Chapter 6 Dean #2
She scanned the kitchen in one glance, found the drawer with the forks, then the battered plates from the cabinet above the stove.
She didn’t ask, just moved with the assurance of someone who’d made herself at home in stranger places.
I watched her from the doorway, unable to decide if I was supposed to help or just stay out of the way.
Sergeant circled her feet, tail up, hopeful. Emily bent to scratch her behind the ears, then pointed at the rug by the fridge. “You sit there. Guard the bread.” The dog obeyed like it was a new job assignment.
She set the table—two plates, two glasses, the paper napkins folded into neat triangles. She poured water from the tap and checked the level before sliding it across. “You look like you haven’t slept in days,” she said, not unkindly.
I glanced at the hallway mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, the shadows underneath sharp enough to cut. “I’ve been busy,” I said, as if that explained anything.
We sat across from each other, a loaf of sourdough between us.
She opened the takeout containers—herbed chicken, roasted potatoes, a side of wilted greens—and nudged one plate in my direction.
She ate with quick, efficient bites, her focus absolute.
I forced myself to do the same, finding I was hungrier than I’d thought.
Sergeant took her post beneath my chair, nose twitching. Emily slipped her a potato chunk every so often, as if it was part of some deal they’d made.
After a few minutes, Emily dabbed her mouth and leaned back, eyes on the pile of papers at the edge of the table. “Obituary?” she asked.
I nodded and pushed the stack her way, keeping my hand on top a beat too long. She waited, patient, until I let go. She pulled the first sheet, scanned the lines, and made a thoughtful sound.
“You want me to read it out loud?” she said.
“No,” I said, then realized I didn’t care. “Yeah. Sure.”
She started with the basics, her voice steady and neutral.
Dolores Medina, born 1955, Espanola. She read the sentences I’d cobbled together about Ma’s work at the college, the years spent running a one-woman household after my father died.
She paused at the list of hobbies, “rescuing stray animals and crocheting blankets,” and smiled, small but sincere.
“This is good,” she said, “but I think it’s missing you.”
I bristled, defensive. “It’s not about me.”
She shrugged. “She raised you by herself. That’s the story.”
I looked down at my hands, then at the tags on the table. I rolled them in my palm, the edge biting into the callus on my thumb.
“I don’t want to turn her funeral into a therapy session,” I said, voice flat.
Emily set the paper aside, her tone gentle but insistent. “Nobody’s going to think less of you for loving your mother. Or hating how she left.”
I felt the heat in my chest, the old, familiar surge of anger where the grief should have been. “She didn’t mean to leave.”
“I know,” Emily said, eyes on mine. “But you’re allowed to be pissed off. That doesn’t make the rest of it less true.”
Sergeant crept forward, resting her head on my knee. I scratched behind her ear, grateful for the excuse to look away.
Emily flipped to the next draft, reading quietly. She picked up a pen and started making small edits—nothing big, just shifting phrases, adding a line here and there. After a few minutes, she set it down and slid it back to me.
“I changed the last sentence,” she said. “You can keep it or toss it.”
I read what she’d written. “She never missed a chance to laugh, even when it hurt. She leaves behind a son who will never stop missing her.”
It was so simple, so clean. I felt my throat close up.
“She’d like that,” I said.
Emily nodded. “Then it’s done.”
We sat in the quiet, the only sounds Sergeant’s breath and the creak of the chair as I leaned back. The sun had dipped below the hills, leaving the apartment in a cool blue shadow.
“Thank you,” I said, not sure if I meant for the food, the edits, or just the company.
She collected the plates, stacked them in the sink, and rinsed them with brisk efficiency. I watched, feeling the awkward press of words I couldn’t shape.
She wiped her hands on her jeans, then turned. “You want me to stick around, or is that weird?”
The truth was, I did. But I couldn’t say it without sounding pathetic.
She smiled, like she knew exactly what I was thinking. “I can walk the dog. Or you can walk with us. Either way, you’re getting some air before you go insane.”
I nodded, let the leash jingle in my hand, and watched as Emily opened the door and held it for me. She didn’t rush, didn’t crowd, just walked slow, letting the night settle in around us.
The three of us—me, Emily, and Sergeant—moved down the sidewalk in silence, the first stars flickering above the dark ridge. For the first time since Ma died, I felt like I could breathe.
When we circled back to the apartment, Emily paused at the stoop. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “But if you need help, just ask. I’m not going anywhere.”
