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He looked out at his family, the easy way they lounged in the sand and slept beneath the stars. In the mirror, Avery sat on a park bench with a cup of tea between her palms. His ring glistened on her finger, emerald glowing in the light.

She tipped her head back to the sun and for a moment, he saw it.

The life they could have. The children, the memories, the days of laughter, the sleepy morning that would steal the breath from his lungs. The long nights, the fights, the tears, the rawness of it all.

Everything.

With her, he could have everything.

It wasn’t a choice—there had never been a choice when it came to her.

His mother was laughing at something his father said, her head on his shoulder. His cousins and nephews and nieces stood by the water, talking merrily. Clara watched it all, a level of adoration on her face Wolfe had only ever seen one other time.

They were in their Paradise. They had their peace. They’d found what their souls had been meant for.

Patty met his eye, a thousand words of understanding in his gaze. Wolfe felt his throat constrict. Go, Patty mouthed, and gave him a nod and a soft smile. Be happy, brother.

Wolfe took it for what it was—a blessing.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

A pause. A weighted silence. Wolfe thought for a moment that it was an air of disbelief.

“I love her,” he murmured. “I know what I’m meant for now.”

Then let it be so, that voice said, and speared him through the chest.

For a moment, there was nothing.

And then, light.

Chapter 37

Winter melted into spring.

Spring yielded to summer, and summer collapsed into all the colors of autumn once more.

An entire year, nearly, since I’d set foot in Kilmorran now.

It hit me harder than I thought it would.

I’d…managed…over the last few months.

It snowed heavily throughout January and I spent the rest of the month writing, plotting, editing, and dreaming. I sat by the window staring out at the city through the condensation on the glass, small snow flurries crystalized on the outside. I wrote Wolfe’s name in the fog and it disappeared like it never had been there at all.

In February, Marissa and I celebrated Galentine’s Day at my place with face masks and chocolate and wine—so much wine. Too much wine. Marissa had insisted there was no such thing, but I certainly felt the effects the following day.

My first round of edits came back and we tossed around release dates. For me, there was only one date. One thing that made sense. I pushed hard for November first. The publisher came back and said Tuesday sales were better, to release it on the third instead. I wanted to release it on Samhain. It felt like a full circle moment for me. I didn’t care that it was a Saturday, but the rest of the industry seemed to. They won, in the end, and I had to settle for the third.

When March hit and Wolfe’s death date came, I felt like a zombie. My limbs moved, but mentally…I was somewhere else entirely. I found an Irish pub in Manhattan and had a Guinness in his honor. I sat at the bar alone, flicking through pictures of my trip. It was only on my third inspection of the Cliffs of Moher did I see it: the slightly smokey gray outline of a face in the corner of the screen.

Heart in my throat, I zoomed in. Wolfe’s profile was barely there—just the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw, but it was him. It felt like a gift to see the bare bones of his smile, the grin he reserved just for me.

I cried alone at the bar and walked home, wondering how six weeks with someone managed to leave such a scar on my heart.

I made a concerted effort not to linger for too long on the past, but I allowed myself to crack open his journals that day. They still smelled like him, like citrus and spices and cool, coastal air. I read them reverently, still feeling my own heart within the pages.

I’m happy for my brother—that he found his great love. I cannot help but look around and wonder if that day will ever come for me.