Chapter 24 Rook
One Year Later:
The yard looks like a pack of unicorns exploded. Rainbow streamers whip from the porch railings. Balloons, every color Beau could name and a few he invented, float against the pines. A giant cardboard T-Rex grins by the picnic table while a smaller one guards the cake.
It’s my boy’s sixth birthday, and our quiet little cabin has become Jurassic Park on a sugar high.
I stand back for a second, taking it all in: the laughter, the smell of wood smoke and frosting, the thrum of bikes parked along the drive like chrome sentinels.
Brothers from every chapter lean against trees, cups in hand, pretending they’re too tough to wear the rainbow party hats Beau insisted on.
Calla moves through it all like sunlight, a streak of green frosting on her cheek, her hair pulled back but still wild. My wife. My Calla Lily.
Grimm is crouched near the firepit, helping Beau and a gaggle of club kids line up toy dinosaurs for a “battle royale.” Beau’s wearing his brand-new leather vest with LITTLE BASTARD stitched across the back in bright thread, the letters curving over a rainbow T-Rex patch he designed himself.
One year ago, this place was a war zone of memories. Tonight, it’s the center of the universe. I wipe my hands on a rag, the weight of it all settling deep in my chest—reckless, sure, but solid. Still reckless. Still hers. And I wouldn’t trade a damn thing.
Grimm strikes a match and lights the last candle, a rainbow spiral that flickers against the early evening sky. “Six years old, little man,” he says, ruffling Beau’s hair. “Make it count.”
Beau stands on a chair between me and Calla, eyes huge as everyone—brothers, neighbors, even the gruff Montreal crew—gathers around the picnic table. Ash clears his throat, and the entire yard belts out Happy Birthday so loud the trees shake.
Beau’s grin could split the night in half.
“Blow ’em out, buddy,” I whisper.
He takes a deep breath, cheeks puffed, and sends every candle’s flame dancing out in one go. Cheers erupt, horns honk from the bikes, and Grimm scoops him into a bear hug while the rest of the crew whistles and claps.
Calla slices the cake—three layers of neon frosting and tiny candy dinosaurs—handing out pieces while Beau carefully guards the first slice for Grimm. “Best buddy rules,” he says with solemn authority.
I lean back against the porch rail, plate in hand, watching my family—our family—spill across the yard. Kids chase each other between the bikes, brothers trade stories under the lantern light, and my wife moves through it all like she was born to hold the center.
When Beau finally collapses against me, frosting on his nose and rainbow sprinkles in his hair, I lift him easily and rest my chin on the top of his head. Calla steps beside us, her arm sliding around my waist.
One year ago, we fought like hell to keep him safe. Tonight, he’s surrounded by people who’d ride through fire for him.
I press a kiss to Calla’s temple. “Still reckless,” I murmur.
She tilts her face up, eyes shining. “Still mine.”
I glance at the boy sleeping against my chest, the brothers who’ve become our wall, and the woman who turned every fight into a future.
“Still hers,” I whisper back.
The night hums with engines and laughter, a life we built from blood and second chances, and for the first time I can remember, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.
Out in the yard, the brothers start gathering plates and folding chairs, while laughter drifts through the trees.
Someone cranks a hose to wash frosting off the picnic tables.
Grimm is already hauling trash bags to the back of a truck, singing something off-key that makes Ash shake his head.
Inside, the cabin is soft and still. Calla and I carry Beau down the hall together. He’s half asleep, arms looped around my neck, rainbow sprinkles still stuck in his hair. His little leather vest slides off easily; the stuffed fox never leaves his grip.
We ease him onto the bed and tuck the quilt around his shoulders. Calla brushes a thumb across his forehead and whispers, “Happy birthday, baby.”
He mumbles something about dinosaurs and drifts deeper.
I lean down and press a kiss to his temple. “Love you, buddy.”
Calla and I stay there a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest while the low rumble of bikes and quiet voices filter in from outside.
The low growl of engines fades one by one until the night settles back into crickets and pine.
From the window, I watch the last taillight disappear down the dirt road.
Calla leans against the doorframe, hair a loose tumble, eyes soft and steady. “All quiet,” she whispers.
I lock the deadbolt, turn off the porch light, and reach for her hand. “Finally, just us.”
The house is warm with the scent of cake and wood smoke as we move down the hall.
We peel off the day's clothes, damp from the night air, until the steam of the shower wraps us in quiet. Water slides over skin, the chaos of the party rinsing away until there’s nothing left but her heartbeat against mine.
Later, we slip beneath the quilt, the world outside fading to dark and silence. I pull her close, our breaths falling into the same rhythm, the weight of everything we’ve survived and everything we’ve built settling around us like a promise.
Ghosts don’t knock when they return—they stay, breathing beside you in the dark, until you realize they were never ghosts at all.
The Mother-Fucking End