Page 38 of Better as It

She’s been quiet lately. Overwhelmed, no doubt. Her body’s changing, and she’s carrying thousand pounds of decisions on her shoulders. I can’t add mine to the pile.

So I wait.

Evening comes and tonight, I head to the clubhouse just long enough to keep up appearances.

BW throws an arm around me when I walk in. “About damn time. You vanish any longer, we’d send a search party.”

I smirk. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Mostly just your bike,” he jokes. “She’s prettier than you.”

I play along, laughing, but I keep close to the wall, out of the spotlight. I don’t drink. Just nurse a Coke and nod at conversations like I’m paying attention.

Every once in a while, someone claps me on the back too hard and I flinch.

Too weak. Too raw. But no one notices.

Hellions don’t talk about health. We talk about loyalty. Wrecks. Arrests. Club business. But sickness? That’s a whole different kind of vulnerability.

Tripp walks past me once, eyes narrowing.

I give him a look that says not tonight, not here.

He respects it. For now.

I don’t stay long. At home later, I take my shirt off and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I look older. Thinner. Hollow around the eyes.

I’ve always been the guy people leaned on. Never the one who needed help.

But lately?

I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight anymore. I feel like I’m under it.

I splash water on my face and sit on the edge of the tub, trying to breathe through the nausea that hasn’t let up since Wednesday.

Dia doesn’t text tonight.

I don’t blame her.

She’s still figuring out how to stand on her own again.

And I’m still trying to figure out how much time I have left to stand with her. The prognosis early in my diagnosis was good. Since starting treatment, though, my numbers aren’t always on track with where the doctor wants them to be. I didn’t go tomedical school. Hell, I don’t even have a basic college degree so who am I to question anything.

The next week,I get to the clinic early. Marcy hooks me up with her usual gentle chatter, but I can see the concern in her eyes when she looks at my numbers.

“You’re gonna need to hydrate more,” she says. “Your blood pressure’s dipping.”

“I’ve been hydrating,” I lie.

She gives me a look. “Whiskey doesn’t count.”

“Damn. There goes my recovery plan.”

She smiles, but she’s not laughing. I’m in the chair for hours. I fall asleep for part of it.

I dream about riding, something I haven’t done as much lately. Dia on the back of my bike, arms tight around me, wind rushing past like a song. I dream we’re somewhere warm. Nowhere in particular. Just gone. Just free.

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