Heart of Stone

Epilogue

1974 - January

I stand at the kitchen counter, trying to cut a green pepper. The vegetable keeps rolling out of my hands and I have to restrain myself from stabbing straight through it.

As soon as I get a decent slice, I hear Brendon walk up behind me.

"Don't sabotage my pepper cutting. I'm just starting to get good at it."

"Sure you are." He hugs me from behind, and warmth spreads through me. I turn to face him. He's wearing a soft grey t-shirt and boxers, with tousled hair and tired but content eyes. They still have the gold specks in them. After everything, his eyes are still the same. He still looks at me the same. With warmth. With love.

He squirms a little and giggles. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just admiring your earth-shattering beauty."

"Shut up." He slaps my arm playfully and lets go of me so I can finish making the omelets.

"Are these going to be better than the fried rice you made last week?" He places his elbow on the counter.

"Yes, they are!" I protest. He raises an eyebrow at me, so I give in. "Probably not."

In my defense, I'd never cooked anything before and I didn't realize fried rice needed soy sauce. What even is soy sauce? So, the meal essentially was rice with carrots. Any good chef has to start somewhere, right?

He groans, and I grin as I watch him settle down on the couch in the living room. He fingers through our stacks of records until he stops at one he seems satisfied with and places it on the turntable. I soon hear Doris Day singing, "Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera." Brendon begins singing along softly to himself. He has a real knack for music. I don't do much - just a little guitar here and there - but he's truly remarkable at it. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I can hear him playing piano downstairs. It's beautiful. Bach most nights. He's beginning to try some Haydn and Tchaikovsky. I asked him about it once, why he can't sleep, and he looked down at his toes and mumbled, "Nightmares. Piano calms me down."

And that's all I ever mentioned about the subject.

His second album is coming out tomorrow. The press are so excited they're nearly pissing themselves. They've even tried to interview me, asked if I knew anything, but I don't do interviews anymore.

Brendon's band, Ambedo, is incredible. I tell him his music has altered the rock genre forever. He tells me he's just singing what he can't say. I suppose he's right.

But he's made a real impact on people's lives, whether he believes it or not. When I'm able to go to one of his shows, I look at the kids in the crowd. Some of them are crying, some are screaming, but some are standing there with huge grins on their faces. All I can think is, he did that.

As for me, I haven't made a huge blockbuster since Death Valley. People have told me that movie will become a classic that will live on for generations. They say it carries meaning and inspiration. And yes, the guilt is still there.

It's not my movie. It's Brendon's. He gave me all the ideas and I took the credit.

Some days, I still hate myself for that.

I finish making the omelets, which look like sad lumps of yellow dough, and I carry the plates over to the living room. Brendon is lying on the floor with a Beatles record playing. He bought the records as soon as we got home from Death Valley since his 8-tracks were left in the car.

I wonder where that car is now. Is it right where we left it, Mother Nature eating it away, day by day? Just a hunk of bright pink metal, clashing with the astounding brown-ness of the desert.

Brendon perks up when he sees I have food and gets up to sit on the orange couch. I hand him a plate, but he makes a face at its appearance.

"Oh, come on." I say, sitting next to him with my plate. "Don't knock it till you try it."

He rolls his eyes and takes a bite. He looks like he's about to puke, but swallows anyway. He looks over at me and says with a fake smile, "I mean. It's... sort of edible?"

"It can't be that bad." I take a bite mine and spit it right back on to my plate. "Okay. It is that bad."

He laughs. "I don't know how you messed up omelets, but you did." I pretend to be offended and take both our plates to the sink. "Let me cook next time, okay?" He calls from the living room.

"You're not a much better cook, Brendon!" I call back, but smile to myself. I return to the living room and sit next to Brendon. He grabs my hand, sighs, and leans his head on my shoulder.

"There's a party tonight for the album release." He says, then looks up at me. "I was thinking you could be my date." A mischievous smile grows on his lips.

I grin back. "Hm. I'll think about it. I have so many adoring fans just dying to go on a date with me."

"Shut up." He says without too much bite. Brendon curls closer to me and sighs. "It's nice being with you. I missed that."

"Me too." And the honesty of our words tears me apart.

Because he's mine now. Sure, we'll bicker and cry and scream, but there will always be hope. No one stands in our way. We'll grow old together, racing each other with walkers around super markets.

The thought spreads warmth through me, melting through my heart of stone again.

The End.

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author's note:
Okay, so I lied in the last chapter and said the epilogue would take place ten years in the future, but I have since changed it to five. I've got some pretty juicy ideas for the sequel (which will still take place between chapter 10 and the epilogue), so I hope you all will read that! I will start writing as soon as I can. Again, big big big thanks to mollovespandas for editing and sticking with this story. I appreciate every read, vote, and comment!! I love you all!!! xxx