She let her hand rest on my shoulder, warm and steady. Then she turned, heading for her car, her silhouette framed in the yellow of the streetlight.
Inside, Sergeant jumped on the bed and circled twice before settling. I lay down next to her, the edited obituary clutched in my fist, and let the exhaustion finally win.
In the dark, I listened to the dog’s breathing and the hum of the street, and for once, I didn’t mind the noise.
***
The next day, the world was already waking up rough around the edges.
I’d just poured my second cup of coffee, the dog sprawled upside-down in a sunbeam, when a knock landed on my door.
This one wasn’t like Emily’s—the sound had gravity, a bass you could feel in your teeth. I knew before I looked who it would be.
I opened up, and Nitro and Augustine stood on the stoop, both in full regalia, wearing vests patched out, boots caked with dried mud, the stink of exhaust and Camel Lights wrapped around them like an aura.
Nitro was built like a tackle box, short and dense with tattoos running up the column of his neck.
Augustine was taller, skin pale, and hair buzzed so close it looked painted on.
The kind of pair that made doorframes look smaller.
“Medina,” Nitro grunted, nodding past me into the apartment.
His eyes swept the place, making a quick tally of the mess and the threat.
Augustine didn’t even wait for an invitation—he stepped inside, glancing at the ceiling, the corners, the window, like it was a scene he might need to remember later.
I almost missed the second shadow in the room.
Emily, standing by the couch with her jacket half-on, caught mid-exit.
She’d come back early to return my mail, or maybe just to check if I’d survived the night.
I could see the split-second flicker in her eyes—she was halfway between staying and making a run for it.
“I should—” she started, clutching her keys.
“No,” I said, sharper than I meant. “Stay. This won’t take long.” I gestured at the table, and she hesitated, then shrugged off her jacket and sank into a chair, arms folded tight.
Nitro and Augustine slid into the kitchen, moving in sync like they’d practiced. Both sat, neither spoke. Nitro helped himself to the coffee, using my mug without asking. Augustine scanned the papers on the table, eyebrow ticking up at the draft obituary.
“Is that the program?” he asked, voice unexpectedly soft.
“Yeah,” I said. “Emily helped.”
Nitro grunted, barely looking up. “That the girl from the shelter?”
I nodded. “She’s all right.”
Emily stiffened, but didn’t break eye contact. “You want some coffee?” she said, the words as much a challenge as an offer.
Augustine barked a laugh. “Why not?” She poured for him, hands steady, then slid the mug across with a precision that said she didn’t care if it went over the edge. He caught it, nodded his thanks, and took a sip.
Augustine still eyed Emily, as if memorizing her for a later test. “You from here?” he asked.
“Las Cruces,” she answered, flat and unblinking.
Sergeant padded over, sniffed at Nitro’s boots, then flopped down between the two men, eyes alert but not worried.
“Good dog,” Nitro said, not looking away from the wall of condolence cards. “My sister had one just like her. Mean as hell to strangers.”
“She’s nice if you don’t startle her,” Emily said. “Or if you have food.”
They nodded, an unspoken club agreement that dogs were better than most people.
The silence stretched. I rolled the dog tags in my hand, feeling the click of chain against bone. I watched the three of them—Emily with her jaw set, Nitro with his mug balanced in a fist, Augustine reading everything in the room but the newsprint in front of him.
Finally, Nitro set his mug down with a thunk. “We won’t take much of your time. We came to see if you needed anything. Flowers, a ride, security detail for the burial. Damron wants the club to show full colors, but it’s your call.”
I looked at Emily, who gave the slightest nod. I wasn’t sure if it was for the flowers or the muscle, but either way, I felt the heat in my face, not sure how to say what I wanted in front of her.
“Full colors is fine,” I said. “Ma would’ve hated it, but she’d want people to know she mattered.”
Nitro smiled, just the edge of it, a scar twisting the corner of his mouth. “You got it.”
Augustine stood, stretching like a cat. “You want us to take care of the press, too? We can keep them back.”
“Just don’t let them piss on her name,” I said.
Augustine’s gaze flicked to Emily, then back to me. “You sure she’s good?”
I bristled, but before I could answer, Emily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the paw print tattoo just under the lobe.
“I’m not a threat,” she said, steady and clear. “Just here to make sure he eats.”
Augustine nodded, satisfied.