Page 24 of Parrish

My streets.

The streets that tell the story of a man’s rise to power and his fall from grace. A story that stretches for blocks, down many avenues, and from borough to borough. I didn’t have to graffiti my name on every corner to leave my mark. My tires burned enough rubber that everyone in New York knows the name Parrish.

As I veer onto the Belt Parkway, Reina tightens her hold on me and leans into my ear.

“Faster,” she demands over the thunder of my engine.

Never one to deny her what she craves, I oblige. She lifts one hand from my chest and into the air as she welcomes the wind, tossing her head back. It reminds me of the first time I took her on my bike and how she let go of the things that were plaguing her. I wonder if she’s letting go now, if she’s riding the wind, shedding all the shit I’ve put her through or if she’s savoring the feel of it all, committing it to her heart and soul just as I am.

Removing one hand from the handlebars, I recklessly cover the hand she has against my chest with my own. She laces her fingers with mine and I squeeze her hand as she drops the one from the air and wraps it around me again. Her skin is soft against mine and when I untangle our hands, I realize I’m going to miss more than I’ve prepared myself for. I’m going to miss the little

things—the things I took for granted. Like, holding her hand whenever the fuck I please.

The realization leaves a foul taste in my mouth and before I run away with my mind, I take the next exit off the parkway. It’s not part of the plan but then again neither was leaving her alone for the next thirteen years.

When I first met Reina, she was a church goer. Her faith was important to her and somewhere along the way, her beliefs began to rub off on me. It’s not that I didn’t believe in God, but for a long while I questioned his choices. As my mental health started to decline and the stress of leading my club became too much for me to bear, I turned to the true maker. Not the one inside my head but the one nailed to the cross.

I started going to church every Sunday and to my surprise, I didn’t turn as many heads as I thought I would. The more masses I attended, the more daring I became. I went to confession and on occasion I received communion. Sometimes, I even drank from the Lord’s cup. The only thing I refused to do was stick my hand in the Holy Water. After all, a sinner must draw the line somewhere, and I wasn’t really looking to test God’s patience any more than I already had.

Until now.

With the seconds on the clock threatening to run out, I decided to test the good Lord and hope he takes pity on me, granting me one last request before he turns me over to Satan.

Pulling into the parking lot of Regina Pacis church, I come to a complete stop and kill the engine. Ignoring the ringing in my ears from the ride, I dismount and face Reina. She stares behind me at the church with a confused look before swinging her gaze back to me.

“It’s a little late for mass isn’t it?” she questions, unclasping the strap beneath her chin. Instead of answering her, I hold out my hand, encouraging her to trust me. She’s right. It’s way too late for a reading of the Gospel according to Luke, but it ain’t too late to make things right.

She glances at my offered hand as she pulls the helmet from her head and places it on the seat. Careful not to knock it off, she swings her leg off the bike and her boots touch the pavement. Skeptical but oh so trusting, she slips her hand into mine.

Turning around, I lead her towards the front doors of the church. Someone should write a letter to the Archdiocese and really tell them to lock the doors after a certain time. Any criminal can come inside and steal the poor box. Hell, they could rob a gold chalice and pawn the shit for a fix if need be. Maybe I’ll be the one to write the letter. I sure as fuck am going to have the time.

Pulling open one of the ornate doors, I usher Reina into the brightly lit church and watch as she daringly dips her fingers into the Holy Water. Making the sign of the cross on her forehead, she turns to me and dips her fingers again before lifting her hand. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I move to stop her, but she doesn’t relent. I close my eyes expecting to disintegrate into a pile of ash as her cool fingers touch my forehead. Drawing the sign of the cross on my skin, she blesses me as only she can, and I open my eyes.

I stare at her quietly, barely breathing and then I do what I should’ve done the first time around. Taking both her hands in mine, I drop to one knee and watch as her eyes narrow in speculation.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“You wanted a church wedding,” I remind her. “I wouldn’t give it to you,” I add.

I wasn’t intentionally being a dick when I denied her the wedding of her dreams. My first marriage was never annulled and shaking down a priest seemed like a bad idea. At the time, I thought compromising by having a reverend marry us at the clubhouse would suffice. Now, I just want to make her dreams come true while I still can. Even if those dreams are long forgotten.

“You deserved better,” I tell her. “You deserved someone who’d make your dreams come true. I’m sorry I was never that guy, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to try once more. Right here. Right now. Let me be the guy who makes your dreams come true.”

“Jack—”

“Marry me, Reina. In front of God, in his house, marry me.”

“Jack, there’s no priest,” she whispers, touching a hand to my face. By the way she looks at me, I can tell she thinks I’m having another episode, that I’m battling the mania inside my head and that frustrates the shit out of me because I’m straight. I’m fucking clear. There are no voices in my head. There is only the need to do the right thing.

“We don’t need a priest,” I argue. “It’s not about having a man of the cloth bless our union.”

“Then what is it about?” she asks, caressing my cheek. “I’m already yours.”

“It’s about him,” I say, dropping her hand and pointing to the crucifix hanging over the altar. “It's about him knowing you're mine. It’s having him present when I tell you all the things, I won’t be able to tell you after tomorrow. It’s having the assurance that he’ll remind you how much I love you when you start to doubt it,” I say hoarsely.

Her eyes fill with tears as she stares at me and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through her head.

“Ask me again,” she demands softly.

“Marry me, Reina,” I whisper.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Always, yes.”

This woman.

This beautiful woman.

Having her marry me once was sheer luck.

Having her marry me again, before I go to prison, well, that’s simply a miracle.

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