Page 51 of Collect the Pieces

At the next door, she pushes it open to reveal a large, multi-stall restroom. Small, square and a few taller, rectangular lockers line the wall to our left. They’re big enough to store a purse, coat or other small personal items. Some are secured with a padlock; others are open or open with items inside.

“You can store your purse in one of these.” Shelby points to the lockers. “You just gotta carry the key around all night.” She tugs one key out of the lock of an empty locker and dangles it by the stretchy band it’s attached to.

“I just leave mine up in our room.” She pats the front pocket of her hoodie. “Keep the important stuff in here.”

I clutch the narrow strap of my small black purse. “I’ll keep it with me for now.”

We each do our thing and meet at the sinks. I blink at my reflection—paler than usual, eyes a little too wide, hair flat. I smooth my hands over my cheeks, as if I can swipe some color onto my skin. It doesn’t help. I still don’t like what I see. I pull my gloss out and lean closer to the mirror to dab it on.

I screw the gloss shut and drop it into my purse.

Shelby meets my gaze in the mirror and gives me a reassuring smile. “Come on, we wanna get there before the guys eat all the food on us.”

I nod, but my feet feel heavier as I turn toward the door.

As we step into the hallway, the sound of low voices and laughter, punctuated by shrill screams from babies or arguing children, fills the hallway in waves. A chorus of familiarity from people who consider themselves family.

“That’s the yoga room.” Shelby points to a closed door as we pass it. “We’ll probably have class tomorrow morning while the guys are in church. You should join us.”

“Oh. I’d like that. I don’t think I brought anything to wear for yoga, though.”

She shrugs. “Someone’s always got extra clothes around here. We’ll find you something if you want.”

Another hallway stretches to our right. Shelby points. “Gym, laundry room, and I’m not sure what else is down there.”

She pushes the double doors open, and I’m immediately overwhelmed with the size of the dining room. It’s more suited to a college dining hall than a retreat. One very long table—or more likely several tables arranged together—splits the space in half. A shorter round table set up near one end has tiny, colorful chairs around it and toys scattered over the top.

A long buffet has been set up against the wall, underneath large windows where weak late afternoon light beams. Against the back wall, an actual bar is set up with more bottles than most actual bars probably carry. In front of it, there’s a table set up with coffee and tea.

Shelby nudges me. “I need to check on something in the kitchen real quick—we usually sit on this end. Jiggy should be down here soon.”

“Oh, sure. Go ahead, I’m fine,” I say, still staring at the scene in front of me.

Brothers in black leather vests just like Jigsaw’s prowl around the table, some greeting each other with laughter and complicated handshakes or back slaps. Other brothers pull out chairs for their wives or girlfriends—some doing it one-handed because they’re carrying a kid in the other arm.

It’s an unexpectedly domestic scene.

And I stand right inside the doorway with my back to the wall, hands clasped in front of me. The same stance I usually take when I’m working at a service. Still as a statue. Observing everything.

“What’re you doing?” Jigsaw’s warm voice pulls me out of observation mode.

“I…” How can I explain that I’m more comfortable lurking outside of events than being a seated guest at the table? The night he took me to the racetrack was different. Outdoors and less formal.

“Come on.” He slides his arm over my shoulders and steers me toward the table.

Shelby’s returning from the kitchen, and she lifts her arm high, throwing a big wave. “Jiggy there you are!” She hurries over, her cowgirl boots thudding against the terrazzo floor. “Come on.”

I’m introduced to several people along the way. It’s almost a relief to sit in my chair and fade into the background.

One of the biggest men I’ve ever seen cups his hand over his mouth and shouts, “Form an orderly line. Serve yourselves!”

“Wrath’s gotta direct traffic now?” Jigsaw says to Rooster.

Rooster’s lips tilt with amusement.

A burly man with a tidy beard and red hair leans forward. “He just loves bossing people around, everywhere.”

“Margot,” Jigsaw says. “You remember Murphy? He’s our VP upstate and he made the chili tonight.”

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