Page 128 of The Fire We Crave

The temptation is to say no, but, honestly, I don’t feel like being scared today, so I push through. “Sure thing. Tuesday works great.”

I hear the sigh of relief down the line. “Great. I’ll send you details of where I’m staying, and we can make plans.”

“Sounds good, Johnny. See you next week.”

“Yeah. And Smoke…”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

When the phoneline goes dead, I lower the phone from my ear and simply stare at the phone log.

Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Everyone’s ready to move out when you are,” Butcher says as he steps out of the clubhouse. He was gone for a while. He’d call occasionally, but never once told us where he was. Didn’t even tell us he was coming home. He just reappeared one day and made it crystal clear we were never to mention Dr. Greer Hanson again. He paid her himself.

Curious, I searched for Dr. Greer Hanson at the hospital, but there was no mention of her, which was wild because I found a lot of medical journal articles that quoted her or talked about her and, by all accounts, she is an exemplary surgeon.

Or was.

“She’ll be at the bakery in about an hour, so we have a little time.” I hop off my bike and follow him inside.

“Coffee?” Butcher asks.

I shake my head. “Can’t drink the stuff we have here after drinking the good stuff we have at home.”

Butcher grins. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“The day for what?”

“You. Settling down. Talking about the coffee the two of you have at home.”

I shake my head. “You got it wrong, Butch. I’m settling up. Building a life I didn’t think I could have. Quinn put it all in reach for me. I’m not gonna fuck it up.”

“Settling up. I like that.”

I tip my chin in his direction. “When are you gonna bite the bullet and try it?”

He huffs a laugh. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Like my life the way it is.”

We chat for a while longer, then I catch up with Catfish and Wraith before Butcher returns to the bar and offers me the parcel I’ve been waiting for.

“Good luck,” he says, slapping my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The instruction is met with whoops and cheers from my brothers. They’re all in on my plan. All here to help me. And for a moment, it’s overwhelming in a life-affirming way.

My therapist has helped me sort through some of my baggage. That journey won’t be complete for some time. But realizing that my experience with my mom’s depression has left me with a PTSD-type response to fluctuations in my own mental health has been life-changing. Getting some separation, some clarity on my own experiences is making me realize I’m not alone.

I place the package Butcher gave me in my pannier, and then we ride into town before pulling up outside the bakery.

Knowing she’ll be unable to resist peeking out onto the street to see who is here, I wave before I climb off my bike.

She grins and waves back, then hurries to me. I climb off my bike and meet her at the door.

“Why are you all here?” she asks. She turns to face Ember and Kinsey, who have followed her to the door, in spite of the customers inside. “Did you know?”

“Smoke just asked that I get you here,” Kinsey admits.

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