Page 97 of Holding On

Epilogue

Maya Hamilton

It’s the end of summer, and it’s been a week since Judge Barr was denied bail. It took that long to tease out the charges. Prosecutors let the drug charges go and stuck to the Russo case and sex trafficking. The reference to “Bunnies” turned out to be a reference to the kidnapped girls, and the catalog was more than enough to connect Barr to the operation. It will be long time before Carlson and the prosecutors know exactly what role he played or how expansive the operation was, but I’m not worried about any of that.

Justice will be served.

Working with Audrey has been a dream. There’s a rumor now that she’ll be nominated for the state’s Supreme Court, and I couldn’t be prouder to work for her. She’s releasing me from my last week of work—I think out of guilt about what happened, but also because she knows what Travis and I have to work out.

I never returned to the barge except to get my stuff. Instead, Travis and I have been able to have the upstairs of the clinic to ourselves more or less. Except for grabbing more clothes or a book, Claire’s basically moved in with Finn and spends all her downtime next door.

Claire is just starting to show, and her sisters are skittish with glee. She looks adorable in her wetsuit with her baby bump. What’s just as adorable is Finn hovering around her before and after their morning swim.

At one point yesterday, she glanced over at me and rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to push a human being out of me,” she said to Finn. “I’m not that fragile.”

This morning, though, Travis rolls over, pulls the covers off and my T-shirt up, and rubs my abdomen, kissing it several times before announcing, “Pack, girl. We’re going on an adventure.”

Over coffee, he tells me that Chloe and Bryce have offered us the bungalow on Rock Island for five days. Five whole days.

Our last days, I think to myself.

We pack quickly because we don’t want to have to return early for anything. We need this time together.

I throw in my toothbrush, toothpaste, and lotion in the bottom, then a bathing suit I hope I don’t have to use underwear, pants, shorts, socks, a bra, shirts, and a hoodie for the evening.

Then it’s time to go. No one teases us. There are no winks. And I think Travis is incredibly grateful to his siblings.

Rock Island was a place for us to play when I came out that summer. I remember a beautiful water-filled quarry and a nice little hiking trail that went around the perimeter, but the bungalow is left over from ages ago. I remember it as rotting away, the yard completely overgrown. It’s less than a mile from The Inn, but it feels isolated and private.

When I discovered Bryce and Chloe lived there, I figured they must have fixed it up. Travis and I walk along the trail. The sun is climbing toward noon, the water is just brilliant and beautiful, with whitecaps off in the distance. The tide is in, so we have to keep close to the grass line on shore. Then the trail makes a turn to the right, and we work our way inland.

The quarry, hidden by trees, doesn’t catch the morning sun, but it lies dark and blue and smooth like glass. Several cormorants are on a rocky island in the middle, holding their wings out like giant bats, trying to dry them. A few valor ducks swim off to one side. The water here is freshwater, which seems odd so close to the sea. As we struggle up the little path, Travis takes my hand, and I feel light and happy.

Then the woods opens up, and we stand at the bottom on the small hill, looking up at the bungalow. It’s nothing like I remembered.

The windows are crisp and square and filled with yellow morning light. The exterior is painted white, with fresh clapboards, a red metal roof, and matching red shutters. I trip up the narrow stone pathway and mount the steps. Sunflowers sit in a vase on a small table between two wooden chairs on the porch.

We step inside. Several notes are laid out on the bright tile counter. One explains there’s a lasagna tray in the oven, ready to be heated up. Travis opens the fridge to more of Chloe’s cooked food, as well as fresh fruit, veggies, and a bottle of champagne.

There’s a chocolate pie. A big Caesar salad with real anchovies and garlic bread in the oven, ready to toast. She even gave us the broiling instructions. I have to laugh.

“She leaves nothing to chance,” I say, setting down the instruction card. Suddenly, his arms are around me, his face buried in my neck. His nose is cold against my warm skin. We stand like this for a long, long time.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says, and then he raises his head. “But I don’t want to.”

My stomach flip-flops quickly. “Travis, we need to talk about what’s going to happen.”

“Not now,” he says, shaking his head. “This is the first of five days of bliss, so let’s not ruin it.”

My gut instinct tells me we have to talk about it. If we wait until the last day, I won’t be able to enjoy the first four.

We spend the rest of the day at the quarry, skinny-dipping and swimming, interrupted only by a couple. Travis and I treaded water for what seemed like forever until they left.

I didn’t mind the invasion of privacy at all. It was a good kind of forever, filled with touches and kisses and glances so full of love, it made my heart break. It also felt like it could be a metaphor for these five days: treading water, keeping the status quo.

I know the change I’m about to ask him to make is a huge ask. It’s a huge shift for me as well. I watch him put the lasagna into the oven. He looks up. “Chloe says this needs at least forty-five minutes.”