Chapter Twenty-One
? Holly ?
Life didn’t exactly change overnight—but something in me had.
I wasn’t ready to slap a label on whatever Jackson and I were dancing around.
Not when the thought alone made my chest ache like I’d swallowed sunlight.
But I kept finding myself near him. At the clubhouse after errands.
On the back porch when he pretended to need a smoke break.
Passing him a wrench in the garage even though I couldn’t tell a socket from a screwdriver.
It wasn’t that I’d planned it, more that some rhythm caught me and refused to let go.
Hannah’s sharp laugh from the kitchen, the rumble of bikes out front, Jackson’s shoulder brushing mine when we leaned over the same pool table—it all knitted into a routine I hadn’t realized I craved.
Just when I thought I had the beat down, Maria threw a series of curveballs.
The first curveball was beige and box-shaped, parked crooked in front of the clubhouse like it already knew it didn’t belong here.
“A minivan,” I announced, arms crossed, surveying the battered Chrysler like it had personally offended me. “You’re twenty-two, not fifty.”
Maria slammed the trunk shut with more force than strictly necessary. “It’s called practical, Holly. Look it up.”
“Practical?” I tapped the faded sticker on the bumper. “‘Baby on Board’? What’s next, church bake sales and soccer practice?”
She adjusted her sunglasses, smirking. “You think I can’t dominate a bake sale?”
“God help the PTA.”
Behind us, Diego came down the steps with Jewel on his hip, shaking his head and looking too smug for a man carrying a diaper bag.
“Don’t encourage her,” I warned him. “She’s already drunk on minivan power.”
“I like it,” Diego said, settling Jewel into the car seat with the efficiency of a man who’d practiced. “Plenty of room for snacks.”
“Spoken like a true dad,” I muttered.
“Spoken like a true man who doesn’t want to stop every fifty miles.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned down to Jewel. “Don’t let them trick you, Jellybean. This thing is a coffin on wheels. Stick with me and we’ll get you a convertible by sixteen.”
Jewel giggled, jamming her unicorn in my face, and babbling something only she understood.
“Exactly my point,” I said and kissed her cheek.
Hannah bustled out the door with a tote bag of Tupperware like she was sending them on a six-month voyage. “Breakfast burritos for tomorrow, casseroles for the day after, and pie for emergencies.”
“Define emergency,” Diego said, wrestling with the straps on Jewel’s car seat.
“Any man pretending he doesn’t need help,” Hannah shot back. She shoved a thermos into Maria’s hand. “Coffee. If you don’t drink it, pour it on Diego.”
Maria shot me a look as Hannah hurried back inside and tucked the thermos into the console. Then she hugged me tight, citrus lotion and warm cotton wrapping me in that maternal thing she carried without even trying.
“Listen to me, chica,” she murmured into my hair. “Don’t let fear steal your joy, you stubborn woman.”
My throat clenched. “Rude,” I muttered into her shoulder.
“True.” She eased back, eyes dancing but serious underneath. “There’s a kind of love that makes everything worse, and there’s a kind that makes you brave. Learn which one you’re holding.”
My mouth went dry. “I’m not—” I started, then shut up. No sense lying to Maria. She read people like grocery lists.
Behind us, boots thudded on the steps—Mac and Dalton, their shoulders squared in that silent-brothers way. Jackson trailed after, hands shoved deep in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t watching me. Which was adorable, because he absolutely was.
“Mom is at it again,” Dalton muttered. “Keeps trying to shove half the kitchen into a cooler. Says you’ll need it.”
“She’s not wrong,” Mac said, deadpan. “Road food beats gas station jerky.”
Diego smirked and clasped Dalton’s hand, the unspoken kind of goodbye Saints men seemed fluent in.
Jackson crouched beside the car seat, his drawl honey over gravel. “You take care of those mountains, all right? They’ve been waiting on a boss.”
Jewel squealed and jammed her unicorn against his face like she was crowning him. Jackson pretended to choke on it. “Oh, Sparkle, huh? Should’ve guessed.”
Maria laughed, shaking her head. “You’re fluent in baby now?”
Jackson grinned, eyes still on Jewel. “She’s got a lot to say. Somebody’s gotta translate.”
Jewel clapped her hands, drool on her chin, like she agreed with every word.
The send-off turned into a whole procession. Somebody tossed in the last overnight bag. Somebody else double-checked the straps on the car seat. The Saints were like an ecosystem—everyone had a job.
