"The only reason I don't believe in happy endings is because I don't believe in endings."
- Edward Abbey

SEVEN YEARS LATER

"Babe, my parents are gonna be here any minute!" I yell up the stairs, although I doubt Zayna can hear me over the humming of the blow dryer.

"We'll be right down!" she hollers.

I shake my head, chuckling slightly. I know my wife, and her "right down" can vary from two minutes to two hours.

Zayna and I got married five years ago, right after I graduated from college. It was a simple ceremony at the courthouse. Our families were the only people in attendance, and that was the way we wanted it.

"I'm not into big shindigs. I haven't been planning my Cinderella wedding since I was a toddler or any dumb shit like that," she told me the night I got down on one knee and asked her to be my wife—a very Zayna-esque response, if I do say so.

"Whatever you want, baby," I assured her, admiring the way my ring looked on her delicate finger. To this day, she only takes it off to shower.

I hear the clacking of her high heels as she speed-walks down the wooden steps, our six-month-old daughter, Aurora, perched on her hip.

"Hand her over," I say, lifting Aurora over my head and then bringing her down to my chest. She has my light blonde hair, but she has her mother's golden eyes.

"See, I was quick," Zayna teases.

"There's a first time for everything," I retort, pinching her butt as she walks past me.

God, my wife is hot as fuck.

I stick Aurora in her high chair and begin helping Zayna chop celery. For dinner, we're ordering pizza—my mom is gonna be ashamed, I know—but we figured veggies and dip would be a healthy way to hold people over until our cheese-slathered carbs arrive. Plus, we're trying to get our oldest, Wyatt, to eat something green other than sour apple candy.

Wyatt is four and a half. He was born exactly nine months after our wedding—a "honeymoon baby," my mom calls him. With wavy blonde hair and dark blue eyes, he looks like a mini me.

Tonight is our housewarming party. When we first got married, we still lived above Poppy's with Shamus. However, once we discovered that Zayna was pregnant, we knew we needed a bigger place. We found a spacious yet affordable two-bedroom a few blocks from the diner we had once called home, which was perfect because Zayna was still waitressing. We stayed there for four years, and we loved it, but when baby number two made her appearance, we once again needed a larger living space.

With my career picking up, our family of four was able to purchase a gorgeous blue bungalow with two bathrooms, three bedrooms, and a big backyard to make lots of memories.

Like I told my family seven years ago, I didn't just want to make money; I wanted to make a difference. And I believe I have. I work for the city as a grant writer, which is a pretentious way of saying that I help companies and non-profits acquire the funds they need to operate.

One of my favorite non-profits is an organization called South Side Community Outreach that strives to help sexual assault and domestic abuse victims. By offering both psychological and financial support, SSCO has aided over one-hundred people in Chicago, both men and women, to start living again after surviving a traumatic event.

"Do you think your parents will like the house?" Zayna inquires as she prepares a bottle for Aurora.

"They'll love the house, baby."

"But it's not as clean as theirs, or as well-decorated, and—"

"And you need to take a deep breath," I cut her off, bringing my lips to her forehead. "My parents don't care about what the house looks like. They just want an excuse to see us."

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"Not gonna lie, I think they might just want to see the kids." I know my corny jokes always quell her nerves. I'd do anything to make her laugh, to ease her worry.

Still beaming, she takes my hand and presses my palm against her chest. "Feel that?" she asks. "Even after seven and a half years, you still make my heart race."

I'm about to pull her in for a kiss when the front door bursts open. I hear the familiar voices of my mom and dad, followed by Gemma and her longtime boyfriend, Griffin.

"Oh, my goodness! You guys, this place is adorable. I'm in love!" Mom gushes, doing a three-sixty of the kitchen.

Proving my previous point—not a joke after all, I guess—she removes Aurora from her high chair and kisses her twice on each cheek before even saying hello to us.

"Where's my little dude?" Dad asks, scouring the area for his only grandson.

"I'm right here, Grandpa!" Wyatt emerges from the family room and runs into my dad's arms.

