Chapter 2 - June
*You're here.*
I said it like Jackson's one of the reasons I stay. Which he is, but I shouldn't have said it out loud, shouldn't have made it sound like he matters in the same breath as my parents and my dead husband. Like they're all equal weights on the scale keeping me tethered to this town.
Jackson doesn't respond. Just stares out the passenger window at the rain, jaw tight, hands folded in his lap. Water drips from his hair onto his collar, and I have the sudden irrational urge to reach over and brush it away.
I don't. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road and tell myself to stop making this weird.
My wipers beat against the windshield, *thump-thump, thump-thump*, and I search desperately for something to say that will make the last thirty seconds disappear.
"I just meant—" I start.
"I know what you meant," Jackson says.
But he doesn't. He can't. Because what I meant is that I can't imagine this town without him in it, can't imagine my life without these monthly dinners that are supposed to be about honoring Tommy but have somehow become about the only time I feel like I'm not just going through the motions.
And I can't say any of that because it feels like a betrayal of my husband's memory and also because Jackson Reed has never once given me any indication that he sees me as anything other than his best friend's widow.
I turn onto Maple Street, heading toward the industrial area where Jackson's garage sits like a monument to his father's legacy. The rain's coming down so hard I almost miss the turn, and have to brake harder than I mean to. Jackson braces one hand against the dashboard but doesn't comment.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"It's fine."
Everything's fine. We're both fine. This whole terrible, awkward drive is fine.
I hate it.
The garage appears through the rain, a squat brick building with *Reed's Auto* painted in fading letters above the bay doors.
Jackson's father opened it thirty-something years ago, back when Millhaven still had enough people to support three mechanics.
Now it's the only one left, and Jackson runs it alone because he's too stubborn to hire help and too loyal to let his father's legacy die.
I pull into the small parking lot and put the car in park, engine still running, heat blasting. Jackson reaches for the door handle immediately, like he can't wait to get away from this conversation.
"Thanks for the ride," he says.
I don't want him to leave. Not like this, not with this tension sitting between us unresolved. Not when I can see the exhaustion in every line of his face and know he's going to walk into that empty garage and work until three in the morning because he doesn't know how else to cope.
The words come out before I can stop them. "Can I come in?"
Jackson pauses, hand on the door, and turns to look at me. "What?"
"The garage. Can I come in for a bit?" I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to sound casual. "I haven't been inside in... God, it's been years. Since your dad's funeral, maybe. I'd like to see it again. If that's okay."
It's a thin excuse and we both know it. But it's also true. I haven't been inside Reed's Auto since the reception after Walt's funeral, when half the town crowded into the shop to share stories and eat casseroles and pretend they weren't watching Jackson try to hold himself together.
That was eight years ago. Tommy was still alive then. I was still someone different.
Jackson glances at my face for a moment, and I can see him trying to figure out if this is a good idea. Probably deciding it's not. But then his expression softens just slightly, and he nods.
"Yeah. Okay."
I kill the engine and grab my purse, and we both make a run for the side entrance. The rain hasn't let up at all, if anything, it's coming down harder. By the time Jackson gets the door unlocked and we're inside, we're both dripping onto the worn linoleum of the narrow entryway.
"Christ," Jackson mutters, wiping water from his face. "Hang on."
He disappears through a doorway and returns a moment later with two towels, both faded and fraying at the edges, but clean. I take one and press it to my face, then try to wring some of the water from my hair.
"Thanks."
"Yeah. Stairs are there if you want to see the apartment, but I figured you meant the shop."
"The shop," I confirm.
He nods and leads me through the doorway into the main garage. The overhead lights flicker on with a mechanical hum, illuminating the space I remember from childhood.
It's exactly the same and completely different all at once.
The layout hasn't changed.
Two bays with lifts, a third bay for smaller jobs, Walt's old workbench against the back wall covered in tools.
The smell is the same too: motor oil, metal and that indefinable scent that just means garage.
But there are differences. New equipment I don't recognize.
A tool board that's more extensive than I remember.
