Chapter 2
TWO
FREYA
I set the last box of my things down in my childhood bedroom.
I heard my father and my mother downstairs, talking low between themselves.
They’d stop every time I walked by. And while I wasn’t the most worldly individual around, I understood what they were doing.
They were talking about me. Talking about what to do with me.
What to do with their twenty-three-year-old daughter who has just moved back into their home after graduating from Arizona State University in Phoenix.
I hated it when they did that kind of stuff.
My father’s motorcycle was what greeted me when I pulled up.
My mother always made a habit of parking her SUV in the garage.
So, my father always kept his bike outside.
Which was a good sign, because it meant things with his crew were good.
That he wasn’t in any sort of trouble. But if he ever parked it in the shadows or behind the house, I knew something was wrong.
I knew the crew had gotten themselves into some trouble.
I didn’t really know what my father did for a living.
I mean, I’d speculated a lot as a child.
He rode with the Celtic Riders, and I knew he worked.
I knew he brought in money for a living because my mother was a stay-at-home mom my entire life.
But I didn’t know how the crew brought their money in.
I figured it probably wasn’t good. Every once in a while, police would show up asking to see him.
Asking to talk with him. Sometimes, the guys from the crew would come by late at night, and he’d shoo my mother upstairs with me to play and generally keep me distracted.
I loved my father, but sometimes I was aware of the fact that he did dangerous things with his life.
Everyone always calls me innocent. My father.
My mother. My friends from school. They use that word in place of “naive.” Apparently, trusting people until they gave me a reason not to trust them wasn’t smart.
But it was how I’d always been. I enjoyed giving people the benefit of the doubt.
I guess because of how I was raised. I always gave my father the benefit of the doubt.
Other than his mysterious work with the Celtic Riders, he was a good man.
A loving man. He was devoted to my mother, came to all of my childhood violin recitals, and even entertained my desire to take ballet lessons despite being short and stout my entire life.
I just grew up with the notion that there was more to a person than what they looked like. Or what they did for a living.
College was kind to me. Neither my mother nor my father were happy that I wanted to go Phoenix for school.
According to my mother, three hours away was too far.
And according to my father, if something was to ever go wrong, it would be hard for him to reach me.
I loved my parents with all the love I had to offer. They were good parents.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in Yuma the rest of my life.
“Freya!” my father called out.
“Yeah, Daddy?”
“Can you come down here a second?”
“Sure! Gimme one second,” I yelled.
I looked at the array of boxes sitting in my room.
It looked like a lot, but it all fit into my little compact car.
My clothes, my trinkets, my shoes, the few books from college I kept, some final projects I wasn’t willing to part with, and the books I read for fun.
No furniture like most young adults came with nowadays.
No pictures to hang on apartment walls. No decorative vases or junk drawers to clean out.
I didn’t have any of that. Dorm living didn’t give me the ability to have any of those things.
Despite how much I’d begged my parents to let me get an apartment off-campus.
My father thought I needed to focus on my studies instead of getting a part-time job.
My mother thought it was simply too dangerous.
Being on campus gave me everything I needed in terms of a meal plan, a place to sleep, and a building that was guarded by on-campus police.
Hell, they practically knew my father by his first name, he called up there so much.
One of the officers that ended up getting to know me by name called my father “Mr. Asher.”
My parents were a bit overprotective.
I sighed and made my way downstairs. I came into the living room where my mother, Rose, and my father were sitting.
He was snuggled close to her, and she had the brightest smile on her face.
I watched them for a second, drinking in their love and devotion to one another.
My father smoothed a strand of hair away from her face.
He tucked it behind her ear before kissing her forehead.
My heart leapt at the sight of them. At their love for one another.
I wanted something like that in my life.
“What’s up, guys?” I asked.
My father whipped his head around as my mother graced me with her bright smile.
“Your father and I were thinking about going into town and getting some dinner. You know, to celebrate your homecoming. You want to come?” my mother asked.
“Honestly, I’m a bit tired. I just got done unloading, and I really need a shower,” I said.
“Told you,” my father murmured playfully.
“We could wait for you to take a shower,” my mother said hopefully.
“Oh, come on, Rosey. Leave the girl be. We’ll go out and get some dinner and bring her back some food. We’ve got dessert in the fridge we can all split later. After all, it’s been a while since you’ve taken a ride on the back of my bike,” my father said.
I grinned. “Yeah, Mom. Been a while since you’ve taken a ride on Dad’s bike.”
“Hey, now. You stay out of this,” she said, giggling.
My father tickled my mother and she fell apart with laughter.
I watched them with a bright smile as my mother squealed and laughed and finally gave into my father’s demands.
He stood up, helping her up off the couch before wrapping his arms around her.
And as he drew her in for a deep kiss, I looked down to give them some privacy.
I was jealous of my parents for what they had. The only encounter like that I’d had was when I lost my virginity back in high school. I hadn’t experienced anything since then, and I wanted to so badly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” my mother asked.
“Go, Mom. I need to do a bit of unpacking anyway. I’ll be here to eat when you guys get back,” I said.
“If you want dessert first, I picked up a tiramisu for all of us to split tonight. You can carve yourself a piece out before we get back,” my father said.
“Oh, you know I will,” I said, smiling.
My father came over and cupped my cheeks.
He placed a kiss on top of my head, and I closed my eyes.
I took in his warmth. My father had always been a comforting presence in my life, despite his build.
He was intimidating. Six-four, three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, and tattooed from head to toe.
He was a burly, hairy man with a trimmed beard, a bald head, and arm hair so thick I swore I heard monkeys calling out from the depths of the brushes sometimes.
But he was my father. The one man in my life who had always been devoted to me. And I loved him with all my heart.
“We’ll be back soon,” he murmured.
“You two have fun. I’m going to go unpack,” I said.
I waved my father and mother off, and I saw the look of guilt on her face.
I hoped she didn’t make herself feel too guilty for going out with my father.
The two of them never spent enough time together.
My ribcage rumbled as my father struck up his bike, and the two of them rode off into the distance.
I locked the door after closing it and started my way back up the stairs.
The whole point of all this was to figure out what my next move was.
I had graduated four days ago with a bachelor’s degree in History with an Education concentration.
At the time, I’d wanted to be a teacher, but those jobs were hard to come by in Yuma.
Especially for history teachers. Even though there were a few job applications I’d put in over the course of the past month, none of them had taken off.
No interviews, no callbacks. Nothing. No one reached out to me despite the fact that I’d updated my online resumes to signify the fact that I had graduated.
I was saddled with debt, and I didn’t know how to pay it off.
I started my journey around the house, looking at all the pictures on the walls.
Pictures of my parents from their wedding day.
Pictures of me on the day I was born. My eyes scanned the walls and looked at the propped-up pictures on random side tables scattered throughout the main level of our house.
My eyes worked their way up the wall beside the staircase, taking in the collage of all my grade school pictures.
I smiled at them as I clocked my phase with braces.
My phase with glasses. My phase with pimples and my fuzzy hair that was neither curly nor straight.
I walked slowly up the stairs, digesting all the memories before I stopped at the door to my bedroom.
But then, my eyes peeked over at my parent’s bedroom door.
I tore away from my boxed-up life and pushed slowly into their private space.
It had never been off-limits, per se. But they were always respectful of my bedroom, so I had been respectful of theirs.
But something drew me to that space. Into that room.
And as I turned on the light, I smiled at the pictures hanging on the walls.
The pictures that adorned the top of the dresser and both of my parent’s nightstands.
I walked over and picked up the one on my mother’s side and gazed down at it.