Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vanna
The letter sits on my desk for three days before I find the courage to start it.
Dear Dad.
I stare at those two words until they blur.
Dad.
I haven't called him that in twelve years.
Haven't thought of him as anything other than Rick Smith, inmate number 47291, the man who destroyed our family.
But Garrett went to see him.
Garrett, who has every reason to hate my father, drove two hours to Mount Olive and sat across from him and asked if recovery was real.
And my father—the man I blamed for everything—cried when he heard I was pregnant.
She's breaking the cycle, he said.
I pick up the pen again.
Dear Dad,
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to write to you after twelve years of silence. I don't know how to be your daughter again, or if I even want to be.
But I'm trying to get better. I'm in rehab—a good one, in Pennsylvania. I've been here almost six weeks now. I'm clean. I'm pregnant. And I'm terrified.
Garrett came to see me last week. He told me about his visit with you. He said you've been clean for years now. He said you want to reconnect.
I don't know if I can forgive you. I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at you without seeing Mom's body, without remembering all the ways you failed us. But I'm writing this letter because my counselor says holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
So I'm trying to let go. One word at a time.
I'll write again when I figure out what else to say.
Vanna
I fold the letter before I can change my mind and seal it in an envelope.
The facility will mail it for me.
By this time next week, my father will be holding these words in his hands, reading them in his cell, knowing that his daughter is finally reaching out.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
But I walk to the front desk anyway and hand the envelope to the woman behind the counter.
She smiles at me like she knows what this costs, and maybe she does.
Half the people in here are trying to repair relationships they destroyed.
Half of us are writing letters we never thought we'd write.
"It gets easier," she says.
I'm not sure I believe her.
Saturday comes with gray skies and the promise of snow.
Garrett arrives at ten sharp, apparently willing to stay the whole time.
I'm waiting in the lobby when he walks through the door, and the sight of him—leather cut over a flannel shirt, beard a little longer than last week, eyes scanning the room until they find me—makes something loosen in my chest.
"Hey, darlin'." He pulls me into his arms, and I breathe him in.
Leather and oil and something warm underneath that's just him.
"Hey yourself."
We find our usual spot by the window, and I curl into his side like I always do.
His hand finds my stomach automatically now, palm flat against the small curve that's just starting to show.
"How's our little one?" he asks.
"I think they're doing good in there. The nausea still gets me sometimes though."
Garrett grins, and God, I've missed that grin.
The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look ten years younger. "Already causing trouble. Definitely takes after his mama."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling too.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching the snow start to fall outside the window.
Then Garrett shifts, reaching into the inside pocket of his cut. "Got something for you. From the club."
He pulls out a card—one of those oversized ones you get at the drugstore, with a cartoon stork on the front carrying a bundle.
Inside, it's covered in signatures.
Ruger's bold scrawl at the top:
Can't wait to meet the newest member of the family.
Tildie's loopy handwriting beneath it:
We're all rooting for you, honey. Stay strong.
Maddox's surprisingly neat print:
You got this.
Coin wrote something about how fatherhood changes everything, and even Ounce left a message:
Recovery isn't a straight line. But you're walking it anyway. Proud of you.
My eyes blur with tears as I go through the rest of the messages, from each and every member in the club.
"They all signed it," I whisper.
"Every single one. Even the prospects." He points to a cluster of signatures at the bottom. "Rookie's handwriting is shit, but he means well."
I trace my fingers over the names.
These people—this club—they're Garrett's family.
They've been his family for years, through all the times I disappeared and broke his heart and came crawling back.
They watched him suffer because of me, and they're still welcoming me back.
"I don't deserve this."
"Hey." Garrett tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "None of that. You're my wife. You're carrying my kid. That makes you family. And family takes care of each other."
"Even when family fucks up?"
"Fucking up is part of being family, don’t you think?"
I think about the club.
About what it means to belong to something bigger than yourself.
For years, the only thing I belonged to was my addiction—that desperate, hungry need that consumed everything else.
But now, sitting here with Garrett's arm around me and a card full of signatures in my hands, I can almost imagine what it would feel like to belong somewhere good.
