"I don't need to think anymore. This is right, this is real, this is what I want."
"But your job . . ."
"Managing the Fountain Theater isn't my dream anymore. They don't need me, Garrett. Not really. But our school, these kids, they need me . . . and I need them."
I shake my head, because the words stutter in my throat, and I'm not explaining it right. How sure I am.
"The night I got the call from Colleen, when she told me about the accident, I looked at Bruce and Cheryl and do you know what I said?"
"What?"
"I said, I have to go home. This is home, Garrett. It's always been home to me; I just forgot. But I know now. I could live anywhere with you and be happy--but if I can choose where that is, I want it to be here. I want our life to be here--you and me--together, in our home."
I know him well enough to see the relief that lights up his face--the joy. And I know, deep down, this is what he wants too.
Garrett hugs me in those strong, solid arms and my feet leave the floor. Then he sets me down, holding my face in his beautiful hands and my future--our future--in his eyes.
Epilogue 1
Mrs. Coach D
Callie
Garrett and I met the first time in the fall, and we reunited in the fall . . . so it's fitting that we get married in the fall too. He proposed on a sunny, summer Sunday, while we were on his bass boat, in the very middle of the lake . . . with the same ring he bought me all those years ago. After I said yes and Garrett slid that beautiful ring on my finger, I rocked his world--both our worlds--literally.
I flung myself into his arms so fast, the boat capsized.
But even when we fell into the water . . . Garrett didn't stop kissing me.
When we eventually came up for air, he offered to replace the diamond with a bigger stone, but I shot that idea straight down. My ring is perfect, just the way it is.
Picking the location for the wedding wasn't as easy. Garrett wanted to get married on the fifty-yard line on the high school football field.
Yes--really.
Because he's a guy, through and through. A quarterback, so to him, the football field will always be a sacred place. I wanted to get married in a beautiful old theater about an hour away--because--guilty as charged--I guess I'll always be the theater girl who loves the lights and smell of the stage. We toy with the idea of getting married on the lake . . . but neither of us like the thought of my dress dragging through goose shit, so that idea gets kicked to the curb pretty quick.
We settle on a beach wedding. One of Garrett's old teammates from Rutgers, who did pretty well for himself, owns a big Victorian house with a private strip of beach in Brielle. It's close enough, open enough, that the whole town can come . . . and they do.
I peek out of the white tent at the clear, churning blue ocean. I spot the football team taking up the last three rows of pale wooden chairs on the groom's side. My theater kids are in the same rows across the aisle--David and Simone, Michael, Toby, and Bradley. Miss McCarthy is here, checking her watch and tsking that we need to get this show on the road. The whole faculty is here--Jerry Dorfman and Donna Merkle finally came out of the relationship closet and are actually holding hands.
The kids are going to lose their minds over that development this week.
My sister, Colleen, is my matron of honor. Cheryl and Alison and Sydney are my bridesmaids--all wearing matching silk pale-blue gowns.
Garrett stands beneath an arch of white roses--so tall and handsome in his black tux. He's confident--not nervous like most grooms--his mouth settled into that relaxed, gorgeous smile. Dean stands beside him--his best man--because he couldn't choose between his brothers. Woody sits at Garrett's feet, adorable and perfectly behaved--wearing Snoopy's blue collar around his fluffy neck--our something beautifully borrowed.
Layla agreed to sing at my wedding. And when the flute echoes and the string quartet joins in, and her beautiful voice starts to sing our wedding song--"After All"--I take my father's arm and step out onto the red, carpeted aisle that covers the sand.
Everyone we care about--everyone we love, from our childhood days until now--is here to celebrate with us. They all stand, watching me with wide eyes and delighted faces.
Garrett's gaze finds mine. His eyes drift slowly down over my long, white, strapless beaded gown. He pauses at my boobs--because they're still his favorite. And then he gives me a devastating grin that makes my stomach flip deliciously and tears spring into my eyes.
They say you can't go home again . . . but they're wrong.
I did.
I came home and found the love I never really lost.
The air is September warm, the breeze is light, and the sun is just starting to set. Halfway down the aisle, I stop and turn to my dad.
"I love you, Daddy."
He smiles back, warm and proud. "I love you too, my Callie-flower."
