Chapter 31
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— Lilac —
Two weeks of trying. That’s how long it had been since the garden, since I’d told Colt I wanted to figure out who we were together.
Fourteen days of dinners and conversations and careful, tentative touches that made my skin hum.
He’d been gone for a day and a half in the middle of it—a quick run to Portland—and I hadn’t expected to care as much as I did.
When he came back, I stood in Betty’s doorway and watched the boys throw themselves at him, and understood something I hadn’t been ready to say out loud: I’d been waiting too.
And memories. Small ones, slipping through the cracks in my mind like water through rock.
The first came when Colt was helping Knox with his bike chain, his hands covered in grease, his brow furrowed in concentration. Something about the image triggered a flash: those same hands, younger and less weathered, holding a wrench while a much younger version of me watched from a porch step.
“You’re staring, Lil.”
“Maybe I like the view.”
He grinned up at me, grease on his cheek. “Come down here and say that.”
The memory was gone as fast as it came, leaving me breathless and aching for more.
The second came when Colt brought me flowers—daisies, like always—and when his fingers brushed mine as I took them, I felt the echo of a hundred other flower exchanges. “First anniversary. First of many.” A cheap motel room that had felt like paradise. The scratch of his stubble against my neck.
I’d gasped, and Colt had frozen, his eyes searching my face.
“Another memory?”
I’d nodded, not trusting my voice.
“What did you see?”
“Us. Happy.” I’d pressed the flowers to my chest. “Really, really happy.”
?
By the end of the first week, I’d stopped counting the memories.
They came without warning—triggered by a smell, a sound, the particular angle of light through a window.
Most were small: a shared meal, a quiet moment on a porch, the weight of his arm around my shoulders.
But each one settled into place like a puzzle piece, building a picture of the life I’d lost.
And alongside those remembered moments, new ones were forming.
Colt brought coffee to my door every morning. Then he’d show up again after school, just in time to help with homework or take the boys to practice. He asked Betty if there was anything she needed done around the house, then did it before she could argue.
“You don’t have to do all this,” I told him one evening, watching him sand down the railing he’d just repaired.
“I know.” He didn’t look up from his work. “I want to.”
“Why?”
That made him pause. He set down the sandpaper and finally met my eyes.
“Because for seven years, you did everything alone. Raised our sons, built a life, held it all together without any help.” His voice was rough. “I can’t get those years back. But I can make damn sure you never need for anything again.”
“Colt…”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He picked up the sandpaper again. “Just let me be useful.”
I watched him work in the fading light, and for the first time, I didn’t try to separate the man in front of me from the man in my fragmented memories. They were the same person. The husband who’d worshiped me years ago and the man who showed up every day to prove he still did.
?
On Friday night, we had our third real date.
Not dinner with the boys, or an evening on Betty’s porch. Just the two of us, at a little jazz club Indira had recommended.
Colt had dressed up—button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his cut left behind for the evening. He looked almost nervous as we settled into a corner booth, the music soft and smoky around us.
“This okay?” he asked. “You used to like jazz.”
“Did I?” I searched for the memory but came up empty. “I don’t remember.”
“Let’s find out if you still do.”
We ordered drinks—whiskey for him, wine for me—and sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the music fill the space between us.
“Can I ask you something?” I said finally.
“Anything.”
“What made you fall in love with me?”
Colt was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “We met at a gas station.” A quiet smile crossed his face. “Off the highway. I stopped to fill up my bike and you were standing next to your car staring at the steam coming out from under the hood.”
“My car broke down?”
“Blown head gasket. Thing was done.” His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. “You looked up at me—a six-two biker wearing a Death’s Head cut, not exactly approachable—and said, ‘Please tell me you know something about cars, because I think mine just died.’”
I sat with that for a second. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. No hesitation. Most people saw the cut and crossed the street. You just asked me for help.” He shook his head slowly. “I called a brother to tow it and offered you a ride. You told me you’d taken three years of karate as a kid and you weren’t afraid to use it.”
I laughed despite myself. “Now that sounds like me.”
“It was exactly you.” His expression softened. “I knew right then I was going to marry you. Took me six months before you’d agree to let me take you on a date.”
“I made you wait that long?”
“You made me earn it.” He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. “I’ve never worked so hard for anything in my life. And it was worth every second.”
“Can I tell you something?” I said.
He waited.
“Losing seven years—” I paused, choosing the words carefully. “It taught me not to let things sit. Not to wait for the right moment or until I feel certain enough. There is no certain enough. There’s just now.”
Colt was very still.
“I want more time with you. Not at Betty’s, not with the boys as buffer.
” I felt heat rise in my face and looked down at our hands.
“I want to come to the clubhouse. I want to see where you live, your room, your actual life.” The next part was harder.
“I want to be your old lady again.” I said it quietly, almost shy about it. “If you’d still have me.”
Silence.
I made myself look up.
The expression on his face stopped me. Not surprise—something much more focused than surprise. His eyes had darkened, and the hand covering mine had gone completely still in a way that felt deliberate, like he was keeping himself carefully in check.
“You know what you’re asking.” His voice had dropped a register.
“I think so.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He exhaled slowly through his nose and looked away for a moment—out toward the bar, the middle distance, somewhere that wasn’t directly at me. When he looked back, he had himself under control again. Mostly.
“Come by in a few days,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He said it evenly. But his thumb had started moving against the back of my hand—slow, small circles—and I didn’t think he knew he was doing it.
We sat like that for a while longer. His hand around mine, the music soft around us, the night going on outside the windows.
I didn’t push for more. Neither did he.
But the air between us had changed.