Page 140 of Changing the Playbook
“It’s literally what everyone keeps telling you, Soph.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You carry too much. You can look after your mom, help your family, and be with me. You don’t need to choose.”
He kisses me then, long and sweet, tasting of promises and tomorrows. When we break apart, his arms tighten around me.
“The draft is in June.” His voice rumbles against my ear. “But wherever I end up, there’s an airport, and we’ll figure it out together.”
I smile against his chest, feeling lighter than I have in years. For so long, I’ve tried to control everything, to plan for every possibility. But lying here with him, sticky and sated and completely bare in every sense, I realize that the unknown isn’t the enemy I’ve made it out to be.
“We’ll build a life, however it goes and wherever we land,” I say, my voice steady with newfound conviction. “And try lots of new things along the way.”
epilogue
SOPHIE
The Christmas Evechaos in the Pearson home floods every sense—pine needles and cinnamon, Hazel’s shrieking laughter mixing with the oven timer’s insistent beep, and somewhere under it all, my dad’s patient voice explaining the philosophical merits of static Christmas lights.
I press my back against the doorway, cradling a mug that started as hot chocolate but has devolved into a whipped cream delivery system, and watch Mike engage my father in what might be the most passionate debate about decorative lighting in human history.
“Static lights are classic,” my dad insists, wielding a half-eaten sugar cookie for emphasis. “They’re elegant. Timeless.”
“Boring,” Mike counters, dark eyes bright with that particular mischief I love. “Blinking lights add movement. Energy. They’re festive.”
“They’re seizure-inducing.”
“They’re joyful.”
“They’re tacky.”
“You’re tacky.”
My dad gasps, clutching his cookie to his chest in mock offense, and a laugh erupts from somewhere deep in my chest—unguarded, unfiltered, completely free.
Six months ago, I would have been calculating the exact emotional temperature of this exchange, ready to deploy strategic subject changes and careful redirects. Now I just sip my sugar-disguised-as-beverage and marvel at how Mike fits into my family’s particular brand of controlled chaos.
The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with watching my boyfriend and my father argue like they’ve been doing this for decades. Like this is totally normal. Like this is totally forever.
From the kitchen, my mom’s voice rises. “No, sweetheart, the green ones go on the tree cookies. The red ones are for the Santa cookies. We have a system!”
“But what if Santa wants a green hat?” Hazel’s eight-year-old logic carries that tone that suggests the entire adult world has failed to grasp the obvious.
“Then Santa needs to submit a formal request through proper channels,” Mike calls out, abandoning his light debate to wink at me. “I’ll draft the paperwork.”
“You’re not helping!” my mom shouts back, but her voice carries that exact shade of fond exasperation she usually reserves for family.
Family.
The word lodges somewhere under my ribs, warm and terrifying.
The doorbell’s chime saves me from that particular spiral. I set down my mug, but Mike’s already moving. His hand grazes my lower back as he passes—such a simple touch, barely there, but my skin lights up anyway. After all these months, the smallest contact from him still short-circuits my nervous system.
“Andy!” Mike’s whole face transforms as he yanks open the door, and suddenly our entryway fills with December air and excited voices.
Andy launches herself at her brother with the dedication of someone who’s been saving up hugs since she left for Paris a week ago, while Declan hovers behind her looking the successful artist—carefully disheveled hair, paint under his fingernails, slightly unhinged look in his eye.
“Jesus, Dec, you look like you haven’t slept since October,” Mike says, pulling him into a one-armed hug while Andy clings to his other side.
“Time zones are a construct,” Declan replies with an exhausted grin. “Also, I had a commission due yesterday.”
“Which he finished at the airport,” Andy adds, detaching from Mike long enough to roll her eyes. “You should have seen the TSA agent’s face...”