I glance at Garrett and turn back to my father . . . because it's unconventional, but it feels right.
"I think . . . I think I'm going to go the rest of the way on my own, Dad."
My father nods. Then he lifts my veil and kisses my cheek. "Go get him, sweetheart."
I turn back towards Garrett, kick off my shoes, lift the hem of my dress--and I run. I run to the boy who always had my heart . . . to the man who always will.
My bouquet bursts when I jump, showering us in white and indigo petals. And Garrett catches me, laughing. He'll always catch me.
He kisses me long and deep. Then he sets me on my feet, and the priest from Saint Bart's begins the ceremony. And I become Mrs. Coach Garrett Daniels.
At last.
Epilogue 2
Baby D
Garrett
It's our first game in October--Parker Thompson's a junior this year--still a great kid and now, post-growth spurt, he's a full-out monster on the field.
"Yes!" I clap my hands as he completes a thirty-yard pass for a first down. "Beautiful! That's the way to do it, boys!"
"Nice play, Parker! Woo!"
I hear my wife's voice loud and clear from the stands behind me. My wife. I look down at the thick platinum band on my left hand. How fucking cool is that?
Then I turn around, finding her pretty blond head, checking up on her. She's safe and sound, sitting between her parents and her sister. Callie's wearing a long-sleeve white shirt under an extra-large Lakeside Lions football jersey that I had custom made for her last month. It matches the one I'm wearing right now, but where mine says COACH D. across the back, Callie's reads, MRS. COACH D. across her shoulder blades. And in front--right above her round, adorably gigantic, pregnant belly--it says BABY D.
On the field, the ref makes a shit call and throws a flag on one of my guards. I open my mouth to bitch . . . but Callie beats me to it.
"What the hell was that? Get some glasses or get off the field!"
The pregnancy has made Callie fantastically insatiable in bed . . . and ferocious in the stands. It makes my heart . . . and my cock . . . a very happy camper.
Even though she's scheduled to pop any second now, she's been teaching the first few weeks of school--she loves it that much. After the baby comes, she'll take a maternity leave, but has sworn to McCarthy she's coming back. Between my parents and her parents, her sister and my sister-in-law, we have no shortage of child-care helpers who will adore the hell out of our kid. We've spent the weekends getting the nursery ready and more hours than I can say, just staring at her bump, watching our baby move and stretch inside her.
It's miraculous. More exciting tha
n football--the most wondrous thing we've ever done.
I don't worry anymore about not being as good of a teacher because I have a kid of my own, or screwing them up when they get here. Because Callie and I make the best team--it's impossible for us not to be awesome at anything we do together.
Sammy Zheng kicks a beautiful field goal, adding another three points to our side of the board. I clap and tap the players' backs when they run in . . . and then I realize something's wrong. Because I don't hear Callie cheering.
At that same moment, the voice of Callie's theater student and the announcer for the football games, Michael Salimander, comes through the speakers. His tone starts off semi-robotic, the way rote announcements always sound.
"Coach Daniels, please report to the announcer's box. Coach Daniels please report . . ."
And then rote goes right out the fucking window.
". . . what? Holy shit, Miss Carpenter's having the baby!"
My head whips around so fast it almost snaps off.
Then Miss McCarthy's voice echoes in a hail of loudspeaker feedback.
"Daniels! Get your ass up here now!"
In an instant Dean is at my side, eyes flaring wide behind his glasses. "Dude. Looks like there's somewhere you need to be."
I throw my clipboard and headset at him--swing my legs over the fence and practically leap up the stands in a single bound.
The way Superman would if he knocked up Lois Lane.
Callie stands in the announcer's box with her dad's arm around her back, her hands on her stomach, and a giant wet spot on her maternity jeans.
"Apparently that last call was so bad it broke my water," she tells me.
Holy shit, we're having a baby. I don't know why this thought is really just occurring to me now--but it is. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Mrs. Cockaburrow whispers something to Miss McCarthy, who turns to us raising her arms in protest. "There is no giving birth on school grounds! Our insurance premiums will go through the frigging roof!"
I hold up my hand. "I got it."
My father-in-law tells me they'll meet us at the hospital. I swoop my wife into my arms and Miss McCarthy's voice follows me out the door.