"Are you sure you want to do this with me?" I ask. "My feet are swollen, and I'm not even walking anymore, I'm waddling everywhere. Like a duck. A big fat giant duck."
Hendrix turns me around, slides his arms around me, across my belly, his face in my neck. "I'm definitely sure," he says. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. This is what I want. With you, and with our son."
We're having a boy. I'm going to be a mother. And, as of today, here on the beach, a wife. Everything is as it should be. Really, it's better than I could have ever imagined. I was prepared for it to all go badly, the fallout after the awards show.
It wasn't easy, that's for sure. I lost my cushy contract with the record label. And some friends. My mother and Hendrix's father haven't spoken to us. His father never said anything else about the fight they had, though, not to any media outlet. My mother, on the other hand, is supposedly writing a tell-all book. But my sister Grace has been one of my biggest supporters, and we're closer than ever. And I know that our son and Brady will grow up together.
I'm writing songs like crazy now. I started my own label, an indie one, and I'm going to put out a folk album in a couple of weeks. I'm also marrying Hendrix – in approximately five minutes. And we're having a baby.
When the minister says, "You may kiss the bride," Hendrix smiles.
"Hell, yeah," he whispers in my ear. And when he kisses me, it's just like the first time, under the grove. We're sixteen years old again, teenagers with our whole lives ahead of us, and the world stops spinning, and just like that, everything is as it should be.
My life might not be a total fairy-tale, the way everyone – including me – thought it would be when I was first discovered. But even if it's not perfect, and Hendrix and I are nowhere close to being fictional royalty, it's our story. We'll live our version of happily ever after.
And that's enough.
BONUS EPILOGUE
Addy
FIVE YEARS LATER
"They're finally asleep. Can you believe it?" I collapse into an armchair in the living room, and put my feet up on the ottoman, closing my eyes. "It's only nine p.m. Remember when we weren't totally exhausted at nine in the evening?"
"It seems like a lifetime ago," Hendrix says. "I don't know how Watson has so much energy. After running around like crazy at the park all afternoon and swimming lessons after dinner, you'd think he'd be at least a little bit tired."
Our five-year-old Watson, named after a friend of Hendrix in the Marines who was killed in service, is rambunctious and adorable.
And full of endless amounts of energy.
"I know," I say. "Hailey is the same way. That kid is still talking a mile a minute even after she's tucked into bed. I swear she can have a conversation with a wall."
Hailey just turned three years old and already a character. She knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to say it.
Hendrix says she takes after me.
Hendrix's hands on my feet surprise me, and my eyelids fly open. I watch the man I married five years ago start massaging my feet and think about how lucky I am.
How lucky we both are.
We're both a little older, not quite the same people we were five years ago. We're running a record label. The indie-folk albums I've made haven't been wild successes the way my mainstream country albums were, but that's quite all right with me. I'm doing what makes me happy.
And Hendrix – and our two kids – make me wildly happy.
"What are you thinking about?" Hendrix asks, his hands working their magic on my feet.
"I'm thinking about how much I love you," I say.
"Liar." He grins up at me.
"Truth," I say. "I'm thinking about how much has changed and how lucky I am."
"Thinking about all the grey hairs I have now, after two kids?" Hendrix asks.
I laugh, surveying him. He's actually right. He does already have a few errant grey hairs, but that definitely doesn't make him any less hot than he was when he was younger. "They make you look distinguished."
Hendrix laughs, the sound low in his throat. "That's like saying 'it's okay, size doesn't matter'."
I pick up the throw pillow behind my back and toss it at him. "Not true," I say. "I have a very hot husband."
"And I have a sexy famous wife," he says, laughing.
"Used to be famous," I correct him.
"I want to take my used-to-be-famous wife into the bedroom so I can screw her brains out," Hendrix says, giving me that crooked grin he does so well.
He knows I can't resist that grin.
"Oh, really?" I ask, as he doesn't wait for my response. He pulls me up to a standing position and then bends down and slips an arm behind my knees and one on my back, carrying me to the bedroom. "For a guy who's exhausted, you're surprisingly energetic."
"I can't help it," he says. "The thought of screwing my incredibly sexy wife gives me crazy energy."