“He put money aside for my education. Lots of it. Wanted me to go to a good college and make him proud. But there were conditions I didn’t know about until the year before I started to apply.”
Knox begins to slice the tomatoes. “What kind of conditions?”
I reach past him to grab two plastic plates and cups from the cupboard. “That I pick a ‘real’ subject. Business. Accounting. Law. Something that would be useful, lead to something he thought was prestigious.”
Knox flips the bacon, stepping back a little when it hisses and spits. “And art wasn’t useful?”
“According to him? No.” I lean back against the fridge. “His responses were along the lines of that art is a hobby, something you do on weekends after your real job is done.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
I shrug a shoulder. “He also said you don’t need to get a degree to get better at art. That you get better simply with practice, so he wasn’t going to waste tuition money on something I could do for free.”
The words sound a lot calmer coming out of my mouth than they did when my father said them. But I still remember standing in his office at the sheriff’s department, clutching my acceptance letter, and through furious tears, trying to convince him otherwise.
“But you could have still gone,” Knox says. “Got loans or whatever.”
“The Maren you see before you today is not the Maren I was back then. While my father isn’t much, he was all I had. He convinced me my art wasn’t good enough, and I believed him.”
Knox’s eyes go wide. “He said that?”
I pick a chip from the bag and crunch it thoughtfully. “Not exactly like that. I paraphrased about nine months ofcommentary into a couple of sentences, but that’s the general gist of it.”
“Your dad’s a piece of shit.”
I laugh softly. “You’re not wrong.”
After a moment, he points the knife in the direction of the paintings. “You sell any of them?”
“A few. Mostly by accident. Mainly to tourists. I hang one above the desk in the store. Sometimes a tourist will look up and decide a swamp sunset will look good above their fireplace and make me an offer.”
“Well, your old man might not know shit about art, and I won’t profess to either, but I’ve lived here my whole life, seen those views every day as I ride through the backcountry, and there’s something in them that stops me.”
Warmth spreads through me at the certainty in his voice. It’s not pity or politeness or anything like that. It’s just a simple statement.
“Thank you.”
He shrugs, like I caught him out somehow. “Guess the young girl who liked painting never gave up. Maybe you shouldn’t give up on her either.” He picks up his phone, then puts it down again.
“There’s no signal in here, remember. Are you waiting for something?”
He smiles at that. “Club business. But nothing that needs my attention tonight. You ready for some dinner?”
I am.
And later, when Knox—president of the Iron Outlaws, and a man with a hundred responsibilities pulling at him—finally sits back on my couch and stretches his arm behind my shoulders like we’ve done this a thousand times, he sighs contentedly.
Because tonight, at least for a little while longer, neither of us has anywhere else to be.
21
KNOX
Riding with my club, leading at the front, is one of the greatest pleasures in my life. So many people think motorcycle club life is about violence and illegal shit.
And sure, it has those elements to it.
But the best part?
