Epilogue 3
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— Holden —
S ix Months Later It was Saturday night at the clubhouse. Betty had pushed the long tables together the way she did every week, mismatched chairs crowded in from every corner of the building, every seat filled.
Dutch at the head, Maya asleep against his chest — a few weeks old, impossibly small, sleeping through the noise of the room like she already knew this was home.
Indira beside him, sleepy-eyed but smiling, one hand resting on his thigh.
Dutch held the baby like he’d been doing it his whole life.
Some men look awkward holding a child. Dutch looked like he’d been designed for it.
Colt and Lilac across from them, Danny on Lilac’s lap and Graham in the high chair beside Colt, covered in whatever he’d last made contact with.
Knox and Luca flanked their mother like bodyguards, certain they were the only ones qualified to protect her — and also to secure seconds before anyone else got to them.
Colt had given up trying to get them to sit in their own chairs.
Glitch and Wren at the far end, Wren tucked in close against his side, laughing at something he’d whispered in her ear. Two months ago she’d barely spoken above a whisper at these dinners.
Betty had claimed her spot next to Lindsay, who’d started coming to family dinners six months ago and hadn’t missed one since.
I’d asked her the first time if she was sure — a clubhouse full of bikers wasn’t everyone’s idea of a Saturday night.
She’d said, “Danny would have loved this. I’m not missing it. ”
Bea was next to me, her cut over a sweater, her shoulder pressed warm against mine.
She wore it most Saturdays now. During working hours she was Dr. Hardy — practice, professional boundaries, the careful voice she used with her clients.
Outside of them she was just Bea, my old lady.
The ease with which she moved between those two versions of herself still amazed me.
The noise was good noise. Forks on plates, voices overlapping, Luca arguing with Knox about something that involved rude hand gestures. Betty telling Lindsay a story about Handful that made Lindsay laugh and Handful throw his hands up in protest.
Dutch lifted his glass without standing. He didn’t need to stand. The room quieted the way it always did for him. “To the ones at this table,” he said. “And the ones who aren’t.”
“To Danny,” Colt added with a nod to Lindsay.
“To Danny,” we answered.
The noise came back in a slow wave — plates passing, forks moving, Graham gnawing a bread roll with grim determination.
Handful was already on his feet by the door, jacket in hand, grabbing a to-go plate off the counter.
He’d shown up for the toast and nothing else.
He’d been like that for weeks. Picking up club girls and losing interest before the night was over.
Cracking jokes that didn’t quite land. Volunteering for runs he didn’t need to be on.
“Where you headed?” Colt called over.
“Somewhere that isn’t here.” Handful grinned. “Don’t wait up.”
He ruffled Knox’s hair on the way out. Knox tried to dodge and missed.
Across the table, Dutch and Indira exchanged a look — the kind old ladies and their men shared when they’d already had the whole conversation without saying a word. A bit like Luca and Knox really.
“He’s a few years behind the rest of you,” Indira said to all of us at once. “You all had your useless phase before you were worth anything. He’s just getting to his.”
Colt raised his beer. “To the useless phase.”
“To growing out of it,” Bea added, and clinked her glass against mine.
The table was still loud, still warm. Danny had gotten hold of a bread roll and was copying his brother. Knox was showing Lindsay something on a napkin — a road he’d drawn in crayon, winding between two stick-figure mountains. “And this is where you turn left,” he was telling her, very seriously.
Outside, Handful’s bike fired up and the sound faded into the night.