Page 28 of My Older Biker

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He kisses my forehead. "You're worth the fear. Worth the cost. Worth every hard thing that comes with this."

We stand in his kitchen holding each other while the afternoon sun moves across the floor. Outside, Bloomfield keeps turning. Marrow is still out there somewhere. My father is still angry. Perry is still dead and will be buried on Tuesday.

But we're here. Together. Solid.

"What do we do now?" I ask.

"Now we go get your cat. Then we come back here and figure out how to build a life."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He takes my hand and leads me toward the door. Toward my apartment. Toward Hamlet. Toward the ordinary practical work of combining two lives into one.

It's not romantic. It's not easy. But it's real.

And real is what I chose when I chose him.

Epilogue — Dean

Monday, the day before Perry’s funeral.

The notebook page is a mess of crossed-out lines and ink blots where the pen sat too long in one spot.

Perry was a good brother.

Scratch that.

Perry served Vigil for eight years with—

Can't finish it. Don't know how to finish it.

Hamlet is curled up on the couch where Zoe left him earlier.

The house already looks different with her things in it, more lived-in, less like a place I'm just passing through.

I drop the pen. It rolls across the kitchen table and stops against my empty coffee mug. The clock on the microwave says 10:47 PM.

I've been sitting here since eight. Two hours and forty-seven minutes staring at paper and coming up with nothing that matters.

The funeral is tomorrow at ten. Clint asked me if I'd say something. Didn't order it. Just asked. Because Perry and I rode together sometimes. Because we came up around the same time. Because someone has to stand up there and make his death mean something beyond the fact that Marrow put three bullets in him at three in the morning.

I hear Zoe moving around in the bathroom. Water running. The cabinet opening and closing. She's been quiet since we got back from the grocery store this afternoon. Not distant. Just present in that way she has where she's watching without making it obvious.

The water shuts off. Footsteps in the hallway. She appears in the kitchen doorway wearing one of my old shirts. Gray fabric worn soft from years of washing. The hem hits her mid-thigh. Her hair is damp from the shower and pulled back from her face.

She looks at me. Then at the notebook.

"Nothing yet?" she asks.

"No."

She walks over slowly. Stands beside my chair and looks down at the ruined page. Her fingers rest light on my shoulder. Not pressing. Just there.

I stare at the scratched-out words. "I don't know what the fuck to say."