A room with a bed that Garrett's been sleeping in alone for two months, waiting for me.
A garage full of bikes and brothers and the smell of oil and gasoline on everything.
A bar called Backroads where Aunt Ellie pours drinks and keeps everyone in line.
It's not the life I imagined when I was young.
It's not the white picket fence and the two-car garage and the normal that I thought I wanted.
But it's mine.
The last two weeks pass in a blur.
I write to my father twice more.
Short letters, careful letters, testing the waters of this new relationship.
He writes back each time, equally careful, equally cautious.
We're two people learning how to know each other again, and it's awkward and painful and strangely beautiful.
I go to group therapy.
I go to individual sessions with Patricia.
I take my prenatal vitamins and go to my doctor's appointments and watch my belly grow.
The baby moves constantly now, kicking and squirming, making his presence known.
I talk to Garrett every night on the phone.
He tells me about his day—the bikes he fixed, the meetings he sat through, the meals Aunt Ellie forced him to eat.
He tells me that Ruger's been asking about me, and that Tildie's planning a welcome home dinner.
"Ruger pulled me aside after church yesterday," Garrett says one night. "Told me the club's got my back, no matter what. Said if anyone gives you trouble when you get home, they answer to him."
"That's... really sweet."
"That's Ruger. He talks tough, but he's got a soft spot for family. And you're family, Van. The club knows it. Even if some of them were angry about what happened before, they're over it now. What matters is that you're getting better."
"And if I'm not better?" The fear slips out before I can stop it. "What if I get out and I mess up again?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. That's how the club works—we don't abandon our own." He pauses. "Ounce said something to me the other day. He said recovery isn't about being perfect. It's about getting back up every time you fall."
"Ounce talks to you about this stuff?"
"More than he used to. I think... I think watching you go through this brought some stuff up for him. His own history. He doesn't talk about it much, but it's there."
I think about Ounce—quiet, watchful, always seeming to know more than he says.
I knew he had a past, but I didn't know the details.
Maybe someday he'll tell me.
Maybe we can help each other.
"Tell him I said thank you," I say. "For the card. For all of it."