Maria slid into the passenger seat, her eyes catching mine through the glass. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”
“Too late,” I said, too soft for her to hear.
Diego started the engine, the minivan coughing to life like it hated its own existence.
Jewel waved with both arms, enthusiasm trouncing fine motor skills.
Maria blew us a kiss like a woman who believed in returns.
I prayed that the death trap on wheels would get them to Montana, where Diego’s extended family waited, and back again.
Safely. In one piece. I was going to miss Maria like hell while she was gone. Jewel too. Maybe even Diego.
We watched until taillights were just a suggestion against the Georgia summer glare.
“Feels weird,” Dalton muttered. “Quiet.”
Mac nodded once. Jackson didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
Hannah looped her arm through mine and tugged me toward the kitchen. “Come on. Help me hide the good pie from these locusts.”
I let her drag me inside, the clubhouse swallowing me back into its clatter—the scrape of chairs, the thunk of pool balls breaking, the hum of voices rising to fill the new gap.
At the sink, I washed my hands and pretended my eyes weren’t glassy. Out the window above the counter, the road stretched west, carrying Maria and her family toward the mountains.
Don’t let fear steal your joy.
He took it all those years ago, I realized, glaring at the pies like they were responsible for my emotional growth. But I was going to steal it back. Come hell or high water.
The clubhouse always felt loudest after someone left.
Maria, Diego, and Jewel hadn’t even been gone a week before the rhythm shifted.
No more Maria humming in the kitchen, no more Diego leaning in doorways like a quiet guard dog, no more Jewel’s squeals bouncing off the walls.
The place was still full of people, but without them, the song was missing its harmony.
I told myself I was only hanging around more because my parents’ house was five minutes away and because it was easier to blame Hannah for keeping me busy than admit I wanted to be there. That excuse lasted maybe two days before even I stopped believing it.
Truth was, I liked the noise. The scrape of chairs, the slam of screen doors, Hannah barking orders like a general in an apron.
It kept me busy, gave me something to do with my hands—chopping onions, setting out plates, scribbling notes on the back of envelopes while Hannah grilled me about my plan.
Not a homework assignment. Not some neat little degree program goal. My plan. The shelter.
I’d floated the idea before—a place for women and kids who had nowhere else to go.
My parents nodded politely, as though I’d just announced I wanted to major in philosophy.
Maria hugged me like I’d already built it.
But Hannah was different. She didn’t just listen; she made me prove I meant it.
She shoved a legal pad at me and said, “Write it down before you lose your nerve.”
So I did. At the sticky clubhouse table, with the sound of poker chips clinking behind me, I scribbled half-baked budgets and bullet points while Hannah fired questions. Where would the funding come from? How do you get people to trust you? Who’s gonna keep the lights on?
Half the time I didn’t have answers, but she didn’t let me quit. If I stumbled, she just raised a brow and said, “So find out.”
It was terrifying. And addictive.
And then there was Jackson.
I never admitted it out loud, but he was everywhere. In the garage, bent over an engine, grease streaked across his cheek. At the pool table, leaning just close enough to make my pulse stumble. On the back steps, smoke curling around him while he stared at the night sky like it owed him secrets.
I told myself I wasn’t orbiting him; I was orbiting the clubhouse. But it was a thin lie, and every time our shoulders brushed or our eyes caught across the room, it burned a little more.
The guys noticed. Dalton teased me constantly, like it was his new favorite sport.
If I grabbed a beer from the fridge, he’d smirk and ask, “Gonna grab Jackson one too?” If I sat too close to the pool table, he’d lean over and whisper, “You keeping score or just staring at him?” He had a way of needling without ever quite crossing the line, and every time, Jackson’s jaw tightened like he wanted to deck him.
Mac didn’t tease. He just gave me those steady looks, the kind that made me wonder how much he saw without me saying a word. It was equal parts comforting and unnerving.
At night, I’d walk the short five minutes back to my parents’ house, and my mom would glance up from her book to ask why I smelled like smoke and motor oil. I’d shrug and say Hannah was helping me with my business plan. Not a total lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
The whole truth was that I liked being there. I liked the rhythm, the noise, the way the clubhouse wrapped itself around me like a song I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to hear.
And, most of all, I liked the gravity of the man I kept pretending I wasn’t falling into. One day, the sort of peaceful cadence I had found came to a screeching crescendo.