17. Quake
QUAKE
I’ve spent the better part of two weeks convincing myself that kissing Whitney didn’t change anything. The problem is, my arguments hold no water. They’re stupid and irrational because the kiss changed everything.
It’s not even that the kiss was particularly passionate. Shit, it wasn’t even long. It’s what happened after the kiss that changed things. Whitney didn't pull away because she regretted it which makes me think she pulled away because she was scared of how much she didn't regret it.
The distinction matters.
Unfortunately, knowing that doesn't actually help me focus on the long list of problems currently waiting for my attention.
Tom is still out there. Carrie’s involvement still has a giant question mark attached to it.
We're getting closer to answers, but we're not there yet, and every hour that passes makes me more restless. By lunchtime, I give up pretending I can concentrate and hop on my Harley to ride to Sacred Haven.
Whitney and Melissa are already there. Junior drove them over this morning so they could meet with Carrie.
The caseworker is no longer welcome at the clubhouse, not until we know more.
I don’t think the visit with her will yield anything, as the few there’ve been in the last few weeks are brief and to the point: Is Melissa talking?
What does she know? Has she provided names?
They’ve gone back to the home several times, mostly to check in with Sister Beatrice, but tonight will be the first night they’re staying over as a few sponsors are coming to sign contracts for the carnival tomorrow, and Whitney refused to let anyone else handle that.
And Melissa, well, she feels best when she’s close to Whitney.
The ride to the children’s home gives me too much time to think.
About Melissa, Carrie, Whitney… mostly Whitney.
The woman has somehow embedded herself into every part of my day. I find myself looking for things she'd enjoy, wondering what she'd think about random comments, imagining the look on her face when I tell her something funny. The realization should probably concern me.
Instead, it settles over me with surprising certainty.
I love her.
The thought lands without fanfare, which makes me laugh because Zombie would no doubt have a field day with the fact that I don’t panic or go into denial.
I simply accept what is true.
I fucking love the pretty nun.
I've spent most of my life recognizing danger before it arrives. As the SAA of KOAMC, it’s part of the job. Reading situations, reading people and knowing when something feels right and when it doesn’t is a trick of the trade, one I excel at.
Loving Whitney feels right. Complicated as all hell, but right.
When I arrive at Sacred Haven, I find Sister Beatrice in the office.
The older nun sits behind her desk sorting through paperwork. She doesn't even bother looking up when I step inside.
"Good afternoon, Quake."
"Good afternoon."
She hums and remains focused on her paperwork. I stare at her while she works. A full minute passes with neither of us speaking.
Finally, I drop into the chair opposite her desk. "You knew."
One gray eyebrow lifts as she looks at me. "Knew what?"
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That."
The woman actually smirks, a full-on devilish smirk. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Says the biker."
A laugh escapes me despite myself, and I rub a hand across my jaw. "You put us together."
Sister Beatrice finally sets the paperwork aside, giving me her full attention. "I did."
"You knew something would happen."
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Not with amusement but with wisdom that comes from being alive as long as she has. "No," she says quietly. "I hoped."
"Hoped?"
"Yes, hoped,” she confirms. “I hoped that someone would eventually see Whitney the way I've always seen her."
The answer isn't what I expect, not even close. My confusion must show because Sister Beatrice leans back in her chair and studies me for several moments.
"I love that girl as though she were my own."
“Never thought otherwise.”
"She arrived here carrying so much grief that she could barely stand underneath it." The sadness in her voice surprises me. "Ryan's death changed her."
"It did,” I agree, knowing the story because Whitney told me the day after I told her about my sister.
The older nun glances toward the hallway. "But grief has a way of disguising itself as purpose."
"What does that mean?"
Her eyes return to mine. "It means a person can make life-changing decisions while they're hurting."
The statement lingers between us, heavy, important. Before I can ask anything else, she smiles again, and this time it’s full of genuine amusement.
"Do you love her?" she asks.
“Yeah,” I say without hesitation, and her shoulders relax like she’s been waiting a lifetime to hear that.
"Good."
I blink. "Good?"
"Very good."
