Chapter 22 Melissa
Melissa
Six months later, the clubhouse was a hotbox of bodies and beer, every picnic table full of patched brothers, old prospects, and the kind of women who never let a little thing like a baby bump ruin their appetite for chaos.
Augustine and I didn’t usually show up until most of the early birds had gone to lunch, but today he’d insisted—said there was something in the wind, and he wanted me to see it for myself.
I walked in behind Augustine, who, even after the better part of a year together, still had a knack for making a room slow down when he entered.
The patched members eyed us, some with the wary affection of men who’d fought a war together, others with the blank indifference of guys still deciding whether or not I was truly one of them.
Seneca Wallace was perched on the edge of the bar, boots on the rail, flicking a bottle cap at a prospect with enough force to leave a welt. He grinned at me, then at Augustine, like we were the punchline to a private joke.
“Domestic bliss looks good on you,” he called out, raising his bottle. “You even got her housebroken yet?”
“Only pissed on the rug twice this week,” Augustine replied. “I consider it progress.”
The room howled, a mess of cackles and glass-on-wood, but I didn’t mind. After everything that happened at Stone Lake, these idiots had started treating me like one of their own. There were worse families to be stuck with.
I made my way to the back corner, where the shade was deepest and the smell of burnt coffee was almost tolerable. The baby was kicking hard today, like it had somewhere urgent to be, and I rubbed at my ribs, trying to convince it to give my bladder a break.
Augustine set a steaming mug in front of me, then sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched. “You want anything else?” he asked, voice low so only I could hear.
I shook my head. “I’m good. Just want to watch the circus.”
He nodded, and for a few minutes we did—just watched as the club did what it always did: argued, schemed, got loud, made bad bets. It was peaceful, in a weird way.
That’s when it happened.
The side door swung open and a runner—kid I didn’t know, probably a prospect from the new crew up north—stepped in carrying a plain brown package, heavy enough he had to grip it with both arms. The air in the room changed, got tight and hot.
Everybody watched as the runner threaded his way to Augustine, set the package down on the table, and stepped back fast, hands up.
Augustine stared at the package, then at me. “You expecting a delivery?”
“Only thing I ordered was prenatal vitamins,” I said. “And those come in a box with a happy baby on the side, not…that.”
Seneca wandered over, sniffed the air, then grinned. “Maybe it’s a bomb. Wouldn’t that spice up a Thursday?”
“Only if you’re opening it,” I said.
He winked, but stayed close enough to catch shrapnel. That was Seneca—couldn’t help himself.
Augustine turned the package in his hands, then ran a finger along the seam. No return address, no markings, nothing to say who’d sent it. But I already knew. I could feel it in my teeth, the way you know when a storm’s coming.
“It’s from him,” I said. “It has to be.”
Augustine’s eyes softened, just a touch, but he nodded. He pulled his pocket knife, cut the tape with the same precision he used to gut a deer, and peeled back the flaps. Inside was a smaller box, wrapped in tissue, and tucked on top of it: a single folded piece of paper.
He handed it to me.
I took it, fingers shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable. Blocky, all-caps, every letter angry. My father’s.
MELISSA—READ THIS FIRST.
I swallowed, then opened it. The first line was just as bad as I’d expected.
I’M NOT GOOD AT THIS.
That was it. That was the whole opening. I barked a laugh, which turned into a cough, then kept reading.
SAINT SAYS I’M A MONSTER. MAYBE HE’S RIGHT. BUT I DON’T WANT YOU TO THINK I NEVER GAVE A FUCK. I DID. I STILL DO.
He’d written the word “LOVE” and scratched it out, then started a new sentence below it.
IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A MOM, DON’T DO IT LIKE ME. DON’T FUCK IT UP. DON’T RUN. THE WORLD DOESN’T NEED ANOTHER GHOST.
Below that, in a different pen, was a note in smaller writing.
I HOPE THE KID GETS YOUR EYES. I HOPE IT NEVER MEETS ME.
No signature. No goodbye.
I folded the paper and set it on the table, then reached into the box. The tissue crinkled and caught on my nails, but when I pulled it out, I couldn’t breathe for a second.
It was a baby blanket. Hand-made, thick as armor, the yarn dyed midnight blue and stitched with white skulls and red roses.
In one corner, the old D’Agossa patch—my family’s crest, the one I’d never wanted to wear.
In the other, a single red scythe. No words, no names, just the history of two feuding tribes sewn together with a needle and thread.
The whole room was quiet now. Even the loudmouths and the old timers. Everyone watched as I held the blanket, my hands shaking, my eyes burning so bad I had to blink a dozen times to keep from letting it all spill out.
Augustine put his arm around my shoulders. “You okay?” he asked, but it was a stupid question.
I nodded anyway. “Yeah. I just…” The tears hit, hot and fast, and I wiped them away with the heel of my hand. “I think I finally believe he loved me. In his own fucked up way.”
Augustine didn’t say anything. He just pulled me closer, let me bury my face in his chest, the smell of oil and sweat and cigarette smoke grounding me in the here and now.
Seneca cleared his throat, then said, “That’s the ugliest goddamn blanket I’ve ever seen. You sure you want to keep it?”
I laughed, wet and messy, but real. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
The clubhouse let out a collective sigh, then the noise returned, brighter this time, as if everyone felt the temperature shift.
A few of the old ladies drifted over, fingers tracing the stitches, clucking and oohing like they’d just seen a miracle.
I let them touch it, let them pass it around, felt the weight of history turn into something lighter.
When the baby started to kick again, Augustine put his hand on my stomach and said, “You wanna go home?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I want to stay a while.”
He kissed my cheek, then stood to talk shop with Seneca, leaving me at the table, hands folded around the blanket, the letter tucked safe inside.
For the first time, I felt the old world and the new one blur at the edges. Maybe there was a way to keep both. Maybe the future didn’t have to be all or nothing.
I stayed in that moment, wrapped in warmth and noise, and let myself believe in it.
When it was time to leave, I folded the blanket and tucked it under my arm, the patch visible for everyone to see. The past wasn’t dead. It was just waiting for me to claim it.
Augustine led me out, hand on the small of my back, and the sun hit us square in the face, bright and sharp.
We walked home together, the future wide open, and the ghosts finally quiet.