Page 38 of Glass Wings

Later, when we pull into the storage building again and I kill the engine, she yanks off her helmet and smacks my shoulder.

“You’re just as crazy as me!” She grins, hair wild around her face and cheeks flushed, once again.

“Crazy?” I tease. “You were the one yelling faster.”

She shoves me, then leans against me, her voice soft. “Being on a bike makes me feel free.”

I kiss her again; she tastes like adrenaline and trust. Like someone who’s decided to let go of fear, if only for a little while.

Twenty-One

EASTON

Four Weeks Later

The memory of Harley and I riding her bright pink Barbie bike for the first time together has carried me through more nights than I can count. And now, shackled in a courtroom, it presses against my ribs like armor.

On mornings like this, in rooms like this, I unroll it under my feet and try to remember what it felt like when my life moved because I wanted it to, not because someone in a robe told it to.

“Defendant seated,” the deputy mutters. The room smells like paper, dust, and the stale breath of other people’s fear. It’s always colder in here than anywhere else.

“All rise.”

The judge moves like a rising tide coming in; inevitable, slow enough you don’t know you’re under until your knees are wet. Everyone sits. The clerk says my name like it’s a docket number first and a human second.

“State versus Easton Ryder Diggs. Pre-trial motion hearing.”

Rick leans in. “Stay calm,” he murmurs without looking at me. He has three fresh tabs sticking out of the manila folder today. That’s either good or bad, but his hair is laying flat and he hasn’t chewed his pen, which for Rick is either a sign of the apocalypse or extreme confidence. I decide to call it confidence and pin my breathing to it.

I look for her. I always do. It takes me a second in the gallery because the second row is full. Kennedy sits on the aisle, sharp as glass, a body-block of protection, while my mother and father tuck in next to her like they’re not sure where their elbows should go in a place like this. And then there’s Harley. She’s in the middle, hands over her stomach, looking like an angel in the pits of hell.

I can see it now, even from here. Six months changes a body. Her cardigan can’t hide the curve, and she doesn’t seem to be trying to hide it anymore. She finds my eyes, and everything in me that wants to knot unclenches for one heartbeat.

The prosecutor stands first. She always does. Her voice sounds like she’s reading headlines. “Your Honor, the State remains prepared to proceed to trial on the charged counts. We oppose the defense motion in full. The alleged victim sustained a concussion. The defendant has a prior felony conviction. The legal standard for dismissal is not met.”

Rick rises. He smooths a palm down his tie like he’s pressing creases out of the air between us. “Your Honor, the defense moves to reconsider the charges pursuant to the newly obtained witness statements indicating that Mr. Diggs acted in self-defense. Multiple witnesses place the complainant as the initial aggressor, shoving Mr. Diggs and tampering with Ms. Starr’s drink. These accounts bolster Ms. Starr’s sworn testimony and undercut the narrative of an unprovoked assault.”

Tampering with a drink. That phrase sits ugly in the pristine room. I want to spit after it. I want to stand and say the words are true. I saw his hand; I smelled the sweet-chemical wrongness a beat before I yanked the cup. But my role here is as furniture unless someone points at me and says speak. My hands flex. The cuffs clink.

The prosecutor doesn’t even glance at me. “Hearsay,” she says. “Anonymous bar chatter. The defense is laundering rumor as evidence.”

“Your Honor,” Rick says, tone still measured, “we have names and contact information. These are not anonymous. We are prepared to subpoena.”

My father leans forward, forearms on his knees, his attention like a gift. My mother has both hands wrapped around Harley’s left and Kennedy’s gaze could cut steel. I’m thankful and ashamed, both flavors at once, that these three are close enough to touch her when I can’t.

The judge steeples his fingers. “I’ve read the motion and the State’s response. I’m not dismissing the case today.” He lets the pause hang like a body from a rope, and then swings it gently with his next breath. “The defense, however, is entitled to test the State’s case at trial. The witness list will be expanded as indicated. Discovery deadlines remain in place. The motion to reconsider is denied.”

It's a double door of no. Not a surprise, not a shock. But the air still tilts, and my stomach does that elevator-drop thing like the floor just forgot about me standing on it.

Rick doesn’t let the moment calcify. “Your Honor, with the Court’s acknowledgment that the testimonial context is in dispute, we renew our request for bail reconsideration. Mr. Diggs has deep community ties, a stable support system, and a child due later this year. He is not a flight risk and is not a danger to the community.”

The prosecutor is ready with the hammer. “Opposed. Prior felony. Pattern of violence.”

I swallow blood I haven’t earned. The judge doesn’t look at me when he speaks. He never does. The word drops and skitters under the benches like a metal marble. A sound comes out of Harley that only I hear because it lands against my bones. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.

“Trial is set for—” The clerk rattles off a date by month and day that immediately turns into math in my head. How many sleeps, how many letters, how many times I will have to stand in a line and open my mouth so that a flashlight can poke around my teeth and gums because that’s a rule here. How many weeks pregnant she will be when I stand to say not guilty in a voice that I will try to keep even.

The gavel taps.