Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Angel
The therapist’s office feels smaller without Stevie. Not physically, just quieter. Like there’s no buffer between me and the shit I’ve been avoidin’. No place to hide behind being the strong one. The fixer. The man who keeps it together when everything else is comin’ apart.
The couch creaks when I sit down; I don’t lean back. Don’t relax into it. Feels wrong to get comfortable in a place built for unraveling.
Dr. Carina sits across from me with a notepad she barely touches. She’s got that same steady gaze she had during our joint sessions. Calm. Patient. Annoyingly perceptive.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the air with noise. That’s a skill, I think. Knowin’ when to shut up.
“So,” she says finally. “How are you holding up?”
I almost lie; that’s my first instinct: to say I’m fine, we’re workin’ through it, and the space is helpin’. I’ve said worse things to protect myself. But the truth’s heavier than that. It’s sittin’ right on my chest like a weight I can’t bench press away.
“I feel like I wasn’t enough,” I say, staring at the carpet instead of her. “Like I failed her.”
There it is. Raw.
She nods. “Tell me what ‘enough’ looks like to you.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose. “Protectin’ her. Givin’ her everything she wants. Fixing things before they hurt her.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“It’s my job.”
“Is it?”
I finally look at her.
“In my world? Yeah.”
She studies me carefully. “Is Stevie part of your world or her own person inside it?”
The question lands strange.
“She’s my wife,” I say automatically.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I shift in the seat. “She’s her own person.”
“And does protecting her mean preventing her from feeling pain?”
“No,” I say, then hesitate. “But I wanted to.”
She nods slowly. “And when you couldn’t?”
My jaw tightens. “I shut down. Or I said the wrong thing. Or I tried to make it smaller so it wouldn’t break us.”
She leans forward slightly. “Did it work?”
“No.” The word’s quieter this time. “It just made her feel alone.”
The truth sits between us, ugly and honest. I drag a hand over my face.
“I kept thinkin’ if I just stayed steady enough, she’d feel safe. Like if I didn’t crack, she wouldn’t either.”
“And how did that feel?” she asks.
“Like I was watchin’ her drown from the shore,” I admit. “And tellin’ myself I was helpin’ by not jumpin’ in.”
There’s silence. It’s not heavy or accusing. Just space for the words to settle.
“Sometimes strength looks like stepping into the water,” Carina says gently.
I stare at my hands. My knuckles scarred. Nails bitten short. Skin rough from years of holding onto handlebars and weapons, and whatever else needed grip. I don’t know how to step into water without tryin’ to fight it.
“I didn’t let myself grieve,” I say after a minute.
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t my body.” The words come fast now.
“The losses happened to her. She was the one in pain. She was the one bleeding. I didn’t feel like I had a right to it.”
Carina tilts her head. “And yet you were attached.”
Yeah. That’s the part I’ve been avoidin’.
“I pictured it,” I admit. My voice is rougher now. “The kid. On the back of my bike during parades. Tiny hands grabbing onto my vest. I already knew how I’d teach ’em to ride. What I’d say the first time they fell.”
I swallow hard. “I even had names in my head. Never told her. Didn’t want to jinx it.”
“And losing that future hurt,” she says.
“It still does.” The room feels smaller again.
“I don’t know how to grieve somethin’ that never existed,” I mutter. “Feels stupid.”
“It’s not,” she says firmly. “Grief doesn’t require proof. Just attachment.”
That hits harder than I expected. Because I was attached, deeply and quietly. In ways I never let myself acknowledge.
“I thought if I stayed strong,” I continue, “if I didn’t break, she’d feel safe.”
“And did you feel safe?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I felt… useless.”
There it is. The word I’ve been avoiding. Useless.
“I couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t take it from her. And every time she looked at me, I saw the question in her eyes.”
“What question?”
“Is this enough?”
The silence that follows is different. Sharper.
“You’re afraid she’ll choose the dream over you,” Carina says quietly.
I don’t answer. Because she’s right. And saying it out loud feels like betrayal.
“I’m scared,” I finally admit. “If this never happens, if we never have kids, she’ll wake up one day and realize love isn’t enough to fill that space.”
“And what does that say about you?” she asks.
“That I stood between her and the life she wanted.” She doesn’t rush to contradict me.
“That’s a powerful fear,” she says. “But it assumes her love for you is conditional.”
“It’s not,” I say immediately.
“Then why do you believe she would leave if the dream changed?”
I don’t have an answer for that, maybe because I don’t know how to see myself outside of what I provide. I’ve built my whole identity around being the man who delivers.
“You are not responsible for becoming someone else’s entire future,” she says gently. “You are responsible for growing alongside them.”
Growing. That word again. Seems like everyone’s talkin’ about it lately. The session ends without fireworks. No breakthrough moment or clean answers. Just a quiet understanding that I’ve been carrying more than I admitted.
After the session, I sit in my truck for a long time. Engine off. Hands on the wheel. The steering wheel’s worn smooth from years of grip. Feels solid. Reliable. Unlike everything else right now.
I don’t reach for my phone right away. Instead, I let the fear surface fully.
I’m scared she’ll realize she deserves more, and I’ll never be able to give her that, that if we try again and it fails again, I won’t know how to hold her without breaking myself.
And beneath all that, I’m scared I don’t know who I am if I’m not protecting someone.
I go to the gym instead of the bar. That’s new. The heavy bag swings when I hit it. Each punch lands with a dull thud. I’m scared. Thud. I miss you. Thud. I don’t know how to be enough without breakin’ myself. Thud.
Sweat runs down my spine. My knuckles burn. I don’t stop until my shoulders shake. When I finally sink to the floor, back against the wall, chest heaving, I don’t feel lighter but clearer. The pain’s still there. But it’s mine now. Not something I’m trying to outrun.
I pull my phone out.
Had my session today.
It was hard. But I’m learning some things.
No pressure to reply.
I stare at it for a second before hitting send. An hour later, her reply comes.
I’m glad you went.
That’s it, but it’s enough to get me through the night.
Back at the clubhouse, the brothers don’t crowd me.
They know. Joker nods once in passing. Tank tosses me a bottle of water instead of a beer.
Wire pretends to argue about security routes just to keep me talking.
Carrie sends over a plate of food without comment.
This is what family looks like when you don’t have words.
Later, I lie down on the narrow bed in the spare room. Hands folded over my chest. Staring into the dark. The silence between two and four a.m. is brutal. That’s when doubt creeps in.
What if she realizes she feels lighter without me, decides she wants a version of life that doesn’t involve compromise, or if love just… isn’t enough?
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Instead of spiraling, I ask myself something different.
Am I willing to keep growing, even if the future I pictured never comes true?
The question settles heavily in my gut, as it means accepting uncertainty, loving her without guarantees, and being a husband without the identity of father attached to it. It means redefining strength.
I let the fear rise. Then I answer it.
Yeah, I am, for her and us.
Because I don’t love her for the babies we might have.
I love her for the way she laughs when she forgets to guard herself. She organizes chaos like it’s a superpower, presses her hand to her chest when she’s thinking too hard, and fights for things that matter. If the dream changes, that doesn’t erase her or us.
I lie back down. The ache’s still there.
The fear hasn’t vanished. But I’m not fighting it anymore.
And for the first time since she asked for space, I don’t ask whether I’m enough.
I ask whether I’m willing to grow, to stay, and to love her through whatever future we build, even if it looks nothing like the one, I imagined.
The answer’s steady in my chest. Yes! I close my eyes and let sleep take me.