Chapter 2 - Sidney
I watch my son chatting with his father for the first time, and my heart feels like it might crack open. Max has never been shy, but the way he marched straight up to Dean—no, they call him Torch here—was incredible. It's like some part of him recognizes his father, even though they've never met before today.
This wasn't how I imagined our reunion. In my darkest moments over the past three days, I pictured him slamming the door in our faces or denying Max was his. In my more hopeful moments, I imagined reluctant acceptance. I never expected the raw emotion I can see on his face as he looks at our son.
The clubhouse falls silent as everyone watches the exchange between father and child. I feel exposed under their scrutiny, like they can see every bad decision I've ever made, every desperate move that led me here.
But I had no choice. Not really.
"He looks just like you," one of the bikers says, breaking the silence. He's massive with a beard and arms covered in tattoos.
"Poor kid," another one jokes, but there's no malice in it.
Dean—Torch—doesn't seem to hear them. He's crouched down now, at eye level with Max, who's babbling about the motorcycle patches on his leather vest.
"Like bikes," Max says, pointing at a patch.
"Yeah, those are motorcycles," Torch confirms, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I ride one."
Max's eyes widen. "I ride too?"
"Someday, maybe," Torch says, then glances up at me. "If your mom says it's okay."
And just like that, I'm included in this fragile new dynamic. The acknowledgment that I'm still Max's parent, that any decisions about his life include me, loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.
"We should get you two settled," Torch says, standing up. His eyes meet mine, and I see uncertainty there, but also determination. "My house isn't far."
I nod, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that carried me through the drive here, through walking into a biker clubhouse with my heart in my throat, is fading fast. I haven't slept more than a few hours at a time in days, cramped in the back seat of my ancient Honda with Max.
"Our stuff is in the car," I say, then realize how pathetic that must sound. Everything we own, packed into one small car.
"I'll help you bring it in," he offers.
The man with the beard steps forward.
"I'm Beast," he introduces himself. "I can help too."
"Thank you," I say, feeling awkward. "But there's not much."
Torch nods to the older man who seems to be in charge. "King, I'm gonna take off. I'll be in tomorrow."
King, an appropriate name for the man who radiates authority, nods once.
"Take the time you need," he says, but there's a warning in his eyes. "Call if you need anything."
Several of the others nod at us as we prepare to leave. I get the distinct impression they're worried about Torch, which is both comforting and concerning. Do they think I'm going to hurt him somehow? Or are they concerned about how he'll handle this sudden change?
Max reaches for me, and I lift him into my arms, wincing slightly at the pull in my lower back. Three nights sleeping in a car has done me no favors.
"I'll follow you," I tell Torch as we head outside.
The evening air is cool against my face. The street is quiet, the town of Blackwater Falls seemingly peaceful despite housing a motorcycle club that made national news last month for some kind of shootout with a rival gang.
What am I doing here? Bringing my son into this world of violence and danger?
But then I remember the nights in the car, jumping at every sound, terrified someone would find us sleeping there and call social services. I remember the empty bank account, the final eviction notice, the way Max asked for dinner and I had to give him the last package of crackers because there was nothing else.
Sometimes safety isn't about avoiding all risks. Sometimes it's about choosing the risk you can live with.
