EPILOGUE

One year later

I’d never seen Lucia look so nervous. It wasn’t her style. But still there she stood, in a brand new red dress, hair in curls, looking like she was going to barf.

“Everyone is going to love you,” I whispered, squeezing her hand.

“Says you,” she said, biting her lip and looking down at her notes.

“True. I do love you.”

She looked up, a quick smile. “I love you too. But I’m also about to become the first poet in existence to throw up in the middle of her reading. Do you think that will encourage fans or discourage them?”

“If you’re making snappy quips, you can’t be that nervous,” I chided and her lips quirked up as she fought a grin.

People were filing in to the bookstore, at least 250, squeezing into the back, leaning against the shelves. It was one of our larger audiences—people in Big Sur were curious about the supermodel-turned-bookstore owner turned-poet who’d been living here for a year.

Which was why Lu was so nervous. It was big news, at least in the world of celebrity gossip, when The Lucia Bell left the world of modeling to run a small bookstore with her new boyfriend. People wanted interviews; fans were distraught. Lucia ignored most of it, limiting her social media accounts to one (Instagram) where she posted updates about the store. Books we were reading. Snippets from her writing.

She was right—she did lose fans. A lot of them. But the ones who stayed saw Lucia for who she really was and celebrated the courage she had to life an authentic life.

A couple of them were even in the audience tonight.

“Everything I’ve ever written is terrible, Cal. I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” she said.

I laughed. “That is not even remotely true.”

I leaned forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses up her neck until I reached her ear.

“After this is over, I’ll be doing a number of filthy things to you,” I promised.

She shivered, blushing slightly. “You do filthy things to me every night,” she said, reaching down to squeeze my hand.

“You’re right,” I said, chuckling. “But they’ll be even filthier.”

She rolled her eyes at me, but she looked a little less nervous.

A few months after she came back from Paris, Lucia did a brave thing, going back to get her Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing. Four times a week she made the drive to Monterey to take classes, staying up late most nights writing and doing her homework. Running the store in the morning and on weekends. She remained the hardest worker I knew, and even though she was often bleary-eyed in the morning, she’d never been happier.

And sometimes she even let me read her writing. And it was so poignant, so gorgeous, it made my heart physically hurt.

“Thank you everyone for being here tonight,” I said, stepping in front of Lucia to begin.

Public speaking didn’t bother me as much anymore. In the past year, we’d averaged a reading a week and slowly but surely things were turning around. It was going to take a long time, but Lucia and I were committed.

“Many of you in this room knew my grandfather, Robert, and how much poetry meant to him.” I indicated the large room. “At least once a day I’ll re-shelve a book, or find a stack of new books, and there will be a piece of white lined paper with a few lines scribbled on it. Sometimes his handwriting, sometimes the handwriting of a poet long dead, anonymous but vital. Poetry is alive and well here, and as you know from this past year, we are doing our best to make sure it stays alive.”

Most days, Lucia left me a love poem stuck to the register—sometimes long, sometimes just two lines, always perfect. At night, I read to her as we lay curled up by the fireplace. Or she read to me from my business management and marketing textbooks in silly, weird voices, sometimes striking a pose from her modeling days, making me laugh while I learned all the ways to keep The Mad Ones afloat.

My grandfather would have been proud of me. I was proud of me.

“So thank you for your dedication to this bookstore, to books, to writing. To the Big Sur community. It means so much to Lucia and to me.”

She was effervescent in the light, holding my hand, gazing at me like I was the only person in the world. My love for her was endless.

“Many of you also know that my business partner, and girlfriend, Lucia Bell is a poet. And tonight she’ll be doing her very first reading.”

Lucia smiled nervously, clearing her throat. The audience went wild for it—she was a fan favorite in Big Sur, attending town hall meetings, always quick to help a neighbor, dancing with the Mayor at Gabe’s bar on the weekends. People were usually surprised to learn she wasn’t born-and-raised.

“I couldn’t be prouder of her,” I said, turning towards her, squeezing her hand again. “I mean that, Lucia,” I said softly, just for her.

 I reluctantly sat, since I would have been content to hold her hand all night long, but this was her moment, her spotlight.

She took the podium, placing her poems down delicately. Gathered her confidence—the same vivacious spirit that had drawn me to her from the beginning.

“Thank you everyone for taking a chance on me,” she said, and I grinned at her. 

She grinned back, bright and shining. My heart spun on its axis. “Tonight’s reading is dedicated to Calvin, whose love brought me back to life. You’ll always be my inspiration.”

And then she squared her shoulders, standing tall.

Flipped open the pages, and began.

THE END.