From the armchair, my father huffs under his breath while turning another page.
One Week Later
Fridays at the clubhouse have a rhythm to them, warm and familiar, layered with the kind of ease that comes from a group of people who have chosen each other enough times that the choosing has become reflex.
I walk through the door with Marley’s arm looped through mine—the noise, the smell, and the weight of the place settle around me like something I didn’t know I’d been missing since I was last here.
Ro spots us from behind the bar and lifts a shot glass in greeting, which is Ro’s version of a standing ovation.
Victoria is already running the room. Five months pregnant and absolutely magnificent about it, Victoria occupies the corner table the way she occupies every room she enters, completely and without apology. The bump is visible and real, and she has apparently decided it is simply another feature of herself, neither to be fussed over nor ignored. She has a hand resting on it in the way she’s started doing without seeming to notice, and she is in the middle of what appears to be a pointed and extremely detailed explanation of something that has Marley already biting her lip to keep from laughing.
“Sin keeps referring to it as ‘strategic rest,’” Victoria says while Marley and I slide into the seats across from her. “Strategic rest. As if lying down for twenty minutes is a military operation I need to be briefed on.”
“He means well,” Marley offers, with great diplomatic effort.
Victoria gives her a look that could strip paint. “I know he means well. He means well for approximately sixteen hours a day, and it is freakingexhausting.”
Ro walks in carrying four mugs that smell way too strong to be plain coffee, and honestly, nobody here is questioning it.
She hands them out with smooth, practiced ease, the kind that comes from years of taking care of stubborn bikers who forget basic human needs whenever shit gets stressful. “Don’t worry, Vicks, yours is virgin,” she states.
Victoria groans in disapproval. “This baby is denying me my basic human rights.”
We all chuckle as Ro shrugs, sliding over her very bland coffee to her. “Nitro brought his grandmother. I bet she’d like a ‘tangy’ coffee,” Ro states, tilting her head toward the far end of the room.
We all giggle again while we look to see him walking in with Queenie. He settles her into a corner chair with an easy authority, like she’s never needed the best seat to be the most important person in the room. She’s small, sharp-eyed, and wearing a cardigan the exact color of expensive red wine, her attention bouncing around the room while she takes in every little detail with the kind of focus that tells me nothing gets past her for long. Nitro is beside her, a giant made gentle, leaning slightly toward her so she doesn’t have to raise her voice.
She catches me looking and smiles, and something about it sends a prickle down the back of my neck I can’t explain.
“Tell me again why people do this voluntarily,” Victoria says, leaning back in her chair with one hand braced under her stomach like she’s holding up a bowling ball she didn’t ask for.
Marley laughs so hard she nearly spills her ‘tangy’ coffee. “Because the end result is cute.”
“That is a wildly insufficient reason,” Victoria replies. “Last night I woke up at two in the morning because my left hip had apparently filed for divorce.”
Ro snorts from across the table. “Wait until the heartburn starts. Apparently, you’ll think you’re being punished by God personally.”
“I already do,” Victoria says. “I ate a grape yesterday, and it felt as if I’d swallowed a lit match.”
Marley wipes at her eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m realistic,” Victoria corrects. “Also, my bladder is now more of a suggestion than an organ.”
“Hot,” Ro deadpans.
Victoria points at her. “You laugh now. One day you’ll be peeing every twelve minutes and crying over dog commercials.”
“I already cry over dog commercials,” Ro says.
“Same,” Marley adds.
They all look at me, and I shrug. “There was one with a golden retriever and a soldier. I needed a full emotional recovery period.”
Victoria slaps the table. “See? We’re all fragile. I just have a medical excuse.”
Marley reaches for another lemon bar. “How are you sleeping… at all?”
“I’m not!” Victoria says. “I close my eyes, and my brain just starts listing things the baby could possibly be doing in there. Yesterday I convinced myself it was learning to tap dance.”
