Crashed by Elise Faber

Epilogue

Brandon

They were lying in bed,as had become their habit, talking about nothing, one of Fanny’s movies on in the background.

They still hadn’t made it to that fancy restaurant.

He couldn’t give two shits.

Because he had Fan in his arms.

But it had been six months since that night when everything had threatened to fall apart but instead had all come together, and he figured it was time.

He slipped from the bed, pressing a kiss to Fanny’s head when she asked where he was going. He’d just moved into her house that morning, and his boxes were stacked at the edge of the bedroom (and in plenty of other places), but what he needed was in the suitcase he’d stashed in the closet.

Deep down, beneath some other papers. He’d stumbled upon it when he’d cleaned out his filing cabinet.

Another notebook.

Only this time, it was one he’d written in.

One he’d started after his second surgery.

There were entries of being in the hospital and going through physical therapy, cataloging his recovery, jots of the things he remembered.

And drawings. Later, after she’d gone, there had been so many drawings.

All of one thing.

He brought it back to her, along with the folder he’d had put together for just this moment.

“What is it?” she asked, sitting up, the blankets tucked around her chest.

“This,” he said, handing it to her.

Fanny froze, then slowly her eyes came back up to his. “What is this?”

“I think you know,” he murmured, climbing on the bed and sitting down next to her.

Her gaze dropped, her fingers tracing over one of the pages, over the drawing of a house. Then flipping the page and seeing the same drawing, again and again and again. There were different details each time—outside a wraparound porch, a large back yard with a pond similar to the one they’d made love next to, a swing set, a winding path leading to above ground vegetable planters; and inside a large kitchen with a huge island, the upper cabinet doors made of glass, a laundry room, a huge sectional, a pantry door with frosted glass emblazoned with the word “Pantry.”

Stone and warm wood. Granite and tile. Huge rugs and colorful throw cushions.

He’d drawn every angle inside and out.

Over and over again.

“How?” she breathed.

“I don’t know.”

This was the house that he and Fanny had dreamed about building. The one they’d discussed from the moment they knew they were going to be together forever. They’d discussed the kitchen on the phone when she’d been touring after her silver medal. They’d talked about furniture after he’d aced his finals. They’d planned the pond when he stayed up late to talk, her lying in his in bed after a tough practice. The pantry was during chemo when he couldn’t keep anything down. The swing set after he’d finished with his PT.

It was the culmination of late nights and long conversations on the phone, of long, drugging kisses followed by whispering in each other’s ears.

It was all of the small moments, the smiles and laughter, the quiet satisfaction after meals shared, the cool kiss of the night’s air when they snuggled together in the back of his truck and stared up at the stars in the sky.

“When did you do this?” she whispered.

“After the surgery,” he said, as she flipped another page, “and far after you left, all the way up until I remembered.”

Her eyes were glassy with tears when she glanced up at him. Then she went back to studying the pages, slowly turning through each one until she reached the end of the notebook. “It’s beautiful,” she said gently.

It was.

Because it was their dream.

“So,” he said, handing her the other thing he’d retrieved, the folder he’d put together, and taking the notebook. “I was kind of hoping that we might be able to live there.”

Fanny frowned. “But it doesn’t exist.”

He opened the folder, showing her the sheaf of papers. Each packet had a listing of lots of land for sale in the area. Any of which could house their dream, could be the place where they built their future. “Pick,” he murmured.

“Bran,” she whispered, tears slipping free.

“I—oof!” He’d started to lean forward to wipe her cheeks, but suddenly found himself sprawled back on the mattress, her arms around him.

“You wonderful, wonderful man.”

Then she kissed him until he forgot about the papers, about the dream of the future, about everything except for the dream of now.

Of this woman, who’d found the courage to love him.

Of this time together, never promised, always precious.

Of this chance to build something new and never look back.

Only later—much later—did they go through the papers and narrow it down to two that they would visit in person.

Then he topped off Fanny’s glass of wine, stole a handful of her buttery popcorn, and held her close as they watched a movie that was not full of blood and gore.

But instead, it was filled with love and a happy ending.

And Brandon thought that was pretty damned perfect.

P.E.R.F.E.C.T.