She returns the embrace with equal emotions, then pulls back a few inches and looks at me. “The last time I saw you, you were nineteen. Look at you now, all grown up.” She fingers a strand of my long hair. “Wow.”
In turn, I admire the thirty-three-year-old woman I always liked. She taught me how to cook, clean, and how to take a beating without crying out loud. Both of our exes were abusers. If you let them know they were hurting you while they were disciplining you, they’d hit you that much harder. We both nod our understanding of each other’s pasts. It takes another old lady to understand the challenges we faced, the real dangers, the threat we’d always have to live with if the club decided to try and get us back.
Juanita thumbs a tear off my cheek. “Don’t waste your precious tears on them. Okay?”
I nod. “Checkers called.”
“And?” She pulls into traffic.
“They’ve elected a new president already. Silver.”
“Silver?”
“William Hedeby, the prospect from Sacramento. Remember him?”
“Oh. My. God. That little prick that showed up when he was seventeen and half-starved?”
“Yep.”
“Let me guess…”
“He claimed me already.”
“Sammy’s body isn’t even cold in the ground yet.”
“I know.” The level of disgust inside me is growing exponentially. “Always thinking with their dicks.”
We take another right and Juanita turns into an ally and parks behind a white house that’s been converted into commercial retail space. “Welcome home,” she says.
The word home is foreign to me, because I’ve never really had one. “Thank you.” I climb out of the SUV with my backpack in my hands.
There’s a small, fenced yard with a covered porch. We walk up a cobblestone path, between two raised gardens with colorful flowers, and then she opens the screen door. “The back of the house is a three-bedroom apartment. The front is my shop.”
“So cute,” I say, stepping inside.
The kitchen is painted yellow with white trim. A large window overlooks the back yard. Framed pinup girl artwork from the World War II era is hanging on the walls, especially in the breakfast nook which is tastefully decorated with a stainless-steel dinette from the 1950s.
“You always were eclectic,” I say.
“You remembered? I like Rosie the Riveter in the kitchen and something else completely in my bedroom.”
“Do I want to know?”
“His name is Joseph Matteo—thirty-eight, hot, and very bisexual.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“For me, yes.”
I smile, genuinely thrilled Juanita has found someone that makes her happy. “Maybe I’ll find someone to share my life with someday.”
She squeezes my hand. “Didn’t mean to rub my relationship in your face at a time like this. I just wanted you to know sometimes there’s a man or two running around the house late at night. You’ll love Joe.”
“This is your house, Juanita.”
“Yours now, too.” She guides me down a short hallway off the kitchen. There’s a medium-sized bedroom with a private bathroom. “Here’s your room. Hope you like it.”
Decorated more traditionally, the Cherrywood furniture, including an antique desk and matching chair, is lovely. The walls are painted a muted blue and the bathroom has a garden tub I can soak in. Obviously, my friend doesn’t realize a closet would be an improvement from where I was living before. To actually have a chance to live outside the invasiveness of camera surveillance and a body guard who follows me everywhere, the only exception in the bathroom, will take some getting used to.
