“I know, honey. You don’t have to explain.” She sits back, and when she speaks again, her voice is careful and full of love. “You have your whole life ahead of you. I know you don’t want to hearthis right now, but you will be happy again one day. Life goes on, darling, and so will you.”
A tear tracks down my cheek, and I reach for the napkin.
“I don’t say that to upset you. I say it because you are an amazing woman with so much to give. Grieve as long as you need to and go through every single emotion, but please don’t go through it alone. Come to me whenever you need to talk or someone to cry with. Promise me you’ll try.”
I nod, sniffling. “Okay, Mom. I’ll try.”
She gets up and wraps her arms around me, and I breathe her in, that familiar warmth and the scent she always wears. Chanel No. 5. It smells like safety.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with shopping. I pick up a new pair of sneakers and some T-shirts on sale, but when I try to pay, Mom won’t hear of it. Today is a good day, better than I expected, and being with her is exactly what I needed.
She drops me at home and waits while I pull the grocery bags from the back seat. She’d steered me through the local market on the way, noting that my refrigerator hadn’t been touched in a while. She was right. I’d left for New York not expecting to be gone so long, and everything perishable had turned.
Letting myself into the quiet apartment, I stock the refrigerator with juice, milk, yogurt, and fruit, then unpack the rest into the pantry.
Dropping onto the couch, I grab the remote and switch on the television.
Something plays that I don’t take in, and after a while, I turn it off and go to bed.
***
Two months later, nothing has changed.
I get up. I work. I sleep.
I answer Mom’s calls when I have the energy. I ignore Annie’s invitations because I know she’ll see straight through me, and I’m not ready for that yet.
The apartment feels smaller than it used to.
The photograph is on the bedside table, the one of Ryan, Tate, and me, taken at the Blood Brothers’ yard. Ryan is laughing at something off camera, his face completely unguarded and entirely himself. I say goodnight to it every evening, and it doesn’t feel strange. It feels necessary.
I’m existing.
Not living.
But existing.
It’s on a Tuesday evening when everything shifts.
I’m on the couch with a bowl of pasta I’m not really eating, the television is on in the background, when the reporter’s words stop me cold.
Breaking news. Something about the cartel.
My hand trembles as I reach up and turn the volume higher.
“Shocking news tonight as the president of the El Paso biker gang and several of his members were shot dead in broad daylight this afternoon. Angel and his associates were dining at the well-known Café De Pasa when a black SUV with dark-tinted windows drove past and opened fire. It is believed the cartel may be connected to the murders.
“This follows an incident approximately three months ago in which the cartel was linked to killings and an explosion at a New York mansion. Twenty-three men were found dead,one identified as Ryan Lismore, a member of the Blood Brothers Motorcycle Club, also known by his road name Tracker. An unnamed source alleges that Mr. Lismore was at the mansion that night attempting to save his brother, Tate Lismore, from Mr. Fabien Lawrence, an associate of Clemente, a known drug lord. The attempt ended tragically. An investigation is nowunderway for both the mansion deaths and today’s murders of the El Paso biker gang. We go now to our reporter live on the scene.”
A photo of Ryan fills the screen.
“No,” I breathe. “No.”
I sit completely still, my heart hammering, and stare at his face.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper to the empty room.
I know about the El Pasos. Ryan mentioned them, though never in detail. But something in my gut tells me they hadeverythingto do with his death. If that’s true, then a part of me feels nothing but relief that they’re gone.
