The thought almost makes me smile, because Hurricane would have loved the dramatic irony of it all. He lived large and died larger, saving so many women in the process.
If he had to go, that’s how he would have wanted it.
But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I shuffle forward, my shoes whispering against the pavement, toward a black sedan that feels more like a hearse. I glance up at Ingrid with baby Louis and Novah with her son, Elijah, hopping into another car while I give them a weak head gesture, knowing we’re in this together.
But I haven’t been.
I’ve been absent.
I’ve been staying in my room, drowning in my own grief and not sharing in theirs.
A mother and sister who are hurting just as much as I am.
A wave of guilt flows over me, a twinge of pain settling deep in my gut, radiating around to my back as Mom settles Immy into her car seat while Lani helps me into the back. My belly makes everything awkward, and I can’t help but think about how Hurricane would have been fussing over me, making sure I was comfortable, probably making some joke about how I look like I swallowed a basketball.
I’ve been doing all of this wrong.
Shutting myself away fromallthe people he loved, when I should have been leaning on them for support.
Grieving with them.
That all stops today.
I keep my head down as a prospect drives through the familiar streets of New Orleans, my city, our city, the place where Hurricane and I fell in love despite ourselves. I can’t bear to look up, can’t bear to see the life going on around us when mine has completely stopped.
Immy is chattering quietly to my mother about something, her three-year-old brain moving from topic to topic the way children do. Her resilience amazes me. She misses her daddy, asks for him every day, but she still finds joy in the small things. Maybe that’s what I need to learn from her.
“Mama, look,” Immy says suddenly, her voice filled with wonder.
“Not now, baby,” I murmur, my hand pressed to my forehead as another wave of grief threatens to drown me.
“Mama,look!” Immy insists, more urgently this time.
Lani nudges me gently. “Kaia, you need to see this.”
Something in her voice makes me lift my head, and when I do, my breath catches in my throat.
Chapter Thirteen
KAIA
We’re approaching the cemetery, but the route is lined with motorcycles.
Hundreds of them.
Bikers in leather and patches, standing at attention beside their rides like an honor guard.
I press my face to the window, my heart hammering. NOLA Defiance patches, yes, but others as well. Chicago Defiance, Houston Defiance, Tampa Defiance, Las Vegas Defiance. My heart thuds at the sight of the brothers from LA Defiance.
Their faces show complete anguish.
I guess because they are the reason we’re here right now.
They asked for Hurricane to stand up and fight for their cause.
But knowing they’re here to honor his memory means a lot. Knowing that chapters from across the country are all here to honor Hurricane, to honor my husband, means more than I could have ever thought. A fresh wave of pain radiates from my lower back around to my stomach, stronger this time. I press my palm against the spot, trying to ease the tension.
