My throat tightens, the weight of her words settling heavily on my chest. “I’m sorry, Frankie. For not telling you. For all these years…” My voice falters, the confession trembling on my lips.
She silences me with a fierce grip, her hand enveloping mine with an intensity that demands my attention. “Hey. You survived. For seven years, you did what you had to do to protect him, and to protect yourself. There is nothing to forgive. You hear me?” The unwavering truth in her gaze pierces through my defenses, and I feel the sting of tears threatening to spill.
We pile back into Frankie’s convertible, the car now full of shopping bags. As we pull out of the parking lot, I see Rider start his bike in my side mirror and fall in a few car lengths behind us, a loyal, leather-clad shadow.
The top is down, and as we hit the main road, the wind rushes through my hair, a welcome, cleansing force. Ruby is already recapping our victory, her voice giddy.
“I’m telling you, I almost had him convinced,” Ruby says, her voice bright with laughter. “That poor kid in the produce aisle. I told him Gushers absolutely count as a daily fruit serving. I think he was genuinely considering it.”
“He was a sixteen-year-old kid, Rubes,” Frankie calls from the driver’s seat, her voice laced with amusement. “You probably traumatized him.”
The easy, chaotic energy is a balm. I lean my head back, letting the wind and the sun wash over me. For a moment, the heavy, suffocating weight that’s lived in my chest for seven years actually... lifts. I’m just a girl in a car with her friends.
The laughter dies down, and a comfortable, pensive silence settles over us. Candace, sitting next to me in the back, bumps my shoulder gently. I turn to look at her, and she’s watching me with a soft, knowing expression.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she asks, her voice quiet, just for me.
I look at her, confused. “What does?”
“Being supported,” she says with a small, knowing smile on her lips. “When you’re so used to being alone, having this many people show up for you... it’s a lot. I remember feeling like I was going to spin out of my skin when they did it for me.”
Her words hit me with the force of a revelation. She’s right. It is weird. And it is a lot.
“But it’s a good ‘a lot,’” Ruby chimes in from the front, having clearly eavesdropped. “They’re a bunch of scary, overprotective assholes, but they’re our scary, overprotective assholes.”
“We show up, D,” Frankie says, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Always.”
My eyes find Sloane’s, who is sitting on my other side. She’s been quiet, just watching, but she offers me a small, shy smile—a look I recognize all too well. It’s the look of an outsider who is finally on the inside but still isn’t sure how to act. I see her, the lonely girl she hides so well, and the invisible thread between us strengthens.
I look from Sloane’s face to Candace’s, to Ruby’s, to Frankie’s. My sisters. My army. A lump forms in my throat, a knot ofemotion so potent it’s almost painful. I look back at Sloane, making sure she’s included in this feeling, in this circle.
“So,” I whisper, my voice thick. “This is what family looks like.”
Frankie grins as she pulls into the lot. “Looks like James is holding up his end of the bargain.”
We get out of the car, and I pause, just taking it all in. The tension that once hung heavy has lifted, replaced by an easy camaraderie that feels almost sacred. They have crafted this space of normalcy for me, a refuge from the chaos of my past. As Frankie loops her arm through mine, pulling me toward the laughter and the light, I finally, truly, let myself exhale.
The rich, smoky aroma of burgers sizzling on the grill and onions caramelizing fills the air with warmth and familiarity. Music pulses softly from a speaker. It’s a low, bluesy rhythm that intertwines with the quiet hum of conversation, wrapping around us like a well-worn blanket. The tension that once hung heavy has lifted, replaced by an easy camaraderie that feels almost sacred. Laughter bubbles up as people gather, their voices rising and falling in a comforting symphony. They have crafted this space of normalcy for me, a refuge from the chaos of my past.
My gaze wanders across the yard, illuminated by the twinkling glow of string lights draped from the eaves of the porch, casting playful shadows on the ground. I spot Maggie leaning against James, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as he flips burgers on the grill, their shared laughter creating a steady rhythm that resonates within me. A few feet away, Sloane stands with her arms crossed, a barrier between her and Knox until he closes the distance, his arm slipping around her waist, pulling her close. She stiffens for a heartbeat before melting into his embrace, the tension between them dissolving into something softer.
Candace is wrapped in her own world with Malachi, his hand possessively resting on her hip as they share hushed words, their connection palpable even in the midst of the crowd. Then there’s Ruby, ever the whirlwind of energy. She strides purposefully toward Nash, who leans against a post, arms crossed, exuding an aura of stoic indifference. She offers him a beer, a challenge in her eyes.
He shakes his head, his expression set in stone. “I’m good,” he replies, his gaze sweeping over the yard with the intensity of a hawk, always on alert as the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms.
“Come on, Grumpy,” she teases, leaning in closer, her voice laced with a playful defiance that dances in the air between them. “It’s a party. Live a little.”
“Not interested,” he retorts, but I catch the slightest twitch in his jaw, a flicker of a smile threatening to break through the hard lines of his face.
As we gather around the picnic tables laden with plates overflowing with burgers, coleslaw, and potato salad, Frankie seizes the moment like a lioness ready to pounce. “You know,” she calls out, her voice cutting through the upbeat music, “this whole scene reminds me of the cast party after Guys and Dolls. Darla was the star. An absolute menace on stage.”
Before I can protest, East’s eyes spark with mischief, a wicked glint igniting the depths of his gaze. He rises, pulling out his phone, and within moments, the unmistakable opening notes of “Luck Be a Lady” fill the air, transforming the backyard into an impromptu stage. With a flourish that could rival any Broadway performer, he bows in my direction, laughter and energy swirling around us like a warm embrace, igniting a flicker of warmth in my chest amidst the chaos.
“Well, if we’re talking about menacing stars…” he begins, then he launches into song.
It’s a glorious disaster. He’s charming, exuding swagger, but his voice is completely off-key, a cacophony of misplaced notes. He’s performing a hilariously terrible Frank Sinatra impression, snapping his fingers with exaggerated flair, fully committing to the bit. The whole club erupts in laughter, their joy directed at him, a chorus of delight at his expense.
I laugh so hard that tears stream down my face, my bruised ribs protesting in the best possible way. I watch him butcher one of my favorite songs, not caring how he sounds, only focused on the look of pure joy on his face. He’s doing this for me. And I can’t let him go down alone.
