Page 87 of Parrish

The idea of me on the back of a bike almost seems comical and yet the more I look at Jack, the more I start to believe he’s right. Maybe I wasn’t living much before him. Maybe he breathed life into me.

“What else do I love?” I question hoarsely.

“Shoes, you fucking love shoes.”

I smile.

“I remember that much.”

“Figures,” he mumbles, dragging one hand back to his face. I watch as he scratches the scruff lining his jaw in deep thought. “You love to cook dinner on Sundays.”

“Just Sundays?”

He shakes his head.

“You cook most nights and are pretty damn good at it too but on Sundays, you go all out and invite everyone and their mother to sit at our table.”

I feel my lips curve and as a result, so do his.

“Who comes over?”

“Mostly the club,” he replies. “Sometimes Grace and…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he grunts and swipes a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “You have no fucking idea who I’m talking about.”

“Actually, Grace has been here twice since you left and I’m going to assume all the men dressed in leather parading in and out of my room are part of this club you speak of.”

“This club I speak of,” he repeats, shaking his head. “They’re family. Every single one of them, they’re all part of our family,” he clarifies.

Again, there is a bite to his tone and I can’t help but feel as if I’ve struck a chord.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I defend.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, he lifts his hands and rubs at his temples.

“I know,” he mutters. Peeling his hands away from his face, he levels me with a look. “I’m sorry.”

Not willing to lose the momentum we have going on, I shrug my shoulders and offer him a smile.

“It’s frustrating,” I tell him. “Maybe we should go back to what I love.”

“Good idea,” he agrees.

“Go ahead, tell me what else I love,” I encourage. He leans forward and braces both hands on his knees as I pull the thin blanket over my lap and settle in.

“Our boy,” he replies hoarsely. “You love him more than anything in this world.”

It’s my turn to look away and when I do, I stare at the picture of Danny and I pinned to the bulletin board.

“He’s beautiful,” I whisper. “And he looks so happy.”

“He is because of you,” he says. “You’re an incredible mother.”

A tear trickles down my cheek as I continue to study the picture.

“Is he okay? I mean he must—”

---