"Tell me about them," I say. "What's been happening at the club?"
Garrett settles back, pulling me closer. "Ruger's been riding everyone hard about the new security system. Got cameras going up all around the compound, motion sensors on the gates. Tildie keeps complaining that she can't sneak out for midnight snacks without setting off an alarm."
I laugh. "That sounds like her from what I’ve heard."
"Coin's girls are driving him crazy. The older one—Wrenleigh—she's turning sixteen in a few weeks, and apparently, she wants a car. Coin about had a heart attack when she brought it up."
"A sixteen-year-old with a car. That's terrifying."
"That's what Ruger said. Then Ellie pointed out that Ruger was stealing cars at sixteen, and he shut up real quick."
The image makes me smile.
Ruger, the club president, getting put in his place by his aunt. That's how it should be.
"What about Maddox?"
"Same as always. Quiet. He helped me clean out the storage room last week—found a box of your old stuff I didn't even know was there.
Pictures, mostly. From before." Garrett's voice softens.
"He didn't say anything. Just handed me the box and patted my shoulder.
That man's got a heart of gold under all that muscle. "
"And Ounce?"
Something flickers across Garrett's face. "Ounce is... Ounce. He's been keeping to himself more lately. I think he's got some stuff going on, but he's not talking about it."
I remember what Garrett told me about Ounce.
Former dealer. Knows the streets, knows the darkness that lives there.
He's the one who said recovery isn't a straight line.
"He understands," I say quietly. "What I'm going through. Doesn't he?"
Garrett nods slowly. "He's been where you are. Different substance, same demon. He got out. Built a new life." He pauses. "He asked about you, actually. Wanted to know how you were doing."
"Tell him I'm doing okay. Tell him I'm taking it one day at a time."
"I will."
We talk for another hour.
He tells me about the garage, about the bikes he's been working on, about the way the clubhouse smells like pine now because Aunt Ellie insisted on putting up Christmas decorations.
He tells me about church—the weekly meetings where club business gets discussed—and how Ruger's been talking about expanding their legitimate operations, maybe opening a second location for the garage.
"We had a vote last week," Garrett says. "Unanimous. Everyone wants to see the club grow the right way. Porter's been crunching numbers, looking at properties. There's an old building on the edge of town that might work—needs some fixing up, but the price is right."
"Porter's good with money?"
"Best we've got. Man used to be an accountant before he patched in. Now he handles all the club's finances, keeps us legit with the IRS." Garrett shakes his head. "Never thought I'd be part of an MC that files taxes, but here we are."
The idea of outlaws filing taxes makes me laugh. "Times are changing."
"They are. Ruger's been pushing hard for it.
He says the old ways don't work anymore—too much heat from the feds, too much risk.
He wants the club to be something his future kids can be proud of someday.
Something that lasts, but you and I know there will always be things that happen under the surface. "
"Yeah, but he’s trying to have most of the club money be clean," I say. "As clean as you can, anyway."
"Exactly."
"So, you said future kids?"
"Tildie's not pregnant yet, but it's not for lack of trying." He grins. "Ruger's already talking about names. Thinks he's gonna have a whole baseball team."
The image of tough, scarred Ruger picking out baby names makes something warm bloom in my chest.
These men—these rough, dangerous men who would kill for each other without hesitation—they're building families. Building futures.
And I'm going to be part of that.
"I wrote to my father," I say suddenly.
Garrett goes still beside me. "Yeah?"
"Mailed it a couple of days ago. I don't know what I said, really. Just... that I'm trying. That I don't know if I can forgive him. That I'm willing to try."
"That's good, Van. That's really good."
"It doesn't feel good. It feels terrifying."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "Brave things usually do."
The letter from my father arrives six days later.
I stare at the envelope in my hands for a long time before I open it.
My name is written on the front in careful block letters—the handwriting of a man who's had twelve years to practice patience.
Dear Vanna,
I read your letter seven times. I'm reading it again right now, even as I write this.
You don't know how to be my daughter again. That's okay. I don't know how to be your father. I forgot how a long time ago, if I ever knew in the first place.
But I want to learn.