Chapter 33
By the time she pushed open the front door, Lydia dragged her feet into the house, ready to collapse.
Two double shifts in a row at the diner to cover for Madison, who came down with a cold, had wrung her out completely.
Her feet throbbed. Her back ached. Her brain was wrapped in a haze, as if cushioned in cotton.
But the house smelled like heaven.
Garlic. Butter. Tomatoes simmering.
Her stomach growled loud enough to echo.
Baddy stood at the stove, stirring a pot of sauce. A tray of garlic bread sat on the cutting board, the edges a golden brown.
He glanced over his shoulder, ogling her from head to feet. "Come here, sweetheart."
She limped awkwardly toward him, leaning against his chest and letting him take most of her weight. "You feel good."
He tilted her face and kissed her. "Rough day?"
"Uneventful," she said, moving back and dropping onto the barstool like gravity had doubled. "But super long."
He nodded toward the counter. "Sit. Rest. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes."
She lifted her head. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Nope." He pointed the wooden spoon at her. "You're done for the day. I got you."
She didn't argue. Didn't have the energy to. Just watching him move around the kitchen with confidence and ease helped ease her after the day's stress.
"Please tell me that's spaghetti?" She propped her chin on her hand.
"It is." He winked. "Hungry?"
"Starved." She sighed. "I fell asleep during my lunch break, even though I was starving."
"Is Madison feeling better?"
"I think so." She yawned. "Patty mentioned that she'd be back for tomorrow's shift."
For several minutes, the only sounds were the bubbling sauce and the soft clink of utensils. She stifled another yawn, letting her body relax.
Then the question she'd been avoiding all day slipped out.
"Is my mom still at the clubhouse?"
Baddy shoulders tightened before he turned off the burner. "Yeah. She's there."
All week, she'd purposely stopped herself from asking about her mom. But as hard as she tried to put everything out of her mind, her thoughts continually went back to her mom.
Lydia swallowed. "Is she planning on staying at the clubhouse?"
"From what I've heard." He hesitated. "It looks like she's staying with Baker."
Her heart sank.
Of course, she was.
Her mom always found a biker to latch onto. Always needed someone to take care of her, to give her a place, to make her feel wanted. It didn't matter how many times it blew up in her face, she always went back.
Lydia stared at the counter, disappointment curling tight in her chest. "She can't be alone for five minutes without finding a biker to cling to," she muttered.
Baddy set the spoon down and leaned his hip against the counter, watching her carefully. "Baker isn't just any biker," he said quietly. "He's your father."
Her breath caught. Baddy hadn't forced her to talk about her newfound father.
He continued in a gruff voice. "That means your mom and Baker were together twenty, twenty-one years ago, before you were even a thought to either of them. Long before any of this. They've got history that doesn't involve you or the way your mom conducted herself over the years."
Lydia pressed her lips together, trying to swallow the knot in her throat.
She knew he was right.
She knew this wasn't the same as her mom bouncing from man to man.
But it still hurt.
It felt like her mom had chosen someone else, again, before choosing her. She inhaled deeply, knowing she was past the age of needing her mom that way. Her scars were raw. Her mother's choices would always be a sore spot for her, no matter how independent or old she got.
Baddy stepped closer, cupping a warm hand to her cheek. "I know it's a lot. And I know it's messy. But this isn't her running to another biker. This is her going back to the man who once loved her. The man she lost because he sent her away."
Lydia blinked hard, staring at the countertop until it blurred.
She didn't know what to say.
Didn't know how to feel.
All she knew was that the scent of garlic bread suddenly made her eyes sting, and Baddy's hand on her was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. She suspected she might never fully grasp her parents' decisions, let alone see eye to eye with them.
After dinner, with a full stomach, she showered and slipped into Baddy's old sweats. Returning to the living room, she found him stretched out on the couch. She curled up beside him and wrapped one of the soft blankets around her legs. She almost seemed human again.
Baddy stretched his arm along the back of the couch, eyes on the television to the basketball game. He wasn't really watching. She could tell by the way his thumb brushed absently against her shoulder every few minutes, like he was checking she was still there.
She picked up her photo album from the end table and pulled it onto her lap.
Her old ritual.
Her escape.
Tonight, she wanted to lose herself in the faces of strangers. The family get-togethers, birthday parties, and Christmas mornings. Moments she'd never had but always imagined.
She turned a page.
Then another.
Her fingers paused on a photo she'd seen a hundred times. Two children sitting on the front porch of a brick house, legs dangling off the step, grinning at the camera with what appeared to be ice cream on their faces. A boy and a girl. Maybe siblings. Maybe cousins. She'd never know.
But tonight... something tugged at her.
She leaned closer.
There, on the porch pillar, was a small wooden sign she'd never noticed before. Weathered. Faded. But there was writing on the surface.
She squinted, lifting the album closer to her face. The plastic protective sleeve caused a glare from the television.
Baddy's thumb strummed the back of her neck. "What's wrong?"
"I..." She frowned, tracing the edge of the photo. "All these years I've looked at these pictures, and I never noticed this sign on the house."
He muted the TV and shifted toward her. "What sign?"
She pointed. "Right there. On the house. There's writing, but I can't make out the name."
Baddy gently took the album from her hands. He held it closer, angling it toward the lamp.
"Sutton." He grunted and tapped the sign with one finger. "That's Baker's last name."
Lydia froze. Her breath caught. Her heart stuttered.
"What?" she whispered.
"Sutton," Baddy said quietly. "That's Baker's family name. His real name is Frank Sutton."
The album slipped from her hands and landed in her lap with a soft thud. She stared at him, blinking, her mind scrambling to make sense of what she'd just heard.
"Are you saying... these could be Baker's family pictures?" Her voice came out squeaky to her ears.
Baddy didn't answer right away. He continued looking at the photo again. His jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked from the photos to her.
His silence was an answer. Lydia's pulse hammered. If the album belonged to Baker, then...she hadn't been holding strangers all these years.
She'd been holding pieces of her own family.
Pieces of a life she never knew she had.
Pieces of him.
And the realization hit her so hard she couldn't breathe.