Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zane
“Don’t you dare drip on my boots.”
“I’m not… Zane!”
Too late.
The roller jerks sideways, and a streak of warm amber paint arcs through the air. It misses my boots. Does not miss my jeans.
Aurora freezes.
I look down at the fresh stripe across my thigh.
She slaps a hand over her mouth.
Then she laughs.
We’ve been painting for a week. The place smells of primer and citrus cleaner and whatever candle she insisted on lighting yesterday because, and again I quote, “construction dust has a personality, and I don’t like it.”
The back wall’s done. Stage area’s done. Today we’re finishing the last stretch near the windows.
I drag the roller slowly down the paneling, watching the old dark stain disappear under the new warm color.
“Vibes are defensive,” she’d said.
I still don’t know what that means.
But I handed her a roller anyway.
She’s wearing one of my flannels. Sleeves shoved up. Hem hitting mid-thigh over cutoffs. There’s a streak of paint across her cheek she might not know about, and another near her collarbone she definitely doesn’t.
Music’s playing from her phone. Some indie folk thing with too many feelings and not enough drums. Windows are open. Pine air is pushing through the room.
She steps back, turning slowly in the middle of the floor, assessing a battlefield.
“Okay,” she says. “If this place were a person, who would it be?”
I don’t look up from the trim. “A bar?”
She gasps. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m efficient.”
She points her roller at me. “Personality.”
I consider it. “Arlo.”
Her face lights up. “Oh shit, yes.”
“Grumpy. Observant. Pretends not to care.”
“Secretly sentimental,” she adds.
“Debatable.”
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t think Arlo is sentimental?”
“I think he tolerates us.”
She laughs again and steps closer to the wall I just finished.
“You’re wrong,” she says. “He’s absolutely sentimental. He just disguises it with sarcasm and whiskey.”
“That’s called coping.”
She grins. “That’s called layered.”
I step back and study the line where the old wood meets the new paint.
“Layered sounds expensive.”
“Growth usually is.”
I glance at her.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
She wipes sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smear of paint in its place.
“I like making things better,” she says.
“You think it was bad before?”
She tilts her head. “No. Just… guarded.”
That makes me look at the room differently.
At the reinforced windows. The extra locks. The cameras I installed on the main entrances without telling her. Still not enough. The rear approach and treeline need another pass.
“Guarded’s not always bad,” I say.
“No,” she agrees softly. “But it’s not the same as welcoming.”
She dips the roller again and climbs up on a step stool without asking for help.
I still the stool anyway.
“I’ve got it,” she says.
“Yeah.”
I don’t move my hand.
She rolls paint up near the ceiling, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
“Tell me something,” she says.
“About what?”
“You.”
“Be more specific.”
She sighs dramatically, dragging the roller down the wall in a long, even stroke. “Fine. Childhood. Give me something real.”
I keep my hand braced on the step stool while she reaches up toward the ceiling trim.
“That’s broad.”
“Okay,” she says. “Where did you grow up?”
My grip tightens slightly on the wood. “What do you mean?”
“Like… what was your house like? Suburbs? Farm? Did you have a tree you carved your initials into? Were you a feral woods child?”
I don’t answer right away.
She keeps painting, humming along to the music.
“I didn’t really grow up in one place,” I say finally.
She glances down at me. “Military family?”
“No.”
She tilts her head. “Then what?”
I look at the wall instead of her. “Foster care.”
The roller stops mid-stroke.
“What?”
“I was in the system,” I say. “From eight.”
She climbs down off the stool without breaking eye contact.
“Eight?” she repeats softly.
“Yeah.”
She sets the roller carefully in the tray as if it might shatter.
“I…” She shakes her head. “I didn’t know.”
“Wasn’t exactly on the welcome brochure.”
Her brows knit together. “What happened?”
There it is.
The question most people avoid.
“My mom wasn’t stable,” I say. “In and out of jail. Addiction. Men who shouldn’t have been around kids.”
Her jaw tightens. “Your dad?”
I shrug. “Didn’t stick around long enough to qualify.”
She presses her lips together.
“One night,” I continue, keeping it flat, factual, “things got loud. Neighbor called it in. CPS showed up. That was that.”
She’s staring at me because I just shifted the floor under her.
“That’s… that’s how you ended up—”
“Yeah.”
“How many houses?”
“Six before I stopped counting.”
Her hand drifts toward my arm, but she hesitates.
“Did you ever go back?” she asks.
“To my mom?”
She nods.
“No.”
She swallows. “Did you want to?”
That one takes a second.
“I wanted her to want me,” I say.
Aurora’s eyes shine a little.
“That’s not the same thing,” she whispers.
“No.”
She steps closer, not touching yet.
“Were they all bad?” she asks carefully.
“No,” I say. “Some were just temporary. Some were loud. Some were quiet in the wrong way.”
“Any good ones?” she asks gently.
