Epilogue
Piper
“Come on. It’s about to start.” I tug on Oliver’s hand, glancing over my shoulder at him as we edge around food and craft stalls on the outskirts of the Whitby town green.
Our eyes lock for a second, and he smiles. He looks delectable in a fitted sage green T-shirt and jeans, his face lined with scruff. The small grin he tosses me catapults him from attractive to downright gorgeous.
A frisson of exhilaration shoots through me. He’s mine. All mine.
Hundreds of people are spread out on the lawn as if everyone in a twenty-mile radius has come out to witness Whitby’s annual Independence Day Extravaganza. During the day, there are booths for local businesses, a concert in the park, and other activities, and at dusk, the best fireworks display around.
“How are we going to find them?” Oliver asks as we weave through families on blankets and camp chairs, sidestepping to avoid colliding with a child who runs by, waving a sparkler.
“We always set up in the same spot. At least, we used to.” It’s been years since I’ve been here for the Fourth of July.
We would have been here earlier, but I was distracted by work. I hit my stride and was completely in the zone, finishing up work on Hope, and Oliver didn’t want to disturb me until it was imperative that we hit the road. Not to mention, once he did interrupt me, we got sidetracked on the couch in my studio. It wasn’t the first time we christened the space, and it probably won’t be the last. After all, we have to remove any lingering bad vibes over and over and over again.
A high-pitched whine cuts through the air, and an explosion of white light bursts overhead, crackling outward in a shower of sparks. Oliver stops, his hand still in mine, halting my forward progression. I face him.
His head is tilted upward, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “I haven’t seen fireworks since I was a kid.” Another firework explodes. As the light fades overhead, he squeezes my hand. “Let’s hurry.”
Stopping periodically to gaze up at the show, we jog and weave through the throng until we reach the north end of the gazebo in the center of the town green. The arguing reaches my ears before we reach their blankets.
“A hot dog is not a sandwich.” Jake reclines on an old pink quilt, propped up on his hands, his head pointed toward Archer.
Archer and Finley are lying together on a darker blanket next to him, while Taylor sits on the quilt by Jake, cross-legged and eating popcorn.
“It’s meat between two slices of bread,” Archer says. “It’s the definition of a sandwich.”
A flurry of fireworks bursts and crackles above us.
“Peanut butter doesn’t have meat, but it still makes a sandwich,” Jake argues.
Taylor chucks a piece of popcorn at Jake. “Shut up and watch the show.”
“What does peanut butter have to do with anything?” Archer chuckles.
Just then, Finley spots our approach and waves us over. “You made it just in time! Come, sit.”
We squeeze on the blankets with everyone, with greetings and hugs all around. We end up somewhere in the middle of the group. I have Finley on one side and Oliver on the other.
I lean into him, the heat of his arm curving around my back and notching us together like puzzle pieces, and we gaze up at the colorful explosions filling the night sky.
Archer lifts his head over Finley and me to look at Oliver. “Do you think a hot dog is a sandwich?”
Oliver frowns. “I suppose it meets the technical definition of a sandwich.”
“Ha!” Jake raises a fist.
“However,” Oliver continues, “it’s not acceptable vernacular to refer to a hot dog as a sandwich or a sandwich as a hot dog.”
“Ha ha!” Archer calls to Jake.
“This is bullshit,” Jake says.
Their argument continues, and Finley edges a little closer to me. “Mindy couldn’t make it?” she murmurs.
“She’s meeting with Blake tomorrow morning,” I whisper back, keeping my focus on the sky.