Firethorne

Epilogue

Maya

Two Years Later

D amien had been standing in the window all morning, cursing the timekeeping of the delivery company and huffing as he peered up and down the lane outside.

“They’re not going to appear any quicker because you’re standing there,” I told him.

But he refused to move, stating, “They’re three minutes away, or at least, that’s what the last text said fifty minutes ago.”

“They probably got lost down the country lanes. This isn’t the easiest cottage to get to,” I reminded him, but he just scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the lane outside.

I knew he was excited. He kept telling me this was my day, but it was his as much as mine.

We heard the faint rumble of an engine, and then a white van ambled down the lane, stopping outside our gate.

“I’ll get it.” Damien sprang into action, heading for the front door before the driver had even gotten out of his van.

I took his place at the window, watching him stride down the drive and open the gate, greeting the driver as he jumped down from his cab and went to the back of his van to retrieve the boxes. Damien went to the back of the van, too, and took the first box off the delivery driver, turning to walk back down our path and into our cottage with a huge, shit-eating grin on his face.

As he came into the dining room and put the box on the table, I told him, “I’ll come and help.”

But he shook his head.

“We’ve got this.” He pointed at the box and said, “Don’t open this without me.” Then he marched back out, heading to the van to help with more of the boxes.

Once the last box had been placed on the table, the delivery driver’s paperwork signed, and the front door had been locked, we both stood over the table, staring at the boxes like two kids at Christmas, ready to open their presents.

“Go on then,” Damien urged, gesturing to the box closest to me. “Open it. I want to see how it turned out.”

I picked up the scissors I’d brought in from the kitchen, and used them to slice through the parcel tape across the top of the box. Then I pulled the box open and stared in wonder at the contents.

“That cover looks even better in real life. It’s stunning,” Damien said, lifting one of the books out and turning it over in his hand to see the blurb at the back.

“I love it,” I said, lifting another copy out, unable to keep the grin off my face as I traced my fingers over the foil embossed title, Firethorne, A Dark, Gothic Novel . “I can’t believe I wrote this. I’m a published author.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Damien said, leaning in to place a kiss on my head.

“Do you think anyone will believe it’s a true story?” I mused.

“Who cares?” Damien shrugged. “It’s our story. That’s all that matters.”

After everything that’d happened at Firethorne, and with my father, Damien had suggested I see a counsellor, and she had suggested that my idea, to write about what had happened to us, was a good one. That it’d be cathartic. And it was. It was a form of therapy to get it all down in a book, every thought and feeling, every wild and wicked thing, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. And when I’d finished, I’d shown Damien.

He read it and told me I should publish it. I didn’t think it was good enough. I wasn’t convinced people would want to read a story like ours. But he had more faith in me than I had in myself, and he sent my manuscript off to various publishers, until one of them came back to us, eager to take it on.

Which brought us to today, the two of us, standing in our idyllic cottage in the middle of the countryside, holding copies of my first book, Firethorne . A book that would enter the world on Damien’s birthday, October thirtieth.

I thought that was a fitting touch, having the dates coincide, seeing as he was the inspiration behind the whole thing.

He’d encouraged me, been there when I felt like a failure, or when the dreaded imposter syndrome struck, and I questioned why I was even trying to become an author.

He believed in me, always.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he said as he flicked through the book. “Can I keep this copy?”

“You can have as many copies as you like.”

I laughed as he grabbed a pen and thrust it towards me.

“You need to sign it, then. I want my copy signed by the author. It could be worth a lot of money in the future. It’s a first edition.”

“It might be the only edition,” I replied, and he tutted at me.

“I know for a fact our shelves will be full of Maya Cole bestsellers in the future. This book is only the start. You’ve got more stories inside you still to be written.”

“I’m so glad you have faith in me,” I replied as I opened his copy and signed my name with the message, ‘Forever my muse. My love. My Damien.’

“I fucking love you,” Damien growled as he took the book off me and grinned at the message I’d written. “And this,” he went on, holding the book up. “Is the best birthday present I’ve ever had.”

“I love you, too,” I said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and wrap my arms around his waist. “So fucking much.”

I closed my eyes, losing myself in the warmth of his body, the comforting smell of him, and the sound of his deep, velvety voice as he cleared his throat and started to read our story...

“I know we made the right decision,” my father said, smiling absent-mindedly as we sat in the dimly lit carriage of the night train. “Leaving that town and taking this job, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us. It’ll be a fresh start. Just what we need.”

The End