Chapter Sixteen #2
I stared at her, at the tears on her cheeks and the quiet strength in her eyes, and I realized something. She wasn’t just listening to my stories about Julie. She was holding them. Holding me. Making space for my grief without trying to fix it or take it away.
And for the first time since Julie died, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
The days blurred together after that.
We would meet at the diner two, sometimes three times a week.
Other nights, when the weather was good, we would meet at Medicine Park and walk the trails that wound through the Wichita Mountains.
The paths were quiet and empty after dark, just the sound of our footsteps on gravel and the distant call of owls in the trees.
I told her about Digger and Stella. How they had been high school sweethearts just like me and Julie, how Stella ran the Tennessee clubhouse kitchen and kept all the brothers in line with nothing but a wooden spoon and a sharp tongue.
I told her about Ravage and the houses we built together, about Sandman and the work we did in the tomb that I couldn’t talk about, but she seemed to understand anyway.
And slowly, carefully, I started asking her questions.
About her booth at the farmers’ market. About the lotions and soaps and candles she made with her sisters.
About her life here in Lawton, the farm, and the diner.
She answered easily enough. Told me about Faith’s talent for scent combinations, about Charity’s business sense, and about Joy’s artistic eye for packaging.
She talked about the customers at the market, the regulars at the diner, the way the farm came alive in the spring when everything started blooming.
But when I asked about her childhood, about her parents, about how she ended up in Oklahoma—she deflected.
“It’s not very interesting,” she’d say with a small smile.
Or, “That’s a long story for another time.”
Or, “Tell me more about the Smokies. I want to hear about winter.”
At first, I let it go. Figured she would open up when she was ready, the same way I had.
But as the weeks passed, I started to notice the pattern.
She would listen to every word I said about my life, my family, my past, but she never offered the same in return.
It wasn’t that she was cold or distant. She was warm, engaged, present.
But there was a wall there, invisible but unmistakable, and I didn’t know how to get past it.
It bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
One night, we were walking the trails at Medicine Park, the air damp and thick with the promise of rain. The moon was nearly full, casting silver light across the rocks and scrub, and Hope’s hand was tucked into mine, her fingers warm against my palm.
“You ever think about leaving Oklahoma?” I asked, the question coming out of nowhere.
She glanced up at me, surprised. “Why would I leave?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “You’ve got the booth, the diner. But you’re smart as hell, Hope. You could do anything. Go anywhere.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “I like it here,” she said finally. “I like the farm. I like being close to my sisters. I like the life I’ve built.”
“But is it the life you want?” I pressed. “Or is it just the life you ended up with?”
She stopped walking, turning to face me. The moonlight caught in her eyes, making them look almost luminous. “Why are you asking me this, Chapman?”
“Because I want to know you,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I intended. “I want to understand you. And every time I ask about your past, about your family, about what you want—you change the subject.”
Her expression shifted, something guarded sliding into place. “I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“I do talk to you.”
“About surface stuff. Safe stuff.” I stepped closer, my hand still holding hers. “But you never let me in, Hope. Not really. And I don’t understand why.”
She looked away, her jaw tightening. “Maybe because my past isn’t as simple as yours. Maybe because there are things I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
“I told you about Julie,” I said quietly. “About Aurora. About the worst parts of my life. And you held all of it without flinching. Why can’t you trust me to do the same for you?”
Her eyes snapped back to mine, and I saw something flicker there—pain, maybe, or fear. “It’s not about trust.”
“Then what is it about?”
She pulled her hand from mine, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s about protecting you.”
I stared at her, thrown. “Protecting me from what?”
“From my family. From the things they’ve done. From the weight of it all.” She shook her head, her voice breaking slightly. “You’ve been through enough, Chapman. You don’t need my baggage on top of everything else.”
“That’s not your call to make,” I said, my voice firm. “I’m a grown man, Hope. I can decide what I can handle.”
“Can you?” She looked up at me, her eyes glistening. “Because I’ve seen what grief does to people. I’ve seen what it did to you. And I don’t want to add to that. I don’t want to be another weight you have to carry.”
I reached for her, my hands framing her face, my thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. “You’re not a weight,” I said, my voice low and steady. “You’re the only thing that’s made me feel lighter in eight months.”
Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, leaning into my touch.
“I’m not asking you to tell me everything tonight,” I continued. “But I need you to know that I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere. And that whatever you’re carrying—you don’t have to carry it alone.”
She opened her eyes, and the look she gave me was so raw, so vulnerable, it nearly broke me.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
After that, something shifted between us.
Our conversations got deeper. The silences got more comfortable. And the space between us—the physical distance we had been maintaining, careful not to cross any lines—started to shrink.
She would reach for my hand without thinking. I would brush a strand of hair from her face. We would sit close enough in the booth that our knees touched, our shoulders pressed together. And I started to realize something that terrified me.
I was falling for her.
Not because she reminded me of Julie. Not because I was lonely, or grieving, or desperate for connection.
But because she was Hope. Kind and strong and gentle, and wise.
Because she listened without judgment. Because she challenged me to be better, to want more, to stop hiding from the life I still had left to live.
Because when I was with her, I didn’t feel like a broken widower, or a failed father, or a man drowning in guilt.
I felt like me. Like Chapman. Like someone who still had a chance at something good.
And that scared the hell out of me.
It was late July when everything came to a head.
We had just finished another long conversation at the diner. This one about Digger’s latest demolition project and how he had nearly blown up a water main in the process. Hope had laughed so hard she snorted coffee, and the sound had made my chest ache in the best possible way.
I walked her to her truck, as I always did, my hand resting on the small of her back. The parking lot was empty, the streetlights casting long shadows across the asphalt. Her truck was parked in the far corner, away from the main road, and the night air was damp with the smell of fresh rain.
She unlocked the door and turned to face me, her eyes soft in the dim light. “Thank you for tonight.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said.
“I know. But I want to.” She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made me want to do stupid, reckless things. “I like talking to you, Chapman. I like spending time with you.”
“I like it too,” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended.
She started to turn toward the truck, and something inside me snapped.
“Hope.”
She stopped, looking back at me. “Yeah?”
I took a breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “I want to take you out on a date.”
Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open slightly. “What? What do you mean? Like a real date?”
“Yes,” I said, stepping closer. “Like a real date. Dinner. Maybe a movie. Something normal. Something that doesn’t involve sneaking around or hiding in empty diners.”
She stared at me, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. “Chapman, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of Zeke. Because of the club’s rules. Because—”
“I don’t care,” I said, cutting her off.
She blinked, her breath catching. “You don’t care?”
“No.” I reached for her hands, bringing them up to my chest. “I don’t care about the rules. I don’t care about Shadow or Kansas, or anyone else. I care about you. And I want to take you on a real date.”
She looked down at our hands, her fingers trembling slightly against my chest. “You don’t have to do this, Chapman.”
“I know.”
“I started my period,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible. “There is no baby. You can go back to your life, to your family, and we can be just friends.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
There is no baby.
I should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve felt like I had dodged a bullet, like the weight I had been carrying for weeks had finally been lifted. But I didn’t. I felt... disappointed.
And that realization—that I had been hoping, on some level, that she was pregnant, that we would be tied together in a way that couldn’t be undone—shook me to my core.
“I don’t want to be just friends,” I said, my voice low and steady.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and searching. “What?”
“I don’t want to be just friends, Hope.” I tightened my grip on her hands, pulling her closer. “I want to take you on a date. I want to spend time with you without hiding. I want to see where this goes. And I don’t give a damn if there’s a baby or not. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?” she whispered.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. At the way the streetlight caught in her hair, at the tears glistening in her eyes, at the way she was holding her breath like she was afraid of what I might say.
“Because you make me feel alive again,” I said simply.
“Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
Because you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep.
Because I’m falling for you, Hope. And I don’t want to fight it anymore. ”
Her breath hitched, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“So, yeah,” I continued, my voice rough with emotion. “I want to take you on a real date. I want to see if this thing between us is as real as it feels. And I want to stop pretending that I’m okay with just being friends.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. And then, slowly, she nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” A small, trembling smile tugged at her lips. “Take me on a date, Chapman Moore.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding, and before I could stop myself, I pulled her into my arms. Her face buried against my chest. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.