"My parents died four years ago. Car accident. It didn’t seem appropriate to tell you that when we just had met. No siblings. My friends helped as much as they could, but..." She shrugs. "Everyone has their own struggles."
Fuck. The picture becomes clearer: a single mom with no support system, no safety net. And when things went south, she had nowhere to turn except to find the father who didn't know he was a father.
Guilt gnaws at me. "I should have been there."
"You didn't know," she says simply.
"But if I hadn't been such a mess back then… If I'd stayed in one place, kept the same phone, you could have found me when you got pregnant."
She glances at me over the rim of her mug. "Would you have wanted to be found?"
The question catches me off guard.
Three years ago, drowning my PTSD in whiskey and meaningless sex? No, I probably wouldn't have welcomed the news of impending fatherhood. I'd have seen it as another burden, another responsibility I wasn't equipped to handle.
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "I was in a bad place then. But that doesn't change the fact that I should have been there for him. For both of you."
"Well, you're here now," she says. "That counts for something."
Does it? I wonder. Is showing up two years late better than never showing up at all?
"Tell me about him," I say suddenly. "Max. What does he like? Dislike? What's he afraid of? What makes him laugh?"
A genuine smile lights up her face, transforming her from merely pretty to beautiful. "He loves animals, especially dogs and elephants. He hates green vegetables but will eat them if I mix them with enough cheese. He's afraid of the vacuum cleaner for some reason. And tickling his feet always makes him giggle."
She continues, telling me about his first steps at eleven months, his first word ("ball"), how he loves to splash in puddles and dance to any music with a beat. Each detail is a precious gift, a small piece of the life I've missed.
"He's smart," she says proudly. "The pediatrician says he's advanced for his age, especially with language. He can already count to fifteen and knows most of his colors."
"Gets that from you, I'm guessing," I say. "I was a terrible student."
"I don't know about that. You seem to have done alright for yourself." She gestures at the house around us. "This is a nice place."
I shrug. "The club pays well for what I do."
"And what exactly is that?" she asks cautiously. "The article I found mentioned something about security work?"
Right. She found me through news about the club, which means she knows at least something about the Savage Riders. Time to navigate these waters carefully.
"We provide security services," I say, which is true as far as it goes. "I also have specific skills from my military background that come in handy."
"Explosives," she says bluntly. "That's what you did in the military, right? You mentioned it that night we met."
I'd forgotten that detail. Clearly, she has a better memory of our encounter than I do.
"Yeah," I admit. "I was EOD—Explosive Ordnance Disposal. In the club, I handle... similar work. Legally," I add, though that's not always strictly true.
She looks skeptical but doesn't press. "And it's safe? For Max to be around?"
The question isn't unreasonable. The club has enemies, as the past few months with the Iron Eagles proved. But things have been quiet since Vulture disappeared, and we're legitimate now. Mostly.
"I don't bring work home," I tell her. "And the club protects its own. Max will be safer here than sleeping in a car."
She winces at that, but nods. "Fair point."
Another silence falls between us, but it's less tense now. The tea has helped her relax a bit, though exhaustion is clearly winning the battle. She stifles a yawn behind her hand.
"You should get some sleep," I say. "Take the bed. I've got extra blankets for the couch."
