I stare out the front windshield and watch as Dad greets the guys who drove over with us. That woman, the one with the blond hair, she walks out of the house in a black tank and a pair of jeans and smiles when she wraps herself around Dad. “What’s she still doing here?”
Pigpen taps his steering wheel. “He’s in love with her, but he won’t fully commit until you’re on board with her or at least talk to him again.”
The muscles in my neck tighten. “Commit? Commit how?”
Pigpen inclines his head for the obvious answer and I swear. “He doesn’t know how to commit. Do you have any idea the amount of women that’ve been through this house?”
“He married your mom and was with her for over thirteen years before she passed.”
I could ram my fist into Pigpen’s face for bringing up my mother, but because of club code, I’m not allowed to strike a brother. “Yeah, Dad did commit, but that was before she drove herself off a bridge. Where’s the keys to my bike?”
“That’s not how it went down. You gotta learn to let this go, because if you don’t—”
“Save the bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. You need to trust—”
“You want me to talk?” I cut him off. “How about this? You weren’t part of the Terror when my mom was alive and you sure as hell weren’t there when she cried herself to sleep and you sure as hell weren’t there when Dad brought home his first drunk chick to sleep with. So you can shut the fuck up about what I should or shouldn’t do.”
Proving he’s a crazy son of a bitch, Pigpen flashes me that guilty-by-definition-of-insanity grin. “See, was talking so bad? A few weeks with me and you’ll be ready for full-on family therapy.”
“Fuck you.”
Pigpen goes silent and that causes my bones to quiver. The two of us get along because I’m the silent one and he’s the one who can’t shut up.
“Your dad would do anything for you. He’s been arguing with the board. Disagreeing with them. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but this fight you got inside you, it’s not with him.”
I’m terrified to believe him because if he’s wrong and I let myself have hope that my dad and I could work through this...that false hope could kill what’s left of an already weary soul. “Keys to my bike would be nice.”
“Your dad has them and you can’t drive until tomorrow. Guess you’re stuck here.”
With another curse, I’m out of the truck, slamming the door to piss Pigpen off. He follows as I go up the stairs, then brushes past me when I pause.
He grins at me from over his shoulder before opening the screen door. There’s a loud round of laughter and, in a house as small as ours, it doesn’t take long for the noise to be unruly. The scent of meat loaf teases my stomach and I turn away. That’s my favorite and I’d bet this new girl is trying with me...again.
My heart clenches and I bend over to rest my arms against the railing. Attached to it are the flower boxes that have remained empty since Mom’s death. Every fall she’d plant mums. Different colors and sizes. Every year I’d help. I never got enough of being beside her.
The screen door creaks and Dad steps out. I focus on our property and the surrounding woods darkened with the fading evening light. He leans on the railing beside me and the creak makes me wonder if the failing wood can handle both of our weight.
“Proud of what you did out there, son. Eli said you had his back and shot true, even when you were injured.”
I join my hands together and continue to scan the woods. I’m not quiet because I’m proving a point. I’m quiet because I have no idea what to say to the emotions tearing me up.
“You scared me.” His voice is so low I can barely hear it. “There were a few minutes this weekend I was scared I was going to lose you...like I lost your mom.”
There’s hurt in his tone. The same agony mirrored within me.
“I don’t want that.” He talks like the words are a struggle. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to death... Not in life. I miss you here... I miss you at home.”
“Do you remember when Mom would laugh?” Because I’m not sure I can continue to listen to him. He’s saying what I want to hear, but it’s stuff I’m not sure how to process.
“What?” He’s confused and I understand why.
We don’t talk about Mom... I don’t talk about Mom. “Do you remember when something would hit her as funny and she would laugh?”
Because sometimes when I dream, I remember, but as each year passes, the memories become foggier and her laughter seems too far away.
“She’d get the hiccups, then she’d laugh harder.”
I smile at the memory that’s a mixture of a balm and acid on my heart.
“Your mom liked to laugh,” he says.
She did, and I hate I can barely recall the sound. “She cried that last month she was alive.”
Dad drops his head and doesn’t deny it.
“I tried to make her better before she left for work that day.” I clear my throat as I tell Dad something I never told anyone. “I gave her flowers I had picked outside.”
I half expected her to be mad. Three of them were from her flower box, but they were red and that was her favorite color.
Mom hugged me. Longer and tighter than she had before. She hugged me like she’d never hold me again and I held on to her believing that a ten-year-old’s love was enough to fix any wound. There’s a burning in my eyes and I fucking hate the loss of control.