Talia dives into Elsa’s lap, sobbing, and tries to crawl under the covers.
“You do it wrong!” Tatiana says, pointing a finger at Max.
Luca drops his head to my shoulder. His whole body’s shaking with laughter. “Never boring,” he says.
“Will you have illegitimate children with me too?”
“Yes.” He lifts his head and cradles my cheek. “A million times, yes.”
“We’re adopting after what I watched Elsa do last night.”
“Can we pretend like we’re not in the meantime?”
“Several times a day, please. I miss you.”
He rises to his feet, lifts me out of my chair, and tosses me over his shoulder. “Brooks. You’re on kid duty until Nonna gets here. Elsa. Lovely to meet you. If you talk to your parents, tell them Henri’s busy until they learn to send flowers on her release days. Little squirts, we’re gonna spoil you rotten at the holidays. Excuse me. I have a woman to satisfy.”
He marches me out of Elsa’s room, and I swear my shoulders start relaxing in a way I hadn’t realized they’ve needed, and I don’t know if it’s having Luca back in my life, or if it’s getting distance from my sister, but by the time we reach the elevators, my eyes are leaking again.
“Henri.” Luca sets me down, takes one look at me, and as the doors slide shut, he wraps me in his arms. “Beautiful angel, don’t cry.”
“I’m never beautiful during the good moments,” I sniffle.
“You are to me.”
“Luca—”
“I love you, Henri. All of you. All of your moods. All of your characters. All of your heart. And all of your cat’s various personalities too.”
I’m still laughing and smiling as he loads me up in Fluffy Maple in the parking garage, pausing to kiss me many, many times before he finally turns the key in the ignition.
His car sputters once, sputters twice, and then a cloud of black smoke rolls out from behind us.
We both turn and stare, then simultaneously look back at each other.
“Um, Luca?”
“Let me guess. That’s Confucius’s sign that he approves?”
I crack up and kiss him again.
I’ve always known life wasn’t boring.
You can’t have five failed engagements and not know it.
But I have this crazy feeling that not-boring is about to exist on an entirely new plane.
And I can’t wait to share my life—and all my love—with this man who couldn’t be more imperfectly perfect, and exactly right for me.
Epilogue
Henri
Three months after Luca came riding into Elsa’s maternity ward like my knight in baseball armor, we’re on a private island in the Caribbean, taking a break from our families, whom we love dearly but sometimes need to be away from, because no one’s perfect.
But we’re not here on vacation.
We’re here to celebrate some of our very best friends as they formalize their own forever.
Marisol and Emilio’s wedding takes place at sunset on the beach, with the entire Fireballs team and most of the coaches in attendance, plus the bride and groom’s extensive families, old friends, and former teammates too. They kiss under an arch of tropical flowers with their feet in the wet sand at the edge of the water while the sun lights up the sky in a burst of pinks and oranges, and it’s such a beautiful setting for two people who deserve all the happiness in the world that my eyes are leaking.
Luca kisses my hair as he passes me his handkerchief. I didn’t bother with mascara today, because I knew it would dribble all over my cheeks between the wedding tears and the humidity before this moment.
Okay, fine.
It’s also the third handkerchief he’s handed me, and I know he has at least four more stuffed in his pockets.
This man knows me very, very well.
I’ve gotten to know him pretty well too, and I’m very comfortable saying that this wedding is easier on him than it would’ve been a year ago.
I like seeing my friends find their happiness, he told me last night while we were walking on the far side of the island. And I like having my own happiness right here. I don’t care what we call it, Henri, so long as I can call you mine.
He is the absolute sweetest man ever.
He’s also shiny in the eyeballs as Marisol and Emilio walk down the aisle as husband and wife, both of their smiles so brilliantly happy, they look like they might take flight.
Their smiles, I mean. Which would be weird, but seriously, I don’t know how a body can contain that much joy and not radiate some of it up to the heavens.
Luca slides a glance at me and starts to smile too, like he knows there are weird thoughts going on in my brain, and I tip my head back and laugh.
“Only you,” he murmurs.
“It wasn’t that weird. Comparatively, I mean.”
He’s laughing now too as he pulls me to follow the crowd to the patio outside the mansion where so many guests are staying. We scored a private bungalow on the beach not far from Brooks and Mackenzie’s private bungalow, and we’re staying for a few more days, unlike the newlyweds, who’ll be off for their honeymoon—not to be confused with the month they already spent in Thailand for the holidays—before we all have to be back in Copper Valley for Fireballs Con. Soon after, we’ll head to Florida for spring training.
We dance. Marisol and Emilio cut their cake and then start a cake fight partly for fun, partly to horrify their parents. I eat chocolate-covered strawberries until my stomach hurts, but only from the table clearly labeled ALCOHOL-FREE FRUIT.
Not that there’s any fruit soaked in vodka at this party, but Marisol was kind enough to think of me when she arranged catering.
The party’s winding down when Marisol suddenly shrieks, “My garter!”
“Shit, yeah!” Emilio yells. “Let me under that skirt!”
Pretty sure that’s also meant to horrify their parents, but the next thing I know, I’m being shoved into the center of the dance floor, surrounded by all the single women, while Marisol skips to the edge of the patio with her bouquet.
Seriously?
“Excuse me,” I murmur to Marisol’s cousin.
She glances at my ringless hand, then lifts a brow at me as she blocks me from leaving the dance floor. “You’re single. You have to be here.”
“I’m in a very committed relationship. Luca and I have a pending common-law marriage.”
Emilio’s grandmother, a lovely widowed woman who promised to teach Luca and me how to make the best empanadas tomorrow, snorts in my direction. “Pending. You stay.”
As if I’m going to steal the bouquet from another woman who would appreciate the thought that she’d be the next woman to get married.
I make the “I give up, I’ll stay,” gesture for the sake of the women around me—also, is it weird to anyone else that they’d want more competition?—and formulate my escape route.
It’s simple, really.
The crowd starts counting down from three as Marisol warms up to throw her bouquet over her shoulder.
I wait until everyone yells one!, and then I squat to the ground.
I’ll probably get trampled, but Luca’s watching, and I know it’ll only be a moment before he dives over the mass of women lunging for the bouquet to drag me to safety.