Emily
By the time we reached the parking lot, the storm had stopped pretending. It lashed the bikes, flattened the flowers, and turned the whole cemetery into one long, low ache. Dean stood over the new grave a few minutes longer than anyone else, letting the water run tracks down his face and jacket. The club, half-drowned, still clustered around the gates—waiting, maybe, to see if he’d break, or just to signal that you never leave a patch brother at the edge of a hole.
I waited off to the side, pretending to scroll my phone, but really just counting the seconds until Dean looked up and found me. He did, eventually, blinking hard. The rumble of idling engines shivered in the wet air, and I knewevery one of those men was watching, even if they all faced away.
He didn’t say a word, just jerked his chin to his Harley, then held out a spare helmet. The inside was still warm from his head; I could smell the sweat and faint tang of old smoke, the way you could smell last night’s argument on a closed door. I slid it on, ignoring the press of the pads against my skull.
He kicked the engine to life, a single savage twist that filled the world with sound. I swung on behind him, awkward in my funeral clothes, clutching the leather of his cut because I didn’t know where else to put my hands. He shifted, maybe to help me balance, maybe to acknowledge that yes, I was here and not going anywhere.
We pulled away slowly, then faster, the bike slicing through the standing water like it was born for this. The road home traced the perimeter of Los Alamos, all sharp turns and blind corners where the earth dropped away into ravines. The rain pelted us, needling into my collar and running in cold rivers down my wrists, but the heat from Dean’s body leeched back up through the layers. I held on tight, the kind of grip you reserve for roller coasters and car accidents.
The ride wasn’t long, but it unspooled in slow motion, every second a loop of sensation: the tremor of the engine,the slap of the wind, the weird, relentless intimacy of my arms wrapped around a man who could snap me in half but was now the softest thing in my universe. We didn’t speak. My cheek pressed to his back, and I found myself counting his breaths. He rode with total focus, almost rigid, as if letting one thought in sideways would send us both over the edge.
By the time we pulled into the lot outside my building, my thighs had seized, and my feet were numb, but I’d stopped thinking about the funeral. Dean killed the engine and just sat, helmet on, staring straight ahead. The rain pinged off the tank in a scattershot rhythm.
I fumbled with the chinstrap, pulled the helmet off, and wiped my hand down my face, surprised to find my own skin beneath. Dean still didn’t move.
“You wanna come up?” I said, voice thin as the rain. “I’ve got coffee. Or whiskey.”
He exhaled through his nose, set the helmet on the handlebars, and gave the smallest nod. When he slid off the bike, his boots splashed in the puddle at the curb, the water running black in the weak light. He took off his own helmet and shook out his hair, dark and flattened, rivulets cutting through the road grit on his cheeks. He looked more like a painting than a man—something done in charcoal and blue, all edges and ruined beauty.
I punched the code for the lobby and held the door with my hip. Dean followed, not close, not far, keeping exactly enough distance that I could pretend we were just two people arriving home at the same time. In the elevator, he leaned against the metal wall, shoulders caved inward, hands shoved in his pockets. I glanced at his reflection—his face gone hard, the lips pressed in a line, the eyes glazed over with everything he wasn’t letting out.
“Second floor,” I said, just to kill the silence.
He watched the numbers tick up, the same way you watch a countdown at a firing squad.
My apartment was the first door on the left—less a choice and more the result of a leasing agent with a clipboard and a schedule to keep. I fished my keys from my purse, fumbled, nearly dropped them, and heard Dean suppress a sigh behind me. He was shivering, just a little. I told myself it was the rain, but it looked like something older.
Inside, I flipped on the lights. The place was a shrine to function: a brown couch, a thrifted coffee table, and a kitchen too small for more than one person at a time. The walls were lined with photos—animals, mostly, the ones I’d fostered or rescued or just couldn’t stop thinking about. Dogs with lopsided faces, cats mid-leap, a parakeet on a prosthetic leg. The only thing more plentifulthan animal prints was the battered library books, stacked in columns against every free surface. Behavioral therapy for dogs, pharmacology, and four volumes of Temple Grandin. No family photos. Not a single one.
“Sit,” I said, waving at the couch. “I’ll get towels.”
He eased down, the old leather cut creaking, and leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands. The dog tags around his neck tapped the zipper of his jacket, a nervous metronome. I watched him for a second, then ducked into the bathroom and came back with two towels—one ratty, one new. I handed him the new one.
He took it, mopped at his head, and then scrubbed his hands with mechanical precision. He didn’t look up. It occurred to me that maybe the funeral was only the second worst part of his day.
“You want coffee?” I asked, already filling the kettle. “Or something stronger?”
He grunted. “Coffee’s good.”
I set the percolator, measured the grounds, then realized I’d been standing in the same spot for a minute without doing anything else. My skin prickled with embarrassment, and I busied myself with opening cabinets, straightening the sugar jar, anything to keep moving. I could feel Dean’s attention on me, not heavy, not invasive, but searching. Like a dog waiting for its name to be called.
The coffee burbled, the smell filling the air and cutting through the wet dog smell clinging to our clothes. I poured two mugs and brought them to the table, then hovered for a second, not sure where to sit. Dean watched me, lips parted like he was about to say something, then just took the cup with both hands.
I sat opposite him. The heat from the mug seeped into my palms, and I let it burn.
He broke the silence first. “You ever get used to it?” he asked, voice low. “Death.”
I thought about it. “No. But you get good at hiding the worst of it from the new volunteers. They think it’s all happy endings.”
He let out a sound, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. People love the story where the dog gets adopted, and everything works out.”
I nodded. “Nobody writes poems about what happens when you’re the one left cleaning the kennel.”
We sat for a while, both watching the steam rise from our cups. I wanted to say something to make it easier, or at least bearable, but the words felt like broken glass in my mouth.
He rolled the dog tags between his fingers, the click of metal soft but constant. “You ever think about leaving?” he asked, eyes on the floor.
