Chapter 16
Sixteen
Jami
I start counting again.
Not the hours — those were a battle once — but the days. One tick mark for every sunrise I stay clean.
There’s a whiteboard on the dresser now, next to a vase of fake sunflowers Jenni left behind. I trace each line with a blue marker, neat and deliberate, the color of accountability.
Day nine.
Day ten.
Day eleven.
Each number feels heavier than the last, like they’re bricks I’m trying to stack into something that looks like a life. Every mark is a mix of shame and pride. I’m ashamed to be in this situation, but proud for each day I can survive without using.
Every morning I thank God, Doc Kelly, and Tommy in that order, though, if I’m honest, the order shifts when I see him.
He’s the reason I’m still breathing, still here. And because of that, the guilt clings to me like smoke.
I apologize for everything.
All the time.
At first, Tommy just nods, listening, his thumb drawing slow circles over my palm. Then, as the days stack up, he starts to shake his head, gently but firmly.
“You already said it,” he tells me this morning as I stand in the kitchen, twisting the dish towel in my hands. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“I do,” I insist, staring at the floor. “You need to know I’m sorry. For leaving. For lying. For everything.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a wildfire he doesn’t want to smother but also can’t walk away from. His voice drops low and steady. “I know you’re sorry, Jami. But guilt isn’t living. It’s just dying slower. It’s giving power to the past.”
That hits somewhere deep and sore. “I don’t know how to stop,” I whisper.
“Then let me help.”
He disappears for an hour. I hear the familiar rumble outside, the sound of his bike idling before cutting off.
When he comes back inside, he tosses me a helmet.
“Get dressed,” he says.
I blink at him. “For what?”
“A ride.”
My pulse trips. “Tommy—”
“No thinking,” he interrupts, eyes soft but firm. “No worrying. No guilt. Just feel, baby. You trust me?”
He knows what that question means to someone like me.
And I hate that I hesitate, even for a second, because I do trust him — more than I trust air some days — but fear is still a stubborn ghost.
He doesn’t rush me. He just stands there, waiting.
I nod finally. “Yeah. I trust you.”
The wind is medicine.
The second we pull onto the open road, everything I’ve been clutching inside starts to unravel — the shame, the nightmares, the what-ifs. My arms wrap tight around his waist, my cheek pressed to the patch of leather across his back. The hum of the engine fills every empty space inside me.
The world blurs into fields, trees, stop lights and other vehicles. I don’t have to think here. I just have to hold on.
He doesn’t speak until we stop. When I pick up my head to look around, I realize where we are.
Home.
Our home.
The little white house on the edge of the woods that separate this parcel of land from his brother Crunch and my sister Jenni.
The home with the porch swing that still leans to one side so we don’t ever actually sit in it because we’re afraid it will fall, the wind chimes that sound like laughter, and the familiar of life before.
I haven’t been here since the day I packed my things and left him standing in the doorway.
My throat tightens after we climb off the bike. “Tommy…”
He turns to me. “Come inside.”
“I—” My voice breaks. “I can’t.”
“Yeah,” he encourages softly. “You can.”
The door creaks like it remembers me. The scent hits next — cedar, soap, and faintly of him. He’s kept it clean, but it still feels lived in, like love has been in the air waiting for me to come back.
Tommy stands in the entryway, helmet dangling from his hand, eyes on me. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want to show you something. Be present here with me. No past, no future. Right here and right now, Tiny.”
He reaches out a hand. I take it. His palm is warm, rough, grounding.
He leads me room to room, not rushing, not narrating too much — just letting me be in the moment with him.
The kitchen first.
“This,” he starts, touching the counter, “is where you burned that first batch of pancakes trying to impress me. They were shit, babe. I grew up with a mom who cooked breakfast for her boys five days a week. Sometimes I didn’t always like the breakfast, but nothing was as bad as those pancakes.
But those pancakes, Jami, they’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.
I would eat them every day for the rest of my days if it meant I got to share a kitchen with you again. ”
I laugh through the tears that come anyway. “You ate them anyway. I couldn’t even eat them. Why would you torture yourself and your stomach?”
He grins. “Because I was already gone for you, Jami.”
