“Fuck, this is delicious.”
Hope dips her chin. “You can tell me what you’re thinking about, if you want.”
Don’t do it… She deserves to know what kind of person I am.
The soft glow of candles on the table makes the rest of the world seem so far away. I can feel her waiting for me to say something. She doesn’t pry or push but patiently waits to see if the ugly truth will drag itself out, whether I’m ready or not.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Hope’s face is expressionless. She doesn’t tense or brace for the worst. Instead, she sets her fork down and rests her arms on the table, leaning in just a little.
“Go on,” she encourages.
I inhale and let it out slowly. “I’m with a motorcycle club. Death’s Gambit out of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.”
“I got that from your cut the first time we met as you were leaving the shop.” She barks out a laugh. “The same one you’re wearing right now.” Hope stills slightly. “Are you guys likeSons of Anarchy? Is your club dangerous?”
“It’s nothing like what you’ve seen on television or read about,” I explain. “We ride. We help each other out. We take care of our own.” I pause. “That’s why the club was formed. To give those who don’t have anyone a place to belong.”
“It sounds like family,” she says gently.
I laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah. Well, I guess that fits.” My throat tightens. “My mom got sick… breast cancer.”
Hope’s breath hitches. “Frost…”
“She fought it,” I say. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever seen fight before. But it wasn’t enough. And when she died…” I shake my head, jaw clenching. “I couldn’t stay. Icouldn’t.”
Hope’s eyes soften with empathy.
“I left my dad to deal with everything,” I continue. “Left him and my little sister to handle all of it. The grief, the home they built that’s filled with her things. I took off to… ride.” I look down at my hands. “And I haven’t been back since the day we buried her.”
A long silence settles, heavy but not suffocating.
“I feel like a coward,” I say.
Hope reaches across the table. I stare at her hand and the innocence it represents to me. I take it without hesitation. I need this connection to her right now.
Her thumb brushes my knuckles, slow and reassuring. “Frost,” she says softly. “You didn’t run because you don’t care. You ran because youdo.”
I shake my head. “That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not an excuse.” She shifts closer, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s a reason.”
I look up, and she’s watching me like she sees every broken thing I’m trying to hide and doesn’t flinch at any of it.
“Grief is messy,” she says. “It twists people up. Makes them do things they never thought they’d do. You weren’t abandoning them. You were surviving the only way you knew how.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I mutter.
“You’re human, and we all grieve differently,” she replies. “There’s no right or wrong way and definitely no time stamp on how long it takes to get over such an incredible loss.”
Something in my chest cracks, and it feels both terrifying and relieving.
“You’ll go back home eventually, won’t you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“That means you haven’t walked away for good. You’re still hurting because you love her so much, and you can’t bear seeingyour family grieve, either. It would tear you apart. That tells me everything I need to know about you.”
