Page 76 of Knot My Type

But we'll handle it all together, the same way we've handled everything else. With patience and humor and the unshakeable conviction that what we've built is worth fighting for.

The ring on my finger catches the light from the porch lamp, the labradorite shifting from blue to green to gold like a promise of transformation, of possibilities yet to be discovered. It's beautiful, but more than that, it's a symbol of something I never thought I'd have—a love that sees all of me and wants all of me and commits to all of me without reservation or condition.

As we finally head inside, the four of us moving together with the easy synchronization of people who belong to each other completely, I realize that the story I thought ended when I finished my manuscript is actually just beginning. The real story—the one being written in shared glances and intertwined fingers and the steady rhythm of hearts beating in harmony—is still unfolding.

And I can't wait to see how it ends.

EPILOGUE

ELIANA

Two years later

The signing line stretches around the corner of the bookstore, a sight that still makes my heart race with equal parts excitement and disbelief. Two years ago, I was a struggling writer with a pile of rejection letters and a marriage that was slowly suffocating my spirit. Today, I'm sitting behind a table stacked high with copies of my third bestselling novel, signing books for readers who tell me my stories changed their lives.

"Finding Pack literally saved my relationship," the woman across from me is saying, clutching her worn copy like a lifeline. "My boyfriend and I were struggling because we both wanted to include his best friend in our life in a more permanent way, but we didn't know how to make it work. Your book showed us that love doesn't have to fit conventional molds."

I smile as I sign her book, adding a little heart next to my signature. "I'm so glad it helped. How are things working out?"

"We're getting married next month," she beams. "All three of us. Well, legally it's just me and Jake, but Tom will bethere making the same vows. We're calling it our commitment ceremony, just like in your book."

The phrase sends a warm flutter through my chest, reminding me of our own ceremony last spring. We held it in the meadow behind the house, with wildflowers scattered everywhere and Rebecca weeping happy tears as she officiated. It wasn't legally binding in the traditional sense, but it was more meaningful than any courthouse wedding could have been.

"Congratulations," I tell her sincerely. "I hope you have a beautiful ceremony."

She moves on, still glowing with happiness, and the next person in line steps forward. This continues for the next two hours—readers sharing their stories, thanking me for representation they'd never seen before, telling me how my characters helped them understand their own hearts.

It never gets old, this part of being a published author. The writing itself is solitary, sometimes lonely work, but these moments of connection make it all worthwhile. Knowing that the story I wrote to process my own journey has helped others navigate theirs feels like the greatest gift imaginable.

"Last one," Rebecca announces from beside me, where she's been managing the line with the efficiency of a seasoned event coordinator. She's gotten good at this over the past two years, becoming an unofficial member of my promotional team despite having her own thriving consulting business to run.

The final reader is a young man who looks nervous as he approaches the table. "Ms. Torres," he starts, then stops, his cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to call you now that you're married."

"Eliana is fine," I assure him, though the question makes me smile. Legally, I'm still Eliana Torres—the logistics of changing names when you're married to three people provedtoo complicated to navigate. But in my heart, in the ways that matter, I'm part of something larger now. "What's your name?"

"David," he says, then immediately looks embarrassed. "I know, same name as the ex in your first book. That's actually why I wanted to talk to you."

This is new. I've had readers connect with various aspects of my stories, but no one has ever identified with one of the antagonists before.

"I was him," David continues, his voice growing stronger. "Not literally, but I was that guy who thought he knew what was best for his partner, who tried to control instead of support. I read your book and saw myself, and it was like looking in a mirror I'd been avoiding my whole life."

I set down my pen, giving him my full attention. "That must have been difficult."

"It was. But it was also necessary. I realized I'd been doing to my boyfriend what David did to your protagonist—dismissing his dreams, making him feel small, using love as an excuse for control." He takes a shaky breath. "We broke up after I read your book. I knew I had to work on myself before I could be worthy of someone like him."

"And did you? Work on yourself?"

His smile is small but genuine. "I'm trying. Therapy, mostly. Learning to recognize my controlling behaviors and find healthier ways to express care. It's hard work, but your book showed me it was possible to change, to be better."

He slides his copy across the table, and I see it's well-worn, pages dog-eared and spine creased from multiple readings.

"What would you like me to write?" I ask.

"Just thank you, I guess. For holding up that mirror. For showing me I could choose to be different."

I write a longer inscription than usual, thanking him for his honesty and encouraging him to keep doing the hard work ofgrowth. When I hand the book back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"Do you think," he asks hesitantly, "that people like me can really change? That we can learn to love better?"

---