He steps close, cups my face, and kisses me once — gentle, soft like the memory. “Reason one,” he murmurs against my lips. “You love so hard you try even when you don’t know how.”
He takes me by the hand, leading me to the living room.
He stops by the couch, runs a hand over the worn fabric. “This is where you made me watch those terrible reality shows, remember? The ones with the couples seeking extra wives. The ones that left me wondering if you wanted a sister wife to give yourself a break from me.”
“You secretly liked them,” I tease weakly.
“Liked watching you watch them,” he mutters, eyes softening.
“Reason two. You see the good in stupid things. Every couple, you explained why this would work for them. Makes the world easier to breathe in if only everyone could be as accepting as you.” He gives me a sly grin.
“And Tiny, my ego appreciates the possessive side of you that would say this wouldn’t work for us because you didn’t want to share me. ”
He kisses me again, slower this time, as if teaching me something, I just hadn’t figured it all out yet.
Then we head down the hallway.
Every step feels like peeling back a layer of the past. The photographs still hang — him, the club, me tucked under his arm. One of us laughing, caught mid-smile. He never took them down. That almost undoes me.
He brushes his fingers against a frame. “Reason three,” he continues. “You remind me that joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits for us to find it again.”
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my temple.
Navigating on, we go to the small office.
The old desk still sits in the corner, the bills stacked neatly, his handwriting sharp and precise. My old sketchbook rests on the shelf as if I never left.
“You kept that?” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Couldn’t throw away the thing that showed me how your mind sees color. Reason four,” he says, kissing the back of my hand. “You make ugly things beautiful.”
I’m crying now, openly, but it’s different this time — not broken, just cracked open enough for light to get through.
From here he takes me to our bedroom.
The doorway feels like standing on a ledge.
The last time I stood here, I was packing a bag, my hands shaking so bad I dropped my keys.
I remember Tommy’s face that day — confusion, hurt, fear.
I swore I wouldn’t think about it, but memory is a mean kind of bitch that sticks around, more loyal than a dog.
The past doesn’t leave even if we beg it too.
He senses it. “We can stop here.”
“No,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Show me.”
He nods and leads me inside.
The bed is made. Fresh sheets. My old blanket folded at the end. It looks smaller than I remember, or maybe I’m just bigger now — filled with everything I’ve endured.
He turns to me, voice low. “Reason five. You came back.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You came for me.”
“Same thing,” he says.
When he reaches up to touch my face, his thumb brushes a tear away. Then another. His eyes never leave mine.
“I love you,” he says. “The version that broke. The one who ran. The one standing right here. This one. The woman who’s trying. I love all versions of you in every season in this lifetime and the next.”
Something inside me finally gives.
I step forward and press my forehead against his chest. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Stop,” he murmurs. “We both crawled through fire, Jami. We’re here. That’s all that matters.”
He leans down and kisses me. Soft at first, then deeper, slower, like he’s teaching my body that touch doesn’t have to hurt.
When he starts to pull back, I catch his wrist.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I don’t want to push—”
“You’re not.” My hands tremble as I reach up, fingers brushing his jaw.
“I need this. Not to forget, I know that won’t happen.
I know the memories will invade for a long time to come.
I can’t erase them. But I need this to remember what love feels like.
Show me, Tommy. Please. Send away the ghosts. ”
He searches my face for a long moment, as if making sure the woman standing in front of him isn’t asking from fear, but from strength. Then he nods once and kisses me again slow, cherished, and deliberate.
There’s nothing rushed about it. No desperation. Just the quiet rhythm of two people finding the same heartbeat again.
Every kiss says something he doesn’t have to speak.
You are here.
You are mine.
You are safe.
You are loved unconditionally.
The world narrows to breath and warmth and the sound of his voice whispering my name like a prayer.
Then slowly everything fades. The motel, the bags of dope, the needle, the shame, the men.
All of it burns away in the glow of something too pure to be lust. This is me claiming myself again, this is me reclaiming our love. This is peace.
When we finally stop moving, he just holds me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other tracing slow lines down my back. I feel safe. I feel cherished.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I breathe. And for the first time, I really do.
