“You tell me.”
I stand and move to the rack, needing something heavier. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Carver sets the weights down and leans back against the wall. “You think I didn’t go through it?” he asks.
“Through what?”
“Looking in the mirror after the accident and wondering who the hell would choose this.”
I glance at him despite myself.
“You had her before,” I say, the bitterness slipping out before I can catch it.
His expression tightens. “Before what?”
“Before you got crushed. She knew you before.”
“With me,” I continue, “there’s no before. I’ve always been like this. Except now I’m like this with scars.”
The words hang there.
Carver puts down the dumbbell. “You think that made it easier?” he asks. “You think any of this is easy? You think I was happy learning that Bronte hid her pregnancy and kept the existence of my daughter from me because she was scared it would break me?”
I don’t answer. Because what can you say to that?
He exhales. “It’s not a fairy tale, Shadow. It’s work. It’s fucking hard work. It’s choosing it every day. Even when you don’t feel worth choosing.”
I look away.
“How can you do it?” I ask quietly, hating that I’m asking at all. “How can you just… step into it? Have a family. Laugh like everything’s okay.”
Carver gives a smile. “Because I decided I didn’t want to sit on the outside looking in forever. Because it’s not all about me.”
That hits closer than I’d like.
He studies me. “You’re not the only one who feels like he doesn’t fit. I thought it was just me, but there’s other brothers here who have problems. But no one talks about it.”
“I don’t feel like I don’t fit,” I say automatically.
He raises a brow.
I sigh. “Fine. Maybe I do.”
Carver nods like that’s enough honesty for one night. “You don’t have to stay there.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That supposed to inspire me?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just the truth. You might be the prisoner, but you’re also the jailor.”
I stiffen at his words.
“Anyway, I better go get my beauty sleep. Early start tomorrow,” he says as he sets the equipment back and leaves me alone with my thoughts.
By the time I leave the gym, sweat-soaked and shaky, it’s almost four. Rather than go home, I go to my room at the clubhouse too tired to ride. I drag a hand down my face and head for the shower. There’s no mirrors in my room. Not because I didn’t want them, but because whoever set these rooms up never considered that bikers would want to look at themselves. Whatever reason, I’m thankful I can’t see myself as I stand there naked. The shower is set to cold.
Always cold.
Heat is pain.
