32 MARGOT

Tell me those are NOT what I think they are.”

At the sound of my sister’s voice, I turn to see her standing in the doorway to my office, holding a bowl of popcorn and staring at my ass.

“Yep,” I say, pulling out the high waist of my underwear and letting it snap back. “Ye Olde Panties of Lies themselves.”

“?‘Ye Olde’? Do they have a built-in chastity belt?”

“Discreet but effective cockblocking or your money back,” I murmur, staring at the email on my screen. It’s from Sylvie, the podcast host who witnessed the infamous Happily Never After leak and who will be hosting my much anticipated comeback interview tonight. I scan the details for the hundredth time, still cowed by the sheer number of people who RSVP’d to hear our live stream talk.

There’s a soft ceramic-against-wood sound as Savannah puts her bowl down on my desk and comes up behind me. I breathe in the delicious scent of buttery popcorn as she rests her chin on my shoulder, realizing I haven’t eaten anything in hours.

“How many times are you going to read that?” she asks, looking down at my screen with me.

I’ve shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth. “As many times as it takes for these numbers to get smaller.”

Reaching out, she puts a denim-blue-painted fingernail over the end of tonight’s participant number, covering the last zero. “Better?”

“ So much better,” I say gratefully.

She gives me a hug. “You’re going to do great. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like a disgruntled superfan is going to hack into your private files and share them with the entire—oh, wait. That already happened.”

I sigh. After getting back home, the law-enforcement authorities who investigated the HNA leak informed me that they’d identified the hacker and apprehended them. It’s been an enormous relief, but I must not look any less nervous about this interview, because Savannah snaps the waistband of my underwear and says, “Look. Your readers have seen these, and they still took you back. If that’s not unconditional love, I don’t know what is.”

I laugh, elbowing her away. What she’s said is true though. In the roughly two months since I posted that explanation letter and photo of myself with Forrest, my life has turned around in ways I couldn’t have begun to imagine when I originally boarded that plane to Alaska.

Not only have my fans forgiven me, but my brilliant agent was able to broker my biggest deal yet with a new publisher for my manuscript. If that weren’t enough, two of my older novels have climbed back onto the bestseller list, and demands for my Alaska book have been overwhelming. It’s a lot to process. Of course I’m thrilled to be a part of this community again. Of course I’m grateful. But according to my new therapist, that doesn’t mean I can’t also be sad as hell.

Because while many wonderful, astounding things have happened since I came back to L.A., they’ve all been like beams of sunlight filtered through a cracked and dirty window. A muddied lens diminishing every good thing that comes my way because I can’t share them with him .

As usual, just the thought of Forrest sends a pulse of pain through the yawning cavity in my chest. Missing him is less of an emotion and more of a full-body chronic condition I’ve barely learned how to manage. As I prepare for my first public-speaking engagement since the floor of my life dropped out from beneath me, I know the only question on everyone’s mind is whether or not I found my HEA with him after all. It’s a question I’m not sure how I’ll bring myself to answer despite the endless versions I’ve drafted.

“Thanks, Van,” I say after taking a deep breath.

“You betcha,” she says from the couch, and I’m surprised by her distracted tone of voice and how intently she’s staring at her phone.

I check the time on my screen and get a sharp zing of adrenaline. One minute to go. “I guess this is it,” I say, sitting in my chair and pulling up the social media platform the event is being held on.

She looks up in alarm. “You’re sure you don’t want to put pants on?” she says. “Just in case?”

I smile. “Just in case I have to stand up and have another mental breakdown?”

“Never say never , Margot,” she says. “What if there’s a fire? What if we’re burgled?”

“These are my lucky panties now,” I say, mildly amused by her concern. “I think I’ll take the risk.”

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I guess it’s not like there’s anyone left on Planet Earth who hasn’t already seen how great you look in enormous beige spandex.”

“Okay, well, thanks for the pep talk,” I say, switching on my ring light. “Here goes nothing.”