“Tom,” I say.
Her mouth softens around his name. She already knows he matters.
“He was the fourth house,” I tell her. “A small place with a detached garage. It smelled of oil and sawdust. He didn’t talk much.”
“You liked him immediately?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“I didn’t trust him.”
“Fair.”
“He didn’t try to win me over,” I continue. “Didn’t do the fake ‘we’re so happy to have you’ thing. Just showed me where the extra blankets were. Said dinner was at six. If I was late, I’d be hungry.”
She smiles faintly. “I kind of love him.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
I grab the sanding block off the bar, mostly so I’ve got something in my hands.
“He’d let me sit in the garage while he worked,” I tell her. “Didn’t make me talk. Just handed me tools. Corrected me when I did something wrong. Never yelled. Just…” I shrug. “Showed me how.”
“That’s huge,” she says softly.
“It was good,” I reply. “First time I knew what day of the week it was without guessing.”
Her breath catches slightly at that.
“He ever try to adopt you?” she asks.
I nod once. “Filed paperwork.”
“And?”
“Didn’t clear.”
Her face falls.
“Why?”
“Bio mom contested it,” I say. “Then disappeared again.”
Aurora presses her hand over her mouth. “So you had to leave?”
“Yeah.”
“How long were you there?”
“Almost a year.”
“That’s not enough,” she whispers.
“No.”
“What was the worst one?” she asks carefully.
I don’t answer right away.
She doesn’t rush me.
“There was a house that was real quiet,” I say eventually. “Too quiet. No yelling. No noise. Just rules. Everything had to be exact. Shoes lined up. Towels folded a certain way. If they weren’t…”
I stop.
Her hand finds my forearm this time.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
“Consequences,” I say flatly. “Nothing that left marks you could prove.”
Her fingers tighten.
“I learned to be invisible there,” I add. “Learned how to take up less space.”
She steps closer.
“I’m really glad you don’t do that anymore,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Shrink.”
I set the sanding block down.
“How’d you end up with the club?” she asks after a second.
“That was later,” I say. “I was seventeen. Aged out. No plan.”
Her brows lift. “They just let you go?”
“System gives you a bag and a brochure,” I say.
She stares at me. “That’s barbaric.”
“Efficient.”
“That’s not efficient, that’s abandonment.”
I shrug.
“I was working odd jobs,” I continue. “Fixing bikes out of a shed behind a gas station. Ryder came through one afternoon.”
Her expression shifts at his name.
“With a busted clutch and a look like he wanted to fight someone,” I add.
She huffs a soft laugh.
“That tracks.”
“I fixed it. Didn’t overcharge him. Didn’t kiss his ass either.”
“Bold.”
“Didn’t know who he was yet.”
“And then?”
“He came back. Asked if I wanted steadier work.”
“With the club.”
“Yeah.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
I think about it.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’d already seen worse.”
She exhales slowly.
“They gave you stability,” she says.
“They gave me a place,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
“Not always.”
She studies me. “Did they feel like family?”
I hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “In a way that didn’t feel conditional.”
Her eyes soften.
“I had the opposite problem,” she says quietly.
I glance at her. “How?”
“My mom stayed,” she says. “But she’s… practical. Emotionally allergic.”
I almost smile.
“She loves me,” Aurora continues. “But she doesn’t sit in grief. Or feelings. It’s always ‘move forward, Aurora. Don’t dwell.’”
“That’s not the worst advice.”
“No,” she agrees. “But sometimes you need someone to dwell with you.”
I nod once.
“And my dad,” she adds with a small shrug, “is only there in short bursts.”
I huff quietly. “Consistency’s underrated.”
She smiles faintly. “My grandmother was the constant.”
“Evie?”
“Yeah.”
“She sounds solid.”
“She was,” Aurora says. “She chose me. Over and over.”
“Choice matters,” I say.
“It does,” she whispers.
Silence settles, but it’s not empty.
It’s full of everything we just laid out between us.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “you didn’t just survive that.”
“What?”
“All of it. You built something from it.”
I shake my head. “I just didn’t quit.”
“That’s resilience,” she says. “And it’s not small.”
I glance around the half-painted bar. At the lighter walls covering darker wood. At the reinforced beams beneath the stage.
At her, standing here.
“You staying was a choice too,” I tell her.
She holds my gaze.
“Yeah,” she says. “For now, right?”
Her fingers are still on my arm.
Neither of us moves them.
“I’m glad you found them,” she adds quietly. “The club. Ryder. Finn.”
“Me too.”
“And I’m glad they found you.”
That one hits harder.
I clear my throat and glance at the wall.
“We should finish this section before it dries uneven,” I say.
She smiles because she knows I’m deflecting, but lets me.
“Okay,” she says softly. “But we’re not done talking.”
“No,” I agree.
We’re not.
And when she climbs back onto the stool, I still it again.
Not because she can’t balance.
But because I can.