And everywhere, signs of Jackson: his handwriting on work orders pinned to a corkboard, his jacket hanging on a hook by the door, a coffee mug sitting on the workbench that says *I'm Not Arguing, I'm Just Explaining Why I'm Right*.
I smile despite myself. "Tommy got you that mug."
"Yeah. Like fifteen years ago. Thing's indestructible."
I walk further into the shop, running my fingers along the edge of the workbench. There's an engine block sitting there, partially disassembled, tools laid out in order around it. Several motorcycles are parked in various states of repair, some on lifts, others waiting their turn.
"Business looks good," I say, gesturing to the bikes.
"Steady enough." Jackson moves to stand beside the workbench, picks up a wrench and turns it over in his hands. "Keeps me busy."
There's something in the way he says it, *keeps me busy*, that makes my chest tight. Like he needs the distraction. Like without it, he'd fall apart.
I move closer to one of the motorcycles, studying it to avoid his gaze.
It's big, intimidating, all chrome and black metal.
The Iron Phoenix logo is visible on the fuel tank, a bird rising from flames.
I've seen that symbol around town for the past few years, ever since the MC set up on the outskirts of Millhaven.
Everyone knows about the Iron Phoenix. Hard not to when nine bikers roll through Main Street or gather at Lou's Diner.
The town's divided about them. Some people are wary, remembering wilder clubs from decades past. Others appreciate that they keep to themselves, pay their bills, don't cause trouble in town.
And then there's the war. The one people whisper about but don't discuss openly. Something about another MC called the Vipers, about territory and violence and things most people in Millhaven would rather not know about.
I know Jackson's part of it. He joined the Iron Phoenix a few years back. I've never asked him why. It felt like crossing a line, like acknowledging a part of his life I'm not supposed to know about.
"Is this one theirs?" I ask, nodding toward the bike.
"Canvas's," Jackson says. "The club's tattoo artist. Rides it like he's trying to kill himself and never mentions when something's wrong until it's catastrophic.
" There's fondness in his voice despite the exasperation.
"Cracked head gasket, blown rings, oil pan that looks like it went ten rounds with a sledgehammer. "
"Will you be able to fix it?"
"Eventually. Need to order parts." He sets the wrench down. "Been working on it between other jobs. Gives me something to focus on."
*Gives me something to focus on* instead of *keeps my hands busy*. The difference is subtle but significant.
"You work too much," I tell him.
"Says the woman who's at the flower shop six days a week." He finally looks at me. "When do you rest, June?"
"I rest."
"When?"
I don't have a good answer for that. The truth is I don't rest. Haven't rested in seven years, maybe longer.
There's always something that needs doing: arrangements that need making, bills that need paying, a father who needs caring for, a house that's too big and too empty and too full of memories I can't escape.
"Right," Jackson says when I don't respond. "That's what I thought."
We stand there in silence, both staring at Canvas's destroyed engine like it holds answers to questions we're not asking. The rain drums against the metal roof, a steady percussion that somehow makes the silence feel less oppressive.
"I'm worried about you," I finally say.
"I know."
"The war with the Vipers…"
"I know, June." He still won't look at me. "But I'm careful. The whole club is. Phoenix has us on rotating patrols, no one goes anywhere alone after dark. We're doing everything right."
"That doesn't make me worry less."
"I'm not asking you to stop worrying." He turns to face me, and the exhaustion I saw at dinner is even more visible now under the harsh fluorescent lights. "I'm just asking you to trust that I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?"
The question comes out sharper than I intended. Jackson's jaw tightens.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you look like you haven't slept in a week.
It means the whole town is talking about the Vipers targeting anyone connected to the club.
It means there's a dangerous man out there somewhere who wants you and your brothers dead, and you're all acting like this is just...
business as usual." My voice cracks slightly. "I already lost Tommy. I can't—"
I stop myself before I finish that sentence. Before I say *I can't lose you too* and make this into something it's not. Something it can't be.
He takes a step closer, and for a moment I think he's going to reach for me. But he stops himself, keeps his hands at his sides.
"You're not going to lose me," he whispers.
"You can't promise that."