I shake my head. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told,” she quips.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and I know immediately who it is. I’m pretty sure I could identify Whitney's presence in a crowded room without ever looking up.
She steps into the office carrying a stack of folders and freezes.
"Quake."
The way she says my name does interesting things to my heartbeat.
"Hey."
Sister Beatrice rises to her feet and gathers her paperwork. "I was just leaving."
Whitney looks confused. "You were?"
The older nun moves toward the door. "I am now." When she reaches it, she pauses and looks directly at Whitney. "Don't be afraid of the answer simply because it's different from the one you expected."
With those parting words, she leaves, and the silence that follows feels enormous. Whitney stares after her for a few moments before facing me.
"So that wasn't cryptic at all."
I grin. “Nope."
A laugh escapes her, and she moves to the desk and sets her folders down on the corner.
Fuck, I love making her laugh.
When she turns back to me, she asks, "Would you mind walking with me?"
"I'd follow you almost anywhere." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Her eyes widen, and for one horrifying second, I consider throwing myself through the nearest window.
But then Whitney smiles, a beautiful smile that lights up the universe.
Damn, I’m getting soft.
We leave the office and walk through the halls until we reach the chapel. Surprisingly, I’ve never set foot in it even though I’ve been coming here for years.
Whitney stares at the double doors for so long that I know this conversation has been building inside her for a while. After a minute, she pulls the doors open, and she steps inside. I, however, hesitate.
What if lightning strikes me dead for daring to enter such a holy space?
“You coming?” she asks over her shoulder.
I take a deep breath and cross the threshold. When my heart remains beating inside my chest, I know I’m safe. Together, we walk to the front pew and sit.
"I talked to Sister Beatrice this morning,” she says quietly, staring at the large cross suspended at the front of the room.
I remain silent, instinct telling me she needs to say this in her own way, not mine.
"For years I thought I knew exactly what my future looked like. I thought I knew who I was supposed to become." A sadness enters her expression, the kind that comes from the acceptance of change. "I've spent weeks trying to figure out whether my feelings for you meant I was failing."
My chest tightens.
That can’t be good.
Whitney laughs softly before continuing. "I realize now I was asking the wrong question."
Wait, what?
"What question should you have been asking?"
She finally turns toward me, whether because she's ready or because she can't avoid it any longer, I don't know. “I should’ve been asking if this was ever actually my path.” The vulnerability in her eyes nearly wrecks me.
"I love Sacred Haven. I love the sisters. And I love helping children.” I nod.
“They saved my life.” Her expression shifts to one of thoughtful certainty.
“But loving something doesn’t necessarily mean you're supposed to stay there forever.”
Understanding hits me with all the force of a sledgehammer.
This isn’t about me and never was. It’s not even about Melissa or God or her promise to Ryan.
This is about Whitney finally figuring out what she wants and who she is without all the external factors.
"I thought leaving would mean I was turning my back on God,” she whispers, and my heart hurts for her because she’s carried that burden alone. “I don’t think that anymore.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears as hope flares in my chest. “Sister Beatrice said something this morning that stuck."
“What’s that?”
"She told me that God doesn't ask us to become less of who we are. He asks us to become more." Whitney slides her hand across the pew and grabs mine. “I’ve made my decision.”
“What decision?”
She rises, pulling me with her, and I frame her face in my hands, craving the feeling of her skin.
“I’m not taking my final vows,” she says.
“That’s an option?” I ask because what the hell do I know?
Her laughter wraps around me. “Yes, it is. And it’s the one I’ve chosen,” she says, relief and a sense of freedom shining in her eyes. “I don’t think God called me to be a nun.”
A single tear spills down her cheek, and I brush it away. “What do you think He called you to be?”
“A person who helps children,” she replies easily.
Her declaration solidifies the love I have for her.
Her job description might change, the clothing and title, but Whitney won’t.
She has always been and will always be a woman who puts others before herself, the woman who sat with Melissa through nightmares.
She’s the same person who turned a motorcycle clubhouse into a safe place simply by walking into it.
She’s the woman I love.
“I don’t know what happens next,” she admits after a beat of silence. “But I know I’m ready for it.”