Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“You’re looking at me,” she mutters into my skin.
“Damn right I am.” It comes out the way it always does with her—the edge filed down, the truth bare.
She tilts her head up, studies my face like she’s checking for cracks I didn’t mention. “You’re… softer,” she remarks finally, amused and not. “Not a lot. Like a man who figured out a better pillow.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I deadpan, and she smiles against me.
“You meant it,” she adds, more serious now. “At the water.”
“Yeah.” I don’t even try to duck it. “You?” I ask even though I know it to my soul she loves me.
“More than anything.” Her fingers skate over my chest, writing words I can’t see, spelling something I don’t need to read to understand. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like relief.” She breathes out. “Like I set down something heavy I thought I had to carry forever and didn’t notice until it was gone.”
I swallow, thumb rubbing absently along her shoulder. “You’re not carrying anything alone.”
“I know.” She says it like a vow. “You either.”
“I love you,” she says, softer now, like a good-night.
“I love you,” I answer, because it feels like a thing that needs echoes to root.
Epilogue
Kristen
Six Months Later
* * *
The map on the wall catches the early light—lines and loops and places we’ve ridden until we memorized their breath. Today we’re drawing a bigger loop because we head out for a very special ride.
Deal’s Gap, North Carolina.
Tail of the Dragon.
Kellum said it last night like a vow and a grin. “Three hundred and eighteen curves, darlin’. You and me.”
I’m already in my base layer of clothes, hair braided tight, my helmet bag by the door next to the small duffel he told me to pack “like you actually trust that roadside motels have towels.” I do now. I trust a lot of things I didn’t six months ago.
Even though, this motel is one the Hellions stay at annually, we have been taking road trips regularly enough I know to pack well for myself.
He’s outside, tightening something that probably doesn’t need tightening, talking fast and low to the bike like it’s a girlfriend that understands English and attitude.
I’m checking the list on the counter—phone charger, gloves, tiny first-aid kit, the gummy bears he pretends he hates, but they keep him from smoking cigarettes even better than the cinnamon gum—when a gentle knock taps the back door. Not the front. The back, like family.
I open it and she steps in with the morning wrapped around her: his mom. Savannah “Sass” Perchton-Oleandar. The woman who grew up in this life and lived her life for her man, Tank and her boys. She’s got a tin container balanced on her palm and a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. Her eyes do a quick sweep—my boots by the mat, the helmets, the map, the neat little chaos we’ve made—and soften into a smile that feels like a quilt.
“Morning, sweetie,” she says, handing me the tin. “Sugar cookies. You’ll want something sweet when you stop at the overlook.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and mean more than cookies. Sass is always looking out for her family.
She sets the canvas tote on the table and takes me in. “You look ready.”
“I am.” My voice wobbles then steadies. “He acts like we haven’t been riding together from the beginning.”
She laughs, that low easy mama-sound that lets you be both grown and held close like a child. “He still will. He wants you to enjoy this.”
“Oh, I will,” I agree, grinning.
She reaches into the tote and pulls out a small bundle of knit—soft gray, edges finished, practical. “I made you this,” she says, almost shy. “Neck warmer. Fits under your jacket without bunching.” She slips it into my hands, then adds, “There’s a pair of thin mitten style liners for under your gloves. Mountain air bites different this time of year.”
I press the yarn piece to my cheek. It smells like her house—linen, a little vanilla, family. “It’s perfect.”
She pulls a chair out and pats the seat beside her. “Come sit with me a minute. Let him fuss with that bike. He’s a man. He’ll find a bolt to talk to. Plus his dad likes to check things over with his boys before this ride especially.”
I set the cookies and the cozy fabric piece on the table, then sit. She watches the window for a second, where Kellum is bent over the rear tire, forearm flexed, concentration written in his body language and his dad standing over him pointing at something. When she looks back, her eyes are glossy. Not wet. Just full.
“I had four boys,” she shares, words easy, practiced, true. “Four. Noise and fighting and shoes the size of boats. I used to stand in my kitchen and pray for earplugs and angels and—” She smiles. “—daughters. I didn’t get daughters the way some folks do. Mine came later, on bikes and through doors and with eyes that looked at my sons like they were the sun, moon, and stars.”