He pulls her into a hug, and she drowns between his muscular arms, a ball of giggly happiness.

This past year, I’ve had the pleasure of watching Mal be a father to Tamsin. It was enough to confirm I want to have approximately five hundred babies with him. And an indefinite number of pets. We started out with two dogs named Jim and Morrison. Both rescued. It wasn’t even a discussion. We knew where we’d get them: the shelter.

Mal and I came a long way with the people we hurt and who’ve hurt us. Mom and I are working things out. She comes over every Christmas. I send her elaborate gifts from Sephora on Thanksgiving. And yes, that includes hairspray.

Mal apologized to Sean and Maeve. He actually went as far as helping them open their new business—The Tolka Inn. No matter how much they despised him, in time, and with a lot of groveling, they’ve tentatively allowed him back into their lives.

As for Tamsin? She has been the missing link I didn’t know I needed in my life. The reason why my snow globe was beautiful from the inside, tranquil, but also so incredibly still and boring. She shook it up and makes it snow like every day is Christmas.

Mal gets up, grabs me by my waist, and pulls me close, Tamsin slipping to the side coolly. She’s made it an art to escape our make-out sessions by now.

“Hello, stranger.” He grins at me.

“King Malachy of Tolka,” I answer, producing the fifty-euro note Father Doherty gave me almost a decade ago and sliding it to his waistband, as if he’s a stripper.

“You’re the four seasons, Rory. And I promise to be your shelter in the winter. To bask in you in the summer. To crash into love with you in spring like it’s the first time we’ve met. And when you fall? I promise to always pick you up.”

Everyone erupts in claps and whistles, and goosebumps dance all over my skin. I feel loved. Cherished. Invincible.

“Play me a song?” I ask.

“What would you like to hear, Ms. Rothschild?”

“Surprise me.” I bite down on my lip, not surprised in the least that he remembers our entire conversation from when we were practically kids.

He jogs back to his place, just like he did almost a decade ago.

Lowers his head and gives me a sideways I’m-going-to-fuck-you-tonight smile, which I believe now, exactly as I did nine years ago.

He opens his mouth and starts singing my father’s song, “Belle’s Bells.”

And for the first time since I heard it and knew Glen wrote it, I feel nothing but contentment and peace.

No pain. No shame. No need for closure.