where I ask you to change the name on the wall to Mrs. Ashley Ross.”
My hand covered my mouth until he reached out to take it.
He slid the ring onto my finger. “Say yes, Soot.”
I slowly sank down to my knees, mirroring his position. I stared down at my hand again before grasping his face in my palms and pressing my lips to his. “Yes.”
I could feel his mouth smile against my own.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I repeated against his lips before pulling back to look into his eyes.
“I love you.”
For the first time in our lives, he didn’t object to me saying those words aloud.
“I love you, too,” he replied with the biggest, goofiest grin of all.
As my mouth found his again, I softly whispered, “I know.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over.”
—Yogi Berra
About the Author
Harlow Cole is a former journalism student, turned techie, turned mother—who finally decided at age forty-something what she wants to be if she ever grows up. Her writing journey first began in sixth grade, when she and her best friend penned boy band fanfiction in an old spiral notebook. Harlow is a connoisseur of peanut M&M’s, brand new school supplies and angst-filled love stories that always end happy. At fifteen, she met her first love. She’s now been married to him for almost twenty years. They reside in suburban Washington, DC, where Harlow moonlights as a taxi driver for their farting beagle and teenage twins.
For more information on upcoming releases, visit www.harlowcole.com
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