“Good luck!” she says, blowing me three kisses in quick succession.

I pretend to catch them in midair, smack them to my lace-clad hip, and then it’s go time. With one last prayer that I don’t stick my foot in my mouth, get burgled, or generally fuck this up, I join the live stream.

“Thanks for that answer, Margot,” Sylvie says. “I think what you said brings up a salient question about whether the romance genre creates unrealistic expectations in real-life relationships, or provides a set of bars that we should rightfully expect every potential partner to hurdle.”

I take a drink of my water. To her credit, Sylvie hasn’t come out and openly asked me about #MrHotTub, as he’s known on socials, but she’s been slowly circling around it, keeping me and our thousands of listeners on the edge of our seats.

I put down my water glass, nodding. “I’d say that people have always looked to stories as a way of navigating their own lives and relationships. Reading novels is one of the most time-honored ways of understanding and processing the human experience, and an essential part of that human experience is, of course, love.”

“So you do believe that the genre provides useful standards for people to check against while navigating their own relationships,” she says, thoughtfully twirling one of her bright blue 1940s-style pin-curls. “That feels like a pretty different tune from the one you sang in your Happily Never After file.”

During this live stream event, I can’t see any faces besides Sylvie’s, but her statement immediately creates a surge in comments and reaction emojis that sends an icy-hot prickle up my spine. This is her first mention of my HNA file, and there’s a palpable sense of being in the middle of a lake I thought was frozen and hearing an ominous crack.

“Yes, I suppose it does probably sound different,” I say, trying to keep my composure even though I know she’s moving in for the kill.

She smiles, sweet as pie. “And does your change of tune have anything to do with a recent change of heart ? Maybe because of a certain someone in a hot tub?”

I blink and I see Forrest’s eyes. Just a flashing memory of deepest green, warm with firelight. But as soon as the image arrives, it’s gone again, leaving behind a fresh bruise. I’m aware that Sylvie and thousands of unseen others are watching me carefully, and that maybe Savannah was right about wearing pants after all. If I were wearing them, simply standing up and running away might be an option. Because despite all my carefully crafted answers to this very question, none of them feels like the right one. I could be ambiguous and leave everyone unsatisfied. I could be dishonest and say I’ve never been happier. Or I could be truthful but disappointing and admit I’ve never been more miserable in my life.

In the end, I find a way to be all three at once. “I don’t think there’s ever been a single heart that hasn’t been changed from meeting someone remarkable, Sylvie. Even if the time spent together was brief.”

“And that remarkable someone,” she says, leaning in closer to her screen. “Do you mean to say he might not be part of the Happily Ever After you hoped for in your post?”

I swallow hard as loss briefly pinches the muscles of my face together. I open my mouth to speak, but my response won’t emerge. I stare down at my hands, which are not shaking only because I’ve gripped them together so tightly. Sensing that Sylvie is on the verge of repeating her question, I reflexively look up at Savannah like she might have cue cards waiting for me.

To my surprise, she’s not looking at me. She’s nervously tapping her fingernails against the back of her phone and staring off to the right at my office door. Before I can finish thinking What the hell , the doorbell rings, and I nearly emergency-eject from my skin. Savannah jumps, too, but doesn’t land back in her seat. Instead, she’s up and jogging out of my office like she’s been waiting for those chimes all night. Bewildered, I turn back to Sylvie, who’s looking as confused by the loud interruption as I am.

“Sorry,” I say, chuckling nervously. “Saved by the bell, I guess.”

Sylvie waves off my apology with an easy laugh and a smile. “No worries. Life is full of plot twists.”

“You’re telling me,” I deadpan, earning a laugh.

Sylvie’s smile widens. “Which brings me right back to the question I know everyone listening wants to know the answer to, Margot.” She pauses for effect. “Is it safe to assume that, after your trip to Alaska and incredibly hopeful letter, you believe in the possibility of Happily Ever After once again?”

