Chapter Ten #2
As I left the infirmary, the scent of coffee and frying bacon wafted from the kitchen, and my stomach grumbled.
The second I entered, I spotted two beautiful women.
One was heavily pregnant; the other looked as if she should be on a billboard somewhere.
But as beautiful as they both were, they did nothing for me as my thoughts went to my memories of Karlyn.
“Can I help you?”
I cleared my throat, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach. My knuckles were white where I gripped the worn fabric of my pants. My voice, when I spoke, sounded a little rougher than I intended. “Ma’am, King said to come see you about some food. I know it’s past lunchtime.”
I looked at the striking, heavily pregnant woman, her belly a testament to a life blooming within. She scoffed, a sound that scraped against my nerves, as if having a stray brother walk in, a stranger from who-knows-where, was nothing new.
“Nonsense, have a seat.” She puttered around the kitchen, each step deliberate, heavy. I watched the sway of her hips, the way her hand instinctively went to her belly, and a wave of something akin to guilt washed over me.
Looking at her swollen belly, a thought, a good intention, an ingrained politeness surfaced. “I can make something myself. You should sit.”
I blinked fast as the woman spun around, her eyes narrowing, a fierce glare that felt like a physical blow. “Excuse me? Do I look like an invalid?”
Idiot, what the fuck did you just do? She offered. How many times did Stella get on you about letting a woman do as she pleases when she offers a helping hand?
“N-no, ma’am.” I quickly shook my head, my heart hammering against my ribs.
My gaze darted around the kitchen, searching for an escape, a way out of this rapidly escalating disaster.
I’d been around plenty of hot-headed women in my life, women whose tempers could flare faster than a struck match, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, I’d crossed some invisible, volatile line.
From the look she was giving me, I was pretty damn sure I had just taken my life into my hands.
“Is there a reason you think I am not capable of making you food?” The woman crossed her arms over her chest, resting them on her protruding abdomen, a defiant gesture that broadcasted her indignation.
DON’T ANSWER THAT! a voice shouted in my head. She thinks you’re accusing her of being weak. You know better. You know what it’s like to be underestimated. Why did you do that?
“Mom, be nice,” a younger woman’s voice, sharp and clear, chastised from the doorway.
She entered the kitchen, her presence a welcome, yet also somehow complicated, relief.
“Can’t you hear his accent? He’s a Southern boy, Mom.
Not a Neanderthal from Boston who thinks women are weak. He has manners.”
The younger girl winked at me—a shared understanding, a secret acknowledgment—and I felt a foolish grin spread across my face, even as I lowered my eyes.
“I mean no offense, ma’am.” My words felt hollow, inadequate.
“Enough with the ma’am bullshit,” the stubborn matriarch scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at me. “My name is Maureen.”
“Jackson, ma’am.” When Maureen cut her eyes at me, a flicker of annoyance in their depths, I winced, a small, involuntary sound. “Sorry. It’s bred into me. Nothing I can do.”
This time my smile was wide, a desperate attempt to smooth over the rough edges I’d created.
Maureen just shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips, and made herself busy making me a sandwich.
The sandwich, when it was placed in front of me, felt heavy, not with food, but with the weight of my own clumsy interactions, the constant, gnawing doubt that I was making things worse for everyone.
Maureen sat down at the table on the other end, watching me intently as she tilted her head to the side. “Your eyes are very interesting.”
“Thank you?” I questioned, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach.
Her scrutiny felt like an invasion, a familiar discomfort that always prickled at me.
I hated being the focus, the subject of such pointed observation.
It felt like an invitation for judgment, and I’d spent too long building walls to let anyone get that close.
“You’ll have to forgive my mom. She’s from New England, where people are kind, but they aren’t nice.
” The young girl’s voice, bright and a little too eager, did little to soothe my internal clamor.
Kindness without niceness. The phrase echoed the judgmental whispers I constantly fought against in my mind.
I lifted an eyebrow in confusion; my internal debate was already beginning.
Was it better to be overtly critical and thus honest, or superficially pleasant while harboring unspoken disapproval?
My own upbringing, a constant tightrope walk between my family’s rigid expectations and my own burgeoning sense of self, made the question painfully relevant.
“How can you be kind but not nice?” the other woman asked.
