Chapter Thirty-One
Theo
Thinking about her is like lying in a coffin full of broken glass and willingly being buried alive. But it’s also like climbing free of that coffin and feeling the sun on my face after months of darkness. Memories of her are weapons and warm blankets.
Unable to look at June, I stare down at her hand on my arm as I say, “Her name was Shiloh. Scottie had her when we were twenty. She was adorable. Not the smartest kid in the world,” I grin thinking about her trying repeatedly to draw with a marker that still had the cap on, “but so happy all the time. She loved being around the Saints and would always shriek and clap when someone rode up on a bike.” I pause, heat singeing my eyes and a rock lodging in my throat.
Shiloh’s perfectly round face fills my mind, dark red hair bouncing in pigtails and giant brown eyes always shining, excited to explore the world.
I swallow, but the next words are still choked and heavy with unshed tears.
“When Shiloh was three, I took her to the playground. She was spinning on one of those little merry-go-rounds. I could hear her laughing. I was sitting on the bench, watching her, when this woman came over to talk to me. I looked at her baby in a stroller for maybe thirty seconds. When I looked up, Shiloh was gone.”
June gasps and tightens her hold on my arm. I chance a glance at her and see tears silently streaming down her face. The sight breaks the dam holding my own back, and I feel fat drops fall from both eyes.
“I looked everywhere. Called the cops. Called Scottie and James and Rocket. I was screaming my head off, and all the other parents and nannies were helping me look. But she wasn’t anywhere. She’d disappeared.”
A hiccup interrupts my words, and I drag my hand down my face, sniffing.
“The cops arrested me, convinced I did something. They saw the tattoos and the bike and jumped to conclusions. They held me for forty-eight hours before they let me go because they didn’t have anything.
But the whole time they were interrogating me, someone was out there with my baby.
” A sob escapes my throat, and the tears and snot are falling in earnest now.
“They found her body a week later. Scottie lasted a year before she couldn’t survive the grief anymore. ”
June throws her arms around my neck, tugging me into a hard, long hug.
I shake as I cry, ears full of the sound of Shiloh’s laughing mixed with how I imagine she screamed and cried before she died.
June doesn’t offer any platitudes or ask any questions, just gives me time.
She rubs my back and runs her fingers through my hair.
By the time the tears slow and I’m able to breathe normally, I pull back, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hands.
“Second Tuesday?” she asks.
I nod. “Rocket took me to the playground to ask me to take over the Saints. I think he wanted to create a happy memory there for me. And he said it was a reminder of my strength and resiliency. He said, ‘Any man who can lose a daughter and still have space for someone else’s grief is a man worthy of leading. I know, because I’m not that man.
’ Rocket tried. He tried hard. But he lost a daughter and a granddaughter.
He couldn’t handle talking to James, much less leading the Saints.
In his grief, he forgot that James lost a sister and niece, that the rest of the Saints lost two girls they loved.
He even often forgot that I lost my girlfriend and daughter.
When he came to his senses, he knew he couldn’t stay. ”
“I’m so sorry, Theo,” June whispers. “I can’t…
There are no words.” Her hands reach up to my face, cup my jaw.
A thumb swipes under my eyes, catching gathered tears.
“Rocket was right. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more worthy.
You are endlessly strong, and I’m sorry you’ve had reason to prove that strength. ”
I circle her small wrist with my fingers and lean into the palm of her hand. Then I pull her hands off and stand.
“Where are you going?”
“Wait there.” My legs are weak as I walk to my closet, retrieve the photo album, and return to the living room. I perch on the edge of the couch and lay the album on the table. June inches forward, her thigh pressed against mine.
“You don’t have to,” she says, laying her hand on mine to stop me from opening the album.
“I want to. Shiloh deserves to be seen.” With a steady hand, I open the photo album to the first page, the day Shiloh was born.
A decade younger version of me is sitting next to an exhausted Scottie lying in a hospital bed.
Her hair is in a messy bun that has several loose strands, and in her arms is a little bundle, the baby’s face barely noticeable.
I’m smiling wider than I have in years, my eyes locked on the baby in Scottie’s arms.
The second picture on the page is of only Shiloh, sleeping wrapped like a burrito.