I spot Evangeline hiding behind Gemma. She's fourteen now, complete with a false sense of maturity and boatloads of high school angst. Don't get me wrong, she's still one of my favorite people on the planet. I would die for her, as well as kill for her. She just takes a little longer to thaw out than she used to.

"Hey, kiddo," I say, ruffling her brunette waves.

"Stop it," she replies, batting my hand away, all the while trying not to smile.

"Vangey, come play with me!" Wyatt shouts. Before she can protest, he is dragging her out of the room.

"Ah, kids." My dad smiles as he watches them run off. "Anyway, the house is great, Bowie," my dad praises us, making both Zayna and I blush scarlet. "I feel like you guys are going to be really happy here."

"Yeah, this makes our apartment look like a dump," Griffin mutters.

"Well, maybe if you cleaned every once in a while...." Gemma rolls her toffee-colored eyes before snatching Aurora from Mom's arms. "Hi, baby girl. Aunty missed you so, so much."

Zayna and I exchange a knowing look. Every time my family comes over, we never get to spend any time with our own children. Shamus and Alyx are the same way, if not worse. Since they got married last summer—thanks to my stellar match-making skills, of course—they've been talking about having a child of their own. Clementine, Alyx's daughter, keeps them pretty busy, but she's almost seven. I think they want a fresh-out-of-the-womb baby.

"Oh, Aunty just wants to steal you. Yes, she does," Gemma coos, lifting a single finger for Aurora to wrap her whole hand around.

There are times when I think my sister might want a baby of her own, too. Zayna and I are both skeptical of her I'm-never-ever-having-children tirade. Plus, I'm sure nothing in the universe would make my parents happier than another grandkid. They love Vange, Clem, Wyatt, and Aurora more than anything—possibly even more than their own children.

As far as their oldest son goes, he started a new life in New York. He works at a university—I have no clue which one—as a research associate. He tried reaching out a few years ago. We were willing to give him a chance, to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he hasn't changed. He's smart enough to know that what he did to Rae was wrong, but he's too much of a sociopath to care. He's playing the part of the victim, like we were the ones who wronged him. Had he said that in person and not over the phone, I would have knocked his perfect teeth out.

Maybe Rae will never get justice for what happened, but Benson will sure as hell never receive absolution for what he did. And I honestly don't know which one is worse.

"Alright, let me have a turn with the baby," Dad says, crossing the room to claim his granddaughter. My poor baby girl is being passed around like a hot potato today.

After the food arrives, everyone gathers in the dining room to eat. While everyone is chowing down on pizza, Gemma nudges my shoulder, her eyes glancing around the table to see if anyone is watching us.

"You okay, Gem?" I whisper.

"You need help in the kitchen, right?"

"Uh, not really, no, but—"

"Yeah, no problem. I'll help you." She yanks me to my feet and drags me toward the kitchen, where she absentmindedly pours herself a glass of wine.

"What's going on?" I demand.

"We have a problem," she declares.

"And this problem is...?"

"Evangeline. The other day, I took her shopping, and she started asking... questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Questions about her dad," Gemma murmurs, shaking her head in frustration. "I don't know what Mom and Dad told her about Benson, and I obviously don't want to step on anyone's toes, so I just nervously stuttered for a solid five minutes before telling her I didn't feel comfortable talking about it."

"She's fourteen. It can't be a surprise that she wants to know where she came from," I reply, although the selfish part of my brain is grateful that Vange asked Gemma the difficult questions and not me.

"I hate lying to her," my sister says, her lips dipping into a frown. "I can't tell her the truth, though. It would destroy her."

"Let's not worry about it today, alright? Later, I'll talk to Mom and Dad," I promise. "For now, just act normal. Everything will be fine."

Gemma shoots me a pointed look as she downs the rest of her wine. "You, Bowie, should know better than anyone what keeping secrets does to people."

"Yeah, I've tried to forget," I mumble, thinking back to the years I spent in absolute misery, all thanks to my brother. I vowed I would never allow myself to feel that low again.

Can I keep the truth from Evangeline and still maintain my sanity?

THE END