Page 92 of Thornhill Road

Every one of my patients had a life they lived before I entered it. In the best-case scenarios, that life had been long. But I was only ever a part of their last few months, sometimes weeks, or even days.

When I met Ed, all I got was a snapshot of his lifenow. It was a life filled with holes—holes punctured by sadness and regret. I understood there were significant moments, life changing mistakes that had been made shaping hisnow;but all the space between those decisions and moments were filled with other details and choices I’d never thought about, because I never did. Not with any of my patients.

Like he’d been doing since the night he’d thrown all those puzzle pieces at my feet, Mustang helped me fill a couple more spots in the picture I so wanted to see. He’d run away from home at sixteen years old, but he hadn’t gone far.

The puzzle was almost complete, and I knew then, I wasn’t going to ask him about Ed anymore. Ed was dying now, but their relationship had died a slow death long before me.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the nameSullyhad died just as slowly, or if that tie had been severed quicker.

“Is that why you don’t like to be called Sully?” I asked softly.

He sighed, reaching up to run a hand down his face. This was clearly not a conversation he anticipated; neither was it one he was enjoying, but he answered me anyway.

“First time you met me you called me Sullivan. It’s what he used to call me. Didn’t like it then. Still don’t fuckin’ like it.”

I frowned, fairly certain it had been Ed who corrected me when I had used the name mentioned in the newspaper caption. “He didn’t call you Sully?”

Mustang shook his head once. “Mom called me Sully.”

I thought about this for a moment. Then I remembered how little Mary-Kate referred to all her uncles by their given names, not their road names. But Otto had called Mustang Uncle Stang, not Uncle Sully. Rodeo didn’t even know Mustang’s real name.

“I just assumed—I mean, everyone calls you—”

“Mustang suits me. Didn’t choose it, but it fit. I liked it. So, it’s the only way I introduce myself.”

“You didn’t choose it?”

This came as a surprise to me. I’d all but memorized the mustang tattoo he had inked on his chest. The name more than suited him, it identified him.

“No one chooses their own road name, sugar.”

“Who decided you were Mustang? And why?”

“Winnie—but so far as the club knows, it was Bull’s idea. As for why, mustangs are free-roaming, feral horses. She knew from the moment she found me in her office I’d escaped my own forced captivity. And when I had a bike that could ride, nothin’ I wanted to do more than ride it. Didn’t matter where.”

Ride wild. Roam free.

That wasn’t the club’s motto—it wasMustang’s.

Winnie had been right. She had my man pegged before he even had a chance to earn his first patch. Yet, she wasn’t the first woman to name him or the first woman to love him. That honorhad been reserved for Mary-Kate. She was responsible for the parts of him I was beginning to understand were Sully.

“YouareMustang,” I said, searching the depths of his eyes. “Almost like you were born to be no one else. But there are parts of you—parts of you I think are Sully, too. The way you love, the way you take care of the people who mean something to you—I think that comes from your mom, which is the part of you that can’t be identified as the man called Mustang. It can only live inside the protective shell that is that man. She never got the chance to know this complete version of you. She died loving her boy, Sully.”

He stared at me for a long time, saying nothing and everything all at once.

“Babe?” I whispered after a while.

“Sittin’ right next to you, Tess,” he replied softly, as if the moment in which we found ourselves might have been broken if either of us spoke too loudly.

My gaze still locked with his, I asked what I’d been wanting to know for weeks.

“How did she die?”

He answered me without a second’s hesitation.

“There was a spring storm blowin’ through. We’d barely finished dinner, mom and me, and the phone rang. Ed was at the bar, gettin’ shit-faced. They were shuttin’ down early. Bar owner had the house number on fuckin’ speed dial. Rang her up, told her she needed to come get her man. So, she went. Like always. Made it all the way there. Picked him up. Lost control on a patch of ice comin’ home. Car flipped. Mom died. Drunk bastard didn’t.”

“Oh, Sully…” I breathed.

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