Despite the feeling of my heart being torn open like an overripe peach, I smile. Despite the pulpy, dripping mess in my chest, the answer to her question is easy. My voice hitches. “Absolutely,” I say.

Sylvie rests her chin in her hands and sighs. “And what changed your mind?”

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like an interview for untold thousands but like I’m sharing secrets at a sleepover. “I think,” I begin hesitantly, “what I didn’t understand about Happily Ever After is that there are some people who come into your life—even for just a moment—who have the power to fundamentally change you forever. They’re the people who see right through all your masks, and all your bullshit, and love you anyway. And not just despite all your wounds but because of them too. You’re safe in their hands for as long as you can hold on to each other, but even when it’s time to part ways, you leave knowing you’ve been truly seen.” I pause, carefully wiping beneath my eyes, and take a breath. “You leave knowing you’ll spend the rest of your life looking back on the time you had together with sadness, yes, but joy and thankfulness too.”

“And so for you, Happily Ever After is a state of gratitude for the love you’ve received—no matter if the relationship has long since faded,” Sylvie says far more succinctly than I did. Her voice is tender, and below her face is an endless stream of heart emojis floating upward in a rainbow of color.

I nod. “Yes, that’s what I believe.”

“But what if it didn’t have to end?”

At this, I look to my left, because it wasn’t Sylvie who asked the question. It was a far deeper voice. A voice I haven’t heard in months, though it’s flickered in and out of my thoughts and memories every hour since I left him.

“Forrest,” I whisper, hardly daring to believe he’s really here.

I feel the vibration of the floor as he begins striding toward me, Savannah following in his enormous wake, and I stand up to face him, my heart going wild. All thoughts of the interview disappear when he comes to stand in front of me. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him and felt his presence that I’m overwhelmed by the details of him. The high cut of his cheekbones and the dip of his throat. The breadth of his shoulders and the coarse cowlicks of his dark hair. He looks as tired as I was after coming back to L.A., but somehow all the more beautiful for it.

Without thinking, I step closer, tilting my face up like an offering, and his hand lifts to cradle my jaw. My eyes flutter shut at his calloused touch—so familiar, so missed—and my entire body calms at once.

“Aaand that’s about all for now, folks!”

Forrest and I turn our heads sharply in unison at my sister’s voice. Savannah is standing on the other side of my desk, holding up my computer and apparently live streaming everything . My face promptly turns into a surface hotter than the sun’s core as the realization hits me that I’m having the most profoundly personal moment of my life in front of thousands of people, in my underwear . And not just any underwear but those underwear.

Savannah mercifully turns my computer around to face herself, grinning ear to ear. “Apologies to cut things short, Sylvie, but my sister has an HEA to get to. Totally unavoidable, I’m sure you understand.”

“But is that—” sputters Sylvie. “Oh my God, is that Mr. Hot Tub ?”

Savannah winks into the camera, clicks a button, and closes my computer on the desk. “Sorry, but I had to give them something ,” she says, walking over to us. “Forrest, we can officially meet later. And Margot, I was wrong—that was even better without your pants.” She gives us one more dazzling smile and practically skips out of my office, closing the door behind her.

And then we’re alone for the first time in months, the aching chasm between us narrowed to a single foot of empty space.

“I’m so sorry” is the first thing he says, his voice like broken granite. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“We both knew it wasn’t going to last,” I say, ready to make his excuses for him. “I understand.”

“No, Margot,” he tells me. “I thought we understood. I thought we were being selfless. But I was so fucking wrong.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got nothing to give anyone else if you’re not with me.”

He’s looking at me like every wet curve of my eyelashes and crease of my lips are small miracles. I know because I’m staring at him the same way.

“But your dad—” I start, even though I don’t want to say it. Even though I want to avoid any topic that might steal him away from me again.

