Page 48 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

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I could leave a note. I do not.

I am cowardly enough to imagine the text instead.

Thank you. I am sorry. It is not you.

It is the part of me that never learned how to be allowed.

I take the stairs soft and slow.

The front door sighs like it expected this and is disappointed in me.

The storm has spent itself into a glitter that looks innocent and will roll a car without thinking about it.

I am careful on the walk, careful on the steps, careful turning the key because I would like to pretend I am careful with everything.

The engine is a cough then a steady hum.

I should leave it to warm, but I do not.

I pull out, tires slipping once, twice, then catching.

The road curves.

The lodge disappears behind trees the way it did the first time, only now my chest hurts in a way it did not then.

I tell myself I am doing the right thing.

I tell myself this is mercy.

I tell myself what I had last night is a story you get to visit but not keep.

The phone buzzes again. I do not look.

Dawn lifts its shoulder over the ridge.

I drive toward it like a person who has somewhere to be and nothing to say when she gets there.

9

MARISA

A YEAR AND A MONTH LATER

The day begins with a detonation.

Not fireworks, not joy, just the spectacular physics of a diaper losing a negotiation.

Gabe’s face scrunches, Luca catches the mood, and both of them launch into a duet.

The apartment is cold enough that my breath paints the window.

The radiator sulks like a cat.

I kick the wall in the exact spot Lidia showed me, the pipe clanks as if it might try, then pretends to die again for drama.

“Gentlemen,” I say, sugar-sweet, one hand on each bassinet. “I love you. I do not love this.”

Gabe ramps to siren.

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