I head back to the main room to find Emma exactly where I left her, now with hot pink fingernails and what looks like a face mask situation happening with Maggie and Ginger.
“Don’t laugh,” Emma warns when she sees me.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I crouch next to her chair. “You look very . . . cucumber-y.”
“Maggie says it’s good for my skin.”
“Maggie says a lot of things.”
“I heard that,” Maggie calls from the kitchen.
Emma grins behind her face mask. “How’d it go?”
“Good. We’ve got a plan.” I take her hand, being careful of her wet nail polish. “Town meeting next week. We’re organizing the community to fight Summit’s development.”
“How can I help?”
I study her face—the determination there, the need to be useful. “You’re good with kids. With teaching. Maybe you help get the younger generation involved? Their parents are more likely to show up if their kids care about the issue.”
Her eyes light up. “I could do a whole thing with the kids at the community center. Talk about what Stoneheart means to us, why it’s worth preserving.”
There it is. That spark I fell in love with. Not Emma the ballerina, performing for critics. Emma the wildfire, finding something worth fighting for.
“Perfect.” I kiss the top of her head, carefully avoiding the face mask. “But first, you rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Good. Keep doing that.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling.
Stone strolls over and just looks at Maggie and Ginger, who quickly take their spa show to the kitchen.
“Everything OK?” I ask, my nerves getting the better of me.
“Good work this morning,” he says.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure where this is going, but Stone’s moods are never random. He always has a reason.
He glances at Emma, who’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, then back at me. For a second he just stands there, and I’m about two seconds away from screaming, WHAT DO YOU WANT!?! before he reaches into the pocket of his cut and pulls out a battered strip of leather, the officer patch he took off me when Itook things too far.
He twirls the leather between his fingers, the white-stitched letters still reading INTEL. I remember the night he yanked it off, the way it stung more than a busted nose or a bullet graze could. I was pissed over how I went out, but I understood why he did it—too dangerous, too reckless, too much me in the engine and not enough brakes.
He holds the patch out to me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want this back,” he says, voice low. “But after this morning, I think maybe you’re ready for it.”
I take it. The leather feels warm and familiar and slightly oily, like it’s absorbed years of sweat and adrenaline and nervous energy. He keeps his hand on mine a second longer, pinning the patch between us.
“Do me proud, Bones,” Stone says. And for a second I see past the president act, see the man who gave up everything for this club and his family. Who is still—deep down—just a dad who wants his daughter to be safe and happy.
He lets go and walks away before it gets too emotional, leaving me there with the patch in my palm and my throat tight enough to hurt.
This piece of leather shouldn’t mean so much. It’s just a patch. Just a title.
But it’s also proof that I’m still part of this family. That what I did for Emma didn’t cost me everything.
I turn to Emma, who’s pretending she didn’t just see that whole exchange, but she’s dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a napkin.