“Fired me,” he says with an incredulous laugh. “Hired a live-in nurse and evicted my ass.” A stunned laugh gusts out of me. Forrest steps in closer until that foot of space becomes mere inches. “He never wanted me to sacrifice everything for him. The more dedicated I was, the worse he felt for keeping me from living my own life. For keeping me from you.”

I shake my head, wondering how it would be possible to relate harder to something. “Savannah gave me the same wake-up call,” I tell him. “After you left to take your dad to Anchorage, I read her last letter and learned she’d moved out of my house.”

Forrest’s eyes widen, and I know he understands how difficult that particular revelation must have been for me. “Christ, are you okay? I had no idea—”

I nod, taking a breath. “I’m okay. And so is she, despite all my paranoia. We’re still adjusting, but it’s getting a little easier not to send constant text reminders for her to take her supplements.” I pause, biting my lip and dropping my gaze from his. “It has been a little lonely, though,” I say in a choked voice, and I can’t stop the tears from welling up.

“Fuck, Margot. I’ve been so lonely, too, sweetheart.” One of his hands rises to gently tilt my chin up. “Every day since you left has felt like a goddamn tally on a prison wall. And then my dad showed me your book dedication, and it made me hope I could try and make things right.”

“Does that mean…” I say uncertainly, hardly daring to ask the question that’s been burning inside me since he appeared. “Do you mean you’re moving back to L.A.?”

“I am,” he says, making those two words sound like a vow.

“For good,” I confirm, raising my own hands to tentatively rest against his warm chest.

At my touch, he takes a racking inhale. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

This whole time, I’ve been on the brink of tears, but at this, they spill freely down my face. I’m half-laughing, half-crying when I speak. “And you promise there won’t be any more wilderness excursions?”

He pulls me in close, a corner of his beautiful mouth lifting. “There will always be wilderness excursions.”

I try to look disappointed but fail completely. All I can see is our future together, stretching out farther than any distant horizon line, and—

My thoughts are interrupted when his big hands wrap around my waist and he picks me up, my bare legs automatically wrapping around his hips. I look down from my favorite place in the world, my arms wrapping around his neck like they’ve come home at last.

“I gotta say, I like you in this position a lot better without pants,” he says, chuckling, and I can’t help my blush.

“It might have been a little cold for our meet-cute,” I point out. “Then again, you know a thing or two about warming me up.”

The look he gives me matches the squeeze of his hands, and my breath hitches.

“So about that HEA Savannah mentioned,” he says, his deep voice resonating through me. “I’ve heard you’re the expert on how they go.”

I smile down at him, and my world narrows to the deep green of his eyes and the smile tugging at his lips. We might as well be a thousand miles away, standing in front of a (perfectly ventilated) cabin fire together.

“They’re not really that complicated,” I tell him, sinking my hands into the back of his thick curls and watching his eyelashes flutter. “You already nailed the grand gesture. That’s a good start.”

He nods like he’s considering it carefully. “True. But I haven’t told you I love you yet. That seems pretty vital.”

At those words, my heart feels like a bird trying to take flight right out of my chest.

“You love me,” I whisper, and it’s half-question, half-declaration.

“Of course I love you,” he says, raising a hand to stroke my dimple with his thumb. “Why else would I be here begging you to spend the rest of your life with me?”

I laugh as joy, love, and a certainty I’ve never known before wells up inside me, spilling out until I’m sure it’s racing down every street of my neighborhood, banners flying in the wind. It’s begging to be written about, begging to be witnessed, and begging to give hope to every person who ever thought they were only cut out for Happily Never Afters.

“I love you, too,” I say, but he already knows.

He slides his hand to the back of my neck, pulling me close and kissing me like he’s spent his whole life searching for this love and plans to spend the rest of it holding on to me.

My arms wrap more tightly around his neck, and I kiss him back until I know he understands something vital. This may not be our first kiss, and it’s certainly not our last, but it is the first kiss of something I never imagined for myself. Happily Ever After.