I don’t care what Malachi thinks. Or how his gaze lingers a little too long and how his fingers twitch as if they want to reach. I don’t care about the heat that simmers just beneath the surface every time we’re near each other.
Except… I do. And I hate that I do.
I shake the thought off with a curse and head outside, sunlight already too bright against the quiet weight sitting heavy in mychest. The heat wraps around me the second I step out, warm air clinging to my skin as I slide into my car.
The drive to the clubhouse is short but tense. Familiar roads stretch out in front of me, dotted with broken sidewalks and peeling street signs. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel at red lights, jaw tight. Tap. Tap. Tap. The beat matches a lyric I can’t let myself sing. Not here. Not now. Every turn of the tires pulls me deeper into a place I’ve been trying to outrun for years.
My thoughts swirl around Malachi, Dad, this damn lunch I never asked for. I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror at a stop sign, and something flickers in them I don’t want to examine. Not hope. Not fear. Just… noise. But underneath the noise, something steadier thrums. A quiet vow. I won’t fold this time.
I park off to the side of the clubhouse lot, gravel crunching beneath my tires, and kill the engine. For a few seconds, I just sit there, engine ticking as it cools. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
Get out. Breathe. I glance at the passenger seat. My worn leather notebook sits half-tucked in my bag, the corner of a folded lyric page peeking out. I shove it deeper, as if hiding it will keep the weight in my chest from spilling over.
I swing the door open, boots crunching against the gravel, and finally step into the chaos.
The parking lot buzzes with noise—gravel crunching under boots, the low murmur of engines cooling, laughter spilling from the clubhouse. Kids race through the crowd with neon Nerf guns, shrieking as they take cover behind parked bikes. A girl sits alone on the curb, nose buried in a dog-eared book, feet stretched out in front of her.
That used to be me. My throat tightens. For a second, it feels as though I’m looking through a window to a past life. One where belonging meant finding corners to disappear into.
Back when Dad brought me to these things, I’d sit off to the side with a notebook or a crossword, anything to disappear while the world moved around me. I still write almost every day. It’s the only thing that keeps me from falling apart. Every song lyric, every line of poetry, are little pieces of a future I can still pretend might exist.
One day, I’ll take those pages and leave this town behind. Build a life that doesn’t have to hurt.
Smoke from the smoker curls in the air, thick with hickory and slow-cooked meat. The scent tugs something deep in my chest; comfort laced with memory. My stomach flips as I spot James and Knox near the grill. Knox adjusts the smoker lid while James gestures with a beer in hand. But someone’s missing. My gaze sweeps the lot, instinct searching for him. Malachi. He’s not here. Relief should come. Instead, my stomach knots tighter.
I pause on the outskirts of the lot, eyes drifting across the crowd, then back to James. And I wonder, not for the first time, if he knew my mom.
She died when I was little. At least, that’s what Dad always said. No details, no funeral, just the hard, final truth of it. She was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. But the older I get, the more questions I have about the way she disappeared. How final it was. How convenient.
Sometimes I still wonder what really took her. If it was the life—this club, the chaos—or if it was something darker, something she carried inside her long before the end.
Because the truth is, she wasn’t some sweet, doting mother. She was sharp-edged and cold, always more smoke than warmth. Some nights, I’d lie in bed listening to her scream at my dad, at anyone who crossed her. On the rare days she showed me kindness, it felt more accidental than intentional.
But when she died, everything still fell apart.
My dad used to be someone before her death. He wasn’t perfect, but he was present. Made breakfast on Saturdays and tucked me in. He used to smile. Not that hollow, boozy grin he wears now, but a real one. I was a daddy’s girl once. And he was a father worth having.
Then she was gone, and so was he. Not overnight, but fast enough that it left me dizzy. One day I was his whole world, the next, I was just someone in the room while he fell apart.
And James? James tried to fill the space. He still tries.
There’s a new weight in his eyes. Pride maybe, but also something softer. Something tired. As if he’s been carrying too much for too long, and seeing me here eases it, even if only a little.
I didn’t notice it when I was younger. But now, it’s impossible to miss. The quiet loyalty of a man who holds steady, even when the people he cares about lose their footing. I don’t say anything, but I see it now. How much he’s still trying, in his own quiet way.
James notices me first. His whole face lights up. “There she is.” The knot in my chest eases a fraction. Just a fraction.
Warmth swells in my throat. Knox gives a smaller smile, the kind that still manages to say a lot. His gaze tracks over my outfit with a subtle lift of his brow—approval, maybe. Or amusement.
“I’m glad you came, hon,” James says, wrapping me in a hug before I can dodge it. I stiffen, breath catching, but only for a moment. Then my eyes slip closed. The scent of smoke and leather wraps around me, echoing a song I’d forgotten the words to.
For just a second, I let myself relax into it. His arms are strong, steady. Not demanding. Not hurtful. Just... there.
It’s been a long time since anyone held me that way.
I step back before it can unravel me.
Knox tips his head toward a woman seated at a picnic table, legs crossed, expression distant. “Not sure if you’ve met my wife.”
