Page 26 of My Older Biker

Dean nods once. Takes my hand. "Come on."

I stand on shaking legs. Let him pull me toward the door. At the threshold I look back.

"I love you," I say to my father.

He doesn't respond. Just stands in the middle of his living room with his arms crossed and his face carved from stone.

We walk out.

The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.

In Dean's truck neither of us speaks for two blocks. Then I start crying. Not quiet tears this time. Full sobs that shake my whole body.

Dean pulls over. Puts the truck in park. Reaches across and pulls me into his arms as much as the center console allows.

I cry into his shoulder while he holds me. His hand in my hair. His other arm tight around my back.

"I'm sorry," I say when I can finally speak. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For ruining your friendship. For making you choose. For—"

"Stop." He pulls back enough to look at me. Uses his thumbs to wipe my tears. "You didn't make me choose anything. I chose you. On my own. Knowing what it would cost."

"He's your best friend."

"And you're the woman I love. Both of those things can be true."

"What if he never forgives you?"

Dean is quiet for a moment, and I see the pain flicker across his face. "Then I'll have to live with that. But I'm not living without you. Not anymore."

The certainty in his voice steadies something in me.

"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Any of it?"

"No." He kisses my forehead. "I'd do it all again. The only thing I regret is that I can't make this easier for you."

"It's not supposed to be easy."

"No. I guess not."

He pulls back onto the road. The rest of the drive is quiet. When we reach his house—our house, I'm starting to think of it—he kills the engine but doesn't move.

"Perry's funeral is Tuesday," he says. "Your dad will be there. I'll be there. It's going to be hard."

"I know."

"He might not talk to me. Might not even look at me."

"I know that too."

"Are you still okay with this? Knowing what it's costing?"

I look at him. At the lines around his eyes. The scar through his eyebrow. The gray in his hair at his temples. The evidence of forty years lived hard.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm still okay with it."