Chapter 28
Marissa
When Mushroom picks me up for girls’ night, Hawk shoots me a conspiratorial smile as he walks me out.
“There’s milk in the fridge, take it with you,” he says against my lips after he kisses me goodbye.
I give him a confused look, and he laughs. “I know Mushroom; the food in those takeout bags is spicy as hell.”
As we walk towards the clubhouse, she attempts to sound casual as she asks, “So… How was your first day working with Cotton?”
I think back to the almost otherworldly morning I spent in his workshop. The light of the giant windows behind Cotton’s tall, wiry frame made the millions of tiny wood particles floating around him as he worked look like magical fairy dust.
“It was quiet,” I tell her honestly. “Don’t get me wrong, the man’s a genius artist, that much is clear, but I think you were right when you told me he was a loner.”
“I bet he wasn’t like that with Cordelia, the love of his life.”
She says the last words like they’re bitter and she can’t wait to spit them out.
My curiosity is piqued. “Where is this Cordelia now?”
“She overdosed and died,” Shroomie whispers.
I stop in my tracks, and so does she. This somehow never came up in her previous monologues on the man, although she did tell me a lot about his past with heroin.
“His rich mommy and daddy paid for this fancy art-focused rehab center, and yeah, nowadays he’s clean and working, and he’s great at what he does, but he’s… Not here. He’s closed off in some mental mausoleum to Cordelia, blaming himself, determined never to get close to anyone else ever again.”
We’re both silent for a while, and then I tell her, “That’s a hard man to love.”
Mushroom laughs like she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Shroomie. I mean, you’ve seen what happened to Lucy. I know he’s nothing like Hammer,” I say when I see she’s about to protest. “But the question still remains, how long are you prepared to wait?”
We stand in front of the clubhouse in silence for a few beats.
“I wish I knew.”
“Is Dana coming?” I ask Lucy as I’m helping her plate the food.
She purses her lips and twists them to the side. “I don’t think so. I… I think my brother has a thing for Dana,” she whispers, glancing between my face and the door the whole time. “And I don’t think that Red is ready for this little enmeshed denial party that she and Miguel have going on to end.”
“I thought they were just being civil and friendly for Isabella,” I whisper back.
“That’s what they claim, but I don’t think that’s the full truth, at least not for Red.”
“Oh, no. Are Dana and Doc dating?”
Lucy shakes her head as she finishes up the last plate. “The glasses are up there,” she indicates with her chin, and I turn to get them. “I think Miguel wants to ask her out and, the idiot he is, he asked Meg and me what we thought.”
“Yikes.”
“That about sums it up.”
I never noticed romantic vibes between Doc and Red, but they did always move through the world like a family unit.
Poor Dana, walking into that.
I shake my head to myself as I eat.
“My ex got a tattoo for each of our boys,” Lucy tells Bev in response to something. “A teddy bear with their name and birthday. Cute, right? Father of the year! Well, never got up to help with the night wakings, not even once. Always cited his sacred doctor job as an excuse.”
“Well, no wonder the verb to father means to conceive a child, get a woman pregnant,” Bev says pointedly, “whereas to mother someone means to treat them with care and nurture them, fuss over them.”
“Onto lighter subjects,” Lucy declares. “Bev, how’s menopause?”
That gets a laugh.
“Kicking my ass,” Bev admits, scrunching up her nose. “Paul’s too. Poor guy."
We spend the next hour dancing and belting out the lyrics to kickass female anthems, then we work together to restore order in the family room.
“People always talk about how detrimental it is when women think they can fix men,” I hear Red tell Shroomie, who has a grim look on her face, “but it is even more dangerous to believe that we can be miraculously healed by someone else.”
“I kind of disagree with the second part,” Jameela interjects thoughtfully. “The right kind of love can be healing. Not in the sense of fixing a person who is a jerk, but rather making someone who’s been wounded feel safe and secure enough to enable them to heal and grow.”
“I learned the hard way that that’s not true. I tried everything, and I mean everything, to make Miguel feel safe and secure and to help him through his addiction, and it still wasn’t enough. What does that say about me?” Red asks bitterly, and none of us has the answer to that.
*
In the same backyard where I once stood as a scared newcomer, today Hawk and I stand as a couple, greeting the guests arriving at DJ’s birthday party.
Molly and I, with Dana’s help, turned the place into a yellow tractor wonderland. Hawk insisted on getting the cake.
“From Sullivan’s,” he said with a wink.
He doesn’t take his eyes (or hands) off me the entire party, and I love it. I am the center of his galaxy. We haven’t had a repeat of our steamy weekend encounter, but where I’d normally be overthinking and freaking out, I’m not.
It probably has something to do with the way Hawk finds a way to touch me or hold my hand whenever he’s near me: while walking, driving, or sitting on the couch. He doesn’t do it in a possessive or lustful way, but more like he needs my touch to get through the day. It makes me feel… precious.
Maybe that’s stupid. I don’t care.
“I think I’ll stay on with Cotton,” I tell Bev when she asks about my trial period coming to an end.
“So, Uncle was right when he claimed that it would be a good fit,” she muses.
Ever since I started apprenticing with Cotton, whenever I close my eyes at night, I imagine being able to carve designs as intricate as his, and that’s how I drift off to sleep every night.
“It reminds me of cross-stitching and embroidering,” I tell her. “Which I like to do after DJ’s bedtime.”
In between stealing kisses from Hawk, I add mentally.
Before Bev can respond, we hear Squid’s booming voice.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please? I’m not trying to usurp DJ’s party, don’t worry, Hawk,” he jokes, “but I would like to give a little speech, if Marissa’ll allow it.”
I nod, unsure what to expect. Hawk takes my hand in his.
“My wife always likes to say that a child’s first birthday is more about the mother surviving that first year,” our Prez says, and Bev raises a hand in the air, woohooing.
Squid waits for the laughter to die down before continuing, “That’s why I want to take a moment today to celebrate Marissa.
You’ve done one of the hardest, most badass things a human being can do - you carried and birthed and cared for this child,” he points his hand at my son, who’s laughing in Molly’s arms.
My throat is itchy, and I don’t even try to stop the tears. Squid is right. It was badass.
“And then you did another difficult thing. You saved a life. Our brother’s life.”
When I look up at Hawk, he’s tearing up, too. But Squid isn’t done.
“Our first gift to you was to help destroy the club that hurt you.”
The deafening applause takes me by surprise, and I stand just a little taller.
“And for the other one, I am honored to officially present you with these.”
It’s the tiny denim vest that gets me. Yeah, mine looks great, but the baby cut with my son’s initials on it has me bawling for real.
I still manage to shoot Bev a semi-reproachful look. Last week, she asked me to pick a road name, “for the club files.”
Now it’s staring at me, artfully embroidered in shiny black floss. Raven.
There are more tears and hugs, and the girls even hand me another gift bag.
Luckily, no one asks me to give a speech.
“I’m proud of you,” Hawk whispers in my ear as he hugs me last, and my belly flutters.
I squeeze him as hard as I can. When we finally break the hug, his eyes are bright and joyful.
I love him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.