Page 8 of My Older Biker

The clock moves so slowly it feels deliberate.

I pace. Living room to kitchen to hallway to living room. My feet make soft sounds on his floors. Everything in this house is his. His furniture. His dishes. His bed that I've never slept in.

What if he doesn't come back?

The thought arrives unbidden. Unwelcome. I try to push it away but it sits there.

Perry didn't think he was going to die this morning. He probably woke up normal. Made coffee. Maybe texted someone. Walked outside. Then nothing.

Just gone.

Dean could be gone by morning.

Four pm. One hour.

I sit back on the couch, and pull my knees to my chest. Press my face against them and try to breathe through the tightness in my throat. I made this choice. Told him I could handle his life. Told him I knew what this world was.

Knowing it and living it are different countries.

My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it.

A text from my dad: You still at Dean's?

I stare at the screen. He doesn't know. Doesn't know I'm in love with his best friend. Doesn't know what happened between us last night. Doesn't know that if Dean dies tonight it'll break something in me that won't heal.

I text back: Yeah. I'm fine.

His response comes fast: Good. Stay there. I'll check in tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Like tomorrow is guaranteed.

I set the phone down.

Four thirty. Thirty minutes until Dean gets home.

I think about what I'll say to him. Whether I should ask him not to go. Whether that's fair. Whether loving someone means letting them walk into danger because it's who they are.

Four forty-five.

I hear the bike before I see it. The engine sound gets louder. Closer. Then stops.

The front door opens.

Dean walks in.

I'm on my feet before I decide to stand. Looking at him. Trying to memorize his face.

Chapter 3 — Dean

The clubhouse smells like stale beer and motor oil and grief.

I pull in at eight fifteen. Bikes already line the lot. Clint's, Tate's, Cain's. Roan's truck parked near the door because he came straight from home.

Inside it's quiet in the wrong way. Brothers standing in small groups. Nobody talking loud. Nobody talking much at all.

Perry's death sits in the room like something you can touch.

Clint is at the head of the table when I walk into church. He looks at me and nods once. I take my seat. Tate is across from me, jaw tight. Cain has his laptop open, already pulling data. Roan sits three chairs down. He doesn't look at me when I sit.