The next few pages are variations of the same: infant Shiloh in her crib, infant Shiloh in my arms, infant Shiloh lying on James’s legs.
Then she’s on her stomach in one of her playpens, staring at the camera with eyes a lighter brown than they’d become.
There’s a picture of her reaching up to play with a spiked choker around Scottie’s throat, one sitting naked in the bath floaty, one holding her little feet up by her head.
By the twelfth page, Shiloh is sitting up, wearing diapers, smiling.
There’s even a tuft of fuzzy strawberry blonde hair.
There are countless pictures of her with bikers or being held on the seat of a bike, usually by me, James, or Rocket.
Photos show her in dresses, in little biker baby outfits, and naked.
“She has your eyes,” June says, not even realizing she used the present tense.
“She had my temper, too. Thankfully, she had Scottie’s hair and infectious joy.” I flip the page and prove my point. We’re halfway through the photo album, and every single picture shows Shiloh with a full head of red hair and a constant smile.
“This is one of my favorites,” I say, touching the corner of a large picture.
Shiloh is wearing a helmet that’s far too big, and she’s sitting on my shoulders, her little hands holding my hair like handles.
I flip to the next page and laugh. “And this one. She walked around all day saying, ‘I Daddy.’” Shiloh is standing with her arms held out to her side, skin covered in little temporary tattoos.
There are ponies, princesses, dinosaurs, dogs, and even a few skulls.
I remember the day better than I remember this morning.
“Shiloh showed the tattoos to anyone who looked in her direction. Every member of the club got a full, though mostly unintelligible, explanation of each individual tattoo. She’d point at someone’s tattoo, like the scorpion on my forearm or the snarling wolf on James’s shoulder, then at the most similar one on her body and clap, like the matching art was the most wonderful thing. ”
“She’s adorable,” June says, leaning closer to study the picture. Hesitantly, she reaches for the bottom corner of the page and looks at me with a question in her eyes.
“Go ahead.”
June turns the page to see a picture of Shiloh covered head to toe in mud.
She takes over flipping through the album, laughing and sniffling.
She asks occasional questions and lingers on some photos, most of which are also my favorite or include me or Scottie as well as Shiloh.
There are seven pages in a row of photos from Shiloh’s third birthday party, which was themed after her favorite movie.
“ Tinkerbell ,” June whispers. She looks at me with glistening eyes.
I nod. “Her favorite movie.”
“And yours.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. Or… fuck, called you Tink. You must have—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, cupping the back of her neck so she looks at me. “You didn’t know. And, yes, I hate the stupid nickname, but not because of Shiloh. If anything, the reminder of her is nice.”
“Theo…”
“Don’t grow a conscience on me now. I can handle talking about Shiloh and Scottie. I can’t handle you looking at me like I’m broken because of it.”
“I’ve always looked at you like you’re broken.”
I smile. “Sure, but a sexy broken. Not a pitiful broken.”
Her forehead wrinkles as she raises her brows. “A sexy broken, really?”
“Little reaper, I got rock hard watching you slit a man’s throat, and you got off when I fucked you next to his body. What else would you call it?”
“Fair.” Rosiness colors her cheeks at the memory.
She turns back to the photo album and continues flipping through.
The birthday party photos show Shiloh with huge, tattooed bikers and little kids, half of whom were there with their straight-laced parents.
There are six more months of life documented in the photos.
The last picture, of Scottie holding Shiloh over her head, was taken four days before I took Shiloh to the playground and lost everything that mattered to me.
June sits in silence, staring at the picture of the two girls whom I loved more than anything or anyone.
Sitting next to my little reaper, a different man in a different world, makes this picture look like a snapshot of a dream.
It’s surreal and intangible, yet just as real as the feeling of June’s hand sliding into mine, lacing our fingers together.
“Thank you,” she whispers after a long stretch of silence.
“For what?”
“For sharing her with me. I don’t take that lightly.”
I smile at her, and something slots in place in my chest. Maybe it’s because I finally told her about Lorry or maybe it’s remembering Shiloh, but it’s like my lungs have been punctured until now and they’re finally inflating for a real, full breath.
I know the truth lodged in my ribs, curled right next to my heart.
I love June Graves, and that might kill me.