Hi all,

As promised, here’s an epilogue for Given Our History. I’m sure there are some questions as to why I didn’t include this in the finished manuscript, and it really comes down to two things: first, I have a love-hate relationship with epilogues. Sometimes I love reading them, sometimes I feel like the tension has dissipated from the story already and I’m a bit checked out, and it’s difficult to judge from my vantage point whether I’m accidentally writing the boring kind. And second: I go through so many rounds of edits with my manuscripts that I can’t quite tell which ending feels the most natural.

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With Given Our History, I was satisfied with the original ending as the author. But as readers, a lot of you have made it clear that you would’ve preferred an epilogue. So, without further ado, here’s a little peek into Clara and Teddy’s lives, eleven months after Given Our History ends.

Also: spoilers ahead, for obvious reasons!

There’s something about Edinburgh in the rain.

The heels of my boots clip on glistening cobblestone as I make my way along Lawnmarket, a reusable Tesco bag cradled in my arms. Upper-story windows glow orange in the dim gray evening, perched atop souvenir shops that have closed for the day and lively pubs that’ll remain open late into the night. It’s moments like this, when the inclement weather clears the tourist crowds from the Royal Mile, that I could almost imagine I’ve stepped back in time.

The headlights of a black cab reflect long against the slick, dark road, and water splatters from the gutters as it passes, but I’m already drenched. I cut through a medieval close that threatens to crumble beneath the weight of canted sandstone buildings and emerge on another street entirely. I open the front door to a Victorian-era tenement building and take the inside staircase at a jog, grocery bag jostling.

“Ah! You’re in a hurry,” the downstairs neighbor—a kindly widower called Roger, who lives with his two cats—says when I almost bump into him on the second-story landing.

I turn mid-motion to say, “We’re celebrating tonight. You should come up for a drink later.”

“Kind of you to offer”—Roger tugs a tweed flat cap over his wiry brow and shoots me a wink— “but I suspect this celebration is best kept between the pair of you.”

On that somewhat cryptic note, he bids me a good evening, though the click of his cane chases me all the way up the stairwell, to 4F2.

I turn a key in the clunky brass lock and step inside, the warmth of the radiator chasing out the November chill. “I’m home.” I barely have to shout, the flat is so small—just a kitchen and living space all jumbled together, and behind that, a small bedroom-cum-office. A rain-streaked bay window overlooks the buildings across the road. The pipes knock around when we run the hot water, and we’re forced to share a bathroom with our neighbors across the hall, but we’ve called this place home for almost a year—our first apartment together.

I deposit the Tesco bag on the counter and unwind the wool scarf from around my neck, wringing rain from it over the kitchen sink. My sleeves are pushed back, the tail-end of Dashboard Confessional lyrics just visible, tattooed on the underside of my left wrist.

Soft footsteps bad into the kitchen, and then a hand finds my hip beneath my sweater—hot fingertips tracing cold and rain-damp skin. Teddy pushes my wet hair aside, and bends to brush his lips over my neck. My eyes flutter shut, and I tip my head back to rest against his shoulder, welcoming his warmth.

“I’ve finished it,” he mumbles with his mouth against me, breath fanning over my skin. I turn to loop my arms around his neck, my back pressed into the counter. His hair is overgrown and tousled, and day-three stubble shadows his jaw. “Well, this draft, anyway,” he says. “And there’s still the matter of typing it.”

I bury my face in his chest, where his soft knit sweater smells of laundry detergent and dark-roast coffee and him. “You do realize we have technology that might’ve helped with that sooner,” I say, voice muffled.

Teddy dismisses the suggestion with a puff of his lips. “Where’s the fun in that.”

“Of course.” I draw back to peer up at him. “You do your best work when your hand is cramping.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Well” —my nose skates along his and I dissolve into a fit of laughter against his mouth— “I didn’t mean it like that, but now that you mention it—”

His hand cradles the back of my head, fingers tangling in damp hair, and he catches my mouth in a rough kiss. It’s fast and familiar, that end-of-day hunger after we’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves, when nothing sounds better than getting lost in one another—basking in the fact that we’re an us, that we’ve had an entire year of this, building a life together, and yet a lifetime will never be enough.

When I pull away, his hand chases after me. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, “as soon as I’ve changed into something less wet.”

“I’ll get started on drinks,” he says, pulling a couple of fresh lemons from the grocery bag.

I make my way to the bedroom. It’s cramped but cozy, the bedspread still rumpled from this morning. Potted plants are wedged together on the small windowsill, monstera vines spilling onto the cluttered writing desk that sits beneath the window.

I change into an old UMD hoodie and sweats, and then I wander over to the desk. It’s a disaster, open books and printed articles and a gum eraser, the corners dulled with use. His pencil sharpener sits inside a coffee mug that says spilling the tea since 1773, which is half-filled with pencil shavings. In the middle of it all, in a neat stack, are handwritten pages. Too many to count. A year’s worth of research compiled into a rough draft.

Gingerly, I look through the pages: that familiar handwriting, the same blockish print that adorned letters and burned CDs, that had once scrawled a phone number on my wrist in permanent marker, eighteen years ago. Smiling to myself, I return all the pages to the stack, but I linger on the dedication, the page rubbed raw where he erased and rewrote and then erased again, scratched out words until the sheen of graphite catches the lamplight. Like he had to get it just right.

To my wife and best friend:

Thank you for sharing your passion with me, all those years ago.

It takes several seconds for the words to sink in. Wife. My pulse thrums beneath my skin.

We went to the registrar’s office just this morning, in the shadow of the Gothic spires of St. Giles' Cathedral. It was simple, practical, just the pair of us. That’s the way it was always going to be, I think. Izzy is going to pop up next week to take us out to dinner, and perhaps when we get back to the states, we’ll celebrate with family and friends, but for now, it’s just us.

We haven’t had enough time for just us. It feels like we owe ourselves a lifetime, kissing in the shadow of castles and holding hands as we wander through museums—all those things we should’ve been doing, but I can’t bring myself to feel like the years in between were wasted, because we needed those years to figure out what we value most.

“Knock, knock.”

I glance up from the manuscript. Teddy is standing in the doorway with a hot toddy in each hand. I smile at him, strangely shy. “You didn’t tell me you were going to do this.”

Slowly, almost tentatively, he crosses the room and sets the glasses on the corner of the desk, where they’re sure to leave condensation rings on the scattered printouts. “It wouldn’t have made sense to dedicate it to anyone else.” His hand finds my waist, drawing me in. I interlace my fingers behind his neck. The metal of my wedding ring is cool to the touch: a gaudy bit of costume jewelry we picked out at a local antique store, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I close my eyes and press my forehead to his, and we begin to sway, a slow dance without music.

Time. I’m working on reminding myself that we have time. For as much of it as it feels we let get away, we have a lifetime ahead of us.

We have, by nature, always gravitated toward the past. But there’s something to be said for the future, too.

So, there you have it! An extended ending to Given Our History. I hope you all enjoyed. If you know me, then you know I love playing around with settings, so it was fun to write a little snippet of Edinburgh (with, perhaps, a few liberties taken).

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Talk soon.

xo

Kristyn

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