I open the box, revealing the round cut, two carat diamond set high in a platinum band.
It’s simple and flawless—just like her.
Tears swell in Vi’s eyes as she gazes at the ring. The sight of them makes my chest tighten and my throat narrow.
“I love you, Violet. Whatever life has in store for us, I want to share every day of it with you. Will you marry me?”
The brightest smile surges across her lips.
“Are you kidding me?? Yes!! Yes, I’ll marry you!
And she tackles me—like a linebacker in love—knocking me to my back and following me down.
The dirt from the trail rises up around us, floating on the air, and sparkling in the sunlight like golden pixie dust.
It’s kind of pretty. Or maybe I’m just that deliriously fucking happy.
Because Violet is kissing me . . . and she said yes.
She wipes at the tears in her eyes and then I take her hand and slide the ring on her finger. Her chest shudders with emotion as she gazes down at her hand.
“I’m so happy, Connor. I never knew life could be this happy.”
I kiss her again, holding her close, promising with everything that I am and everything I’ll be, “It’s only going to get better from here.”
EPILOGUE ONE
Violet
One year later
Mrs. Connor Daniels. Mrs. Dr. Connor Daniels.
Violet Daniels.
God, I love my name.
We were married in June, on a sunny Saturday at the historical white chapel in Allaire State Park. We were able to put the wedding together in under two months, because neither Connor nor I wanted to wait.
Everyone was there—our friends and family—my LWW girls came in from New York and Darren got a weekend leave so he’d be there to walk me down the aisle. Aaron, Brayden, and Spencer looked dapper and adorable in their matching tuxedos and both my sisters were my maids of honor—wearing summery, strapless lavender gowns.
We held the reception in the glass enclosure of the Ridgewood Country Club. The food was amazing; the music was fun—Connor specifically requested that the DJ play MC Hammer just for me. We cut the cake and fed each other teasingly. Chrissy caught my bouquet and Timmy snagged the garter. And Connor and I danced our first dance as husband and wife to our song, “Chances Are.”
We spent an unforgettable, weeklong honeymoon at an overwater resort in Bora Bora.
And every single moment was more than I’d imagined—more than I ever dreamed it would be.
I still kind of can’t believe it.
My pregnancy on the other hand . . . that I believe. My stomach is simply too massive not to.
And it’s been extra-large from the very beginning. Three months after the wedding, at my eight-week ultrasound, we found out why.
I still remember the way Connor held my hand as my OB, Natasha Ferrini, ran the sonogram wand over my slick abdomen. How he squinted at the fluttering blobs on the screen.
Blobs with an s.
Plural.
“Is that . . . ,” he’d started to ask.
“Two heartbeats?” Natasha answered. “Yes. Yes, it is. Sometimes the way the fetuses lay on top of each other makes it difficult to detect multiple heartbeats on the Doppler. But you’ve definitely got a two-for-one deal happening—you’re having twins. Congratulations.”
When Connor told me he was studly all those months ago, he wasn’t messing around.
Now, four months later, I’m even bigger. Girthier. I realize this happens in pregnancy but it seems kind of ridiculous now.
The other day I had on light-green shorts and a royal-blue top and Spencer said I looked like a globe.
Out of the mouths of babes . . .
“I’m so huge.”
Connor is propped against our headboard beside me in our bed, reading a medical journal on his iPad.
“You’re not huge, you’re pregnant.”
“I’m hugely pregnant.” I shift around, trying to find a position that doesn’t cause battery acid to flow up my throat. “I’m ginormous.”
I know he knows I’m at the large end of normal, even for twins—but he’ll never admit it.
“You’re probably retaining water.”
“I’m retaining an ocean.”
I turn on my side and reach around to massage my spine that feels like it’s caving in.
Connor watches me, his brow scrunching.
“Maybe you should go on maternity leave now.”
“I’m only six months along—I can’t go on maternity leave at six months—the other nurses will never let me live it down.”
Nurses are a hardcore, resilient breed.
“Six is enough,” Connor argues. “Growing two new people is hard work.”
He sets his iPad aside and moves down the bed on his knees, pushing away the covers and taking my foot in his strong hands—rubbing and massaging my aching arch and swollen ankle.
I moan long and low, because these days him going down on my feet feels almost as sublime as him going down on me.
“Think about it,” he whispers like a seductive devil. “You can stay home, put your feet up anytime you want. You can snack and take naps in the middle of the day.”