I move up, brushing my lips against his gently.
Breathing in, I take his bottom lip between my own and suck.
His hands move to my sides as he takes over the kiss.
Our passion ignites and I want this connection with him again.
Pulling back, I look at his gaze, his eyes dancing with a need like never before.
Cupping his face in both my hands, I kiss him again, not holding back as our tongues dance together in this comfortable rhythm.
Moving to the bed, I’m over him with my chest pressed to his. I feel his erection hard under me as his hands cup the curve of my ass. I get lost in the sensation of him. I can’t get enough as my panties dampen, my body instinctively knowing this is safe.
His hands roam under my top, first along my back, then up my sides and then teasing under the swells of my breast. I pause momentarily at the contact. He tenses under me.
“Tiny, we can stop if you aren’t ready.” He whispers and I relax once again.
“Yes, Tommy. I need you.”
Leaning up, now straddling him, I remove my tank top, exposing my breasts to him. His large hands cover them as he gives me a slight squeeze causing me to have chills at the contact.
I drop my head down and kiss him again. Need is taking over and all thoughts of anyone and anything else are gone.
Rocking my hips, my core is lined up against his erection. I seek the friction. He feels so good, so safe.
Pulling away, I yank at his shirt, tugging it up and over his head.
I want to be skin to skin with him. Dropping down, I kiss his neck, nipping at his earlobe.
His hands roam my exposed skin, snaking down into my casual cargo pants.
When his hands cup my ass again, I grind into him letting him know I want this in my moans.
He kneads my ass encouraging the movement as I become unable to stop myself from wanting more. He shifts moving his hand down my front, his fingers teasing my delicate core gently.
I shimmy wanting more. Before my mind can grasp it, I’m shifted and he’s up off the bed taking off his pants and boxers and then he slides my bottoms off as well.
He is thick and long as I wrap my hand around him.
He kisses me harder as he climbs back into the bed over me.
I feel his pre-cum lubricating his tip and I want to feel him inside me desperately.
Exposed to him, he cups my pussy with the palm of his hand using his fingers to massage circles on the muscles on the sides of my opening causing my own juices to trickle out.
I can’t take it as I begin to rock into his hand, whimpering with my need. Lost in the sensations I stop stroking him as he pulls out of my grip and breaks our kiss. He drops his head to my shoulder, his breaths hot on my neck making me tremble. My entire body is an inferno of want.
Fingers slip between my pussy lips, rubbing my clit as I cry out for more.
He licks my erect nipple, blowing and sending overwhelming sensations through me.
He begins with one finger slowly sliding into me.
For a split second my mind tries to go backward, but I inhale his scent and instantly know I’m safe again.
He begins to work me with his finger. When I clinch down with my inner muscles as a silent cue not to stop, he adds another digit, stretching me, preparing my body.
He shifts, trailing kisses down my stomach and then between my legs, he kisses the insides of my thighs before his mouth devours my pussy.
He licks as he fingers me. My hips rock into him climbing to the edge of my orgasm.
When he sucks for a split second, it is exactly what I needed and I come harder than I have in my entire life.
His head comes up, he kisses his way back to my neck. I’m on fire for him as I reach between us, grabbing his cock lining him up to slide into me.
He wraps his arms around me with him still inside me, rolling to his back and shifting me to straddle him again. “You’re in control. This is for you, Tiny. Take what you need from me, Jami.”
Feeling empowered, I lean down kissing him, tasting my arousal on his tongue. I sit up allowing my body to take all of him in before I slowly begin to move on him. My eyes locked to his, we share an unspoken love that fills every broken crack in my soul.
With every moment we are connected, he is piecing me back together again.
Dropping my mouth to his, I pick up the pace, grinding in a way that my breasts rub against his chest. I want to touch him in every place I can.
He starts rocking up to meet my rhythm, as need consumes us.
The orgasm builds and when it becomes too much, I tear my mouth from his crying out his name as I go over the edge before feeling his hot seed fill me up.
My body is satiated, my heart is full, and there is no high than can ever be better than the feeling I have being connected to him.
Life has been brutal, but Tommy is the beauty in my pain.