The young girl chuckled. It felt performative, like she was enjoying her own cleverness.
“In New England, if you get a flat tire, people will stop and help you change it, but they’ll tell you how stupid you were for running over a nail in the first place.
They’ll give you the shirt off their back to make sure you’re dressed but criticize you for not bringing an extra. ”
“I guess that means Southerners are nice but not kind. ’Cause they are sweet as pie when they say, ‘bless your heart,’ knowing damn well the second you turn your back, they’ll take the knife they cut that pie with and stab you with it,” the pretty one added.
“Exactly.”
I chuckled, a hollow sound that betrayed none of the turmoil churning within me.
Maureen watched me, her gaze unwavering.
It was precisely this kind of interaction I’d always avoided.
The easy camaraderie, the shared observations—they were a trap, a siren song leading to exposure.
I wanted to shrink back, to melt into the shadows, but a part of me, a deeply buried, almost shameful part, craved that connection, that feeling of belonging.
It was a battle I’d fought for years, this internal war between the desire to be seen and the overwhelming fear of what might be revealed.
“Maureen?” the pretty woman said, her voice softer now, tinged with a genuine curiosity that made my skin crawl. “I’m sorry, there’s just something familiar about you. Where are you from?” she asked, looking directly at me.
The question landed like a blow.
I answered, my voice tight, “Tennessee.”
Uncomfortable didn’t even describe it. The familiar urge to deflect, to lie, to construct a more palatable version of myself, surged.
I didn’t like people asking about me, where I was from, or who I really was.
I wasn’t like the rest of my family. I kept my personal life close to the vest. No one needed to know who I truly was.
This was the very secret I’d sworn to protect, the fragile peace I’d built on a foundation of omission.
But here, under Maureen’s steady gaze and the pretty woman’s insistent inquiry, I felt a dangerous crack forming.
“And your parents?”
“Mom, leave the man alone.” The young girl’s chiding was a welcome interruption, a reprieve I hadn’t realized I was desperate for.
But even as relief washed over me, a small, insidious voice whispered that I was a coward, that I should have stood my ground, that I should have owned my story, however messy.
“I’m sorry.” Maureen shook her head, the apology a flicker of something I couldn’t quite decipher. She stood up from the table and went to the refrigerator to grab the tea. Filling a glass, she set it in front of me. I looked at the glass, the dark liquid shimmering, and then at Maureen.
“It’s sweet. I don’t know how you all drink that shit. Fucking diabetes in a glass.”
Her bluntness, devoid of any New England niceness or Southern sweetness, struck me with a strange force. It was an observation, stark and unvarnished, and for the first time that evening, I felt a faint stirring of kinship. My eyes widened as I gaped at the woman.
Holy shit. She is just like Stella.
King chose that moment to walk in. The pretty woman stiffened and got up from the table, not before giving King a withering look that didn’t bode well for the man.
“Grace, can we talk?”
“Fuck you, King.”
“Grace,” he groaned. “It will only take a minute.”
“Sorry, I promised Colleen I’d get a coffee with her,” she said, glancing over at the young girl named Colleen, who blinked several times before quickly adding, “That’s right. She promised. She’s always working, so we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.”
“Johnny is still at the hospital.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
“Yes, you fucking do,” he countered, his words tearing from his throat.
I knew he knew he was pushing her, knew he was likely making things worse, but the alternative—leaving Grace to her own devices without protection while his club was at war—was something even I knew he would flat out refuse.
“And so does Colleen. I promised Duncan I’d keep her safe. ”
“Then someone else can go with us.”
“Grace,” he growled, the sound a desperate plea.
“I’ll go,” I offered. Anything to get the hell out of this mess. I didn’t know what King had done to piss off that woman, but she looked ready to skin his ass alive, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near her when she struck.
“You’re fucking hurt. You aren’t going anywhere,” King immediately snapped in my direction.
“Indie is going with us,” Grace snipped, her voice tight with fury. She grabbed Colleen’s arm and dragged the poor girl through the door of the kitchen before King could say another word.
As soon as they left, Maureen snapped, “What the fuck did you do now?”
The second I saw King stiffen, I knew that was my cue to leave.
Grabbing my plate and sweet tea, I vacated the kitchen, leaving King to whatever fate was about to befall him. I retreated hastily, thanking God I wasn’t in the line of fire for once.