Page 114 of Pin My Alpha
Epilogue: Shay
“Don’t you dare put that on the playlist,” Benji says from the patio, pointing a plastic fork at Jude like he’s about to stab him with it.
Jude clutches his phone to his chest. “It’s one song.”
“It’s a breakup song.”
“It’s a banger. Those are different things.”
“It has the word ‘goodbye’ in the chorus.”
“It’s ironic.”
Rhys, sitting beside him with one arm hooked lazily around Jude’s waist, doesn’t even look up from the burger he’s destroying. “Nothing you do is ironic. You mean every second of it.”
Jude gasps. “Babe. In front of our friends?”
“You called it our song after you heard it one time in a grocery store.”
“And?”
“And it was playing over the produce section.”
“That’s where love grows.”
I look at Declan across the patio before I can stop myself.
He’s by the grill in a black T-shirt and faded jeans, one hand braced on the handle of a pair of tongs. Callum says something, and Declan throws his head back, laughing. The new brass sign over the front door catches the warm patio lights.
BYRNE’S & THOMPSON.
It still does something stupid to my chest.
Which, yeah, technically refers to the business—the accountant was very clear on that part. But there’s a pretty satisfying little ampersand sitting between my name and Declan’s on every piece of paperwork in the office, and I’ve definitely stared at it long enough
It’s been a month.
A month since Declan walked into my apartment holding a partnership agreement instead of some bullshit apology he knew wouldn’t be enough. A month since I stopped trying to turn the word partner into a spreadsheet category and just let it mean what it means.
A month since I deleted KnotMe.
A month since I came home.
A month, almost, since the legal-clinic lawyer Rhys found slid the signed lease renewal across our office desk—five years, capped increases, both our names at the bottom. The buyout offer went back in an envelope with a two-word answer Declan wouldn’t let me write in the margins. The chain opened their beige nightmare two blocks over anyway. Last Tuesday their happy hour was four people and a sagging promotional banner. I checked. For research.
The patio is packed. Not Saturday-night packed, when half of Ridgemont decides it needs cheap beer and bad decisions, but full in a way that’s better. Tessa has claimed one end of the outdoor bar with Diego, who’s wearing a Byrne’s & Thompson. shirt and looking so proud of it he might actually start glowing. Ruth is at a table near the railing, red lipstick perfect, talkingshit to Knox while Knox just stands there looking like he’s being lectured by the president.
She flagged me down earlier, on my way past with a tub of empties. “You’re the one with the spreadsheets.” She said it the way other people say you’re the one with the outstanding warrant.
“Guilty.”
“Good.” She tapped her whiskey glass against my arm like a gavel. “That man polished glasses for seven years and called it a life. Don’t let him backslide.”
“I have him on a color-coded schedule.”
“I knew I liked you.”
Milo is handing out paper plates with the quiet authority of a man who brought three trays of food and will personally fight anyone who lets it go cold. Callum follows him around, carrying things before Milo can even reach for them. Soren’s sitting with his knees tucked up in a patio chair, turning a little carved wooden bird over and over in his hands. A new one. A wren this time, round and neat-winged, the pale grain catching the patio lights. It was sitting on the apartment doormat this morning—no note, no name, just the bird, waiting like it knew exactly where he lived. The group chat has been feral about it all day. Soren hasn’t stopped touching it.
