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“Let’s eat.” She keeps her hand wrapped around mine as she leads me back to the table. In a daze, I sit beside her and stare at the plate of food.
I don’t know why right now of all moments it’s hitting me that I hate my mother. I don’t know why I haven’t thought those words before, or ever muttered them. Even after she did all that she did, I made excuses for her in my head but now, watching Kennedy with Ian, I realize that no excuse is a good enough one.
I was a kid who had just lost his twin sister. She should’ve taken care of me, she should’ve protected me. She should’ve protected us both long before the day Elaine died. But she didn’t. She was selfish and only ever thought about herself. She’s nothing like Kennedy—there’s nothing good or redeeming about her.
I stab an egg with my fork and try to ignore the way my hand trembles as I bring it to my mouth. I risk a glance at Kennedy, finding her watching me intently, her face soft. When our gazes meet and linger, whatever senses you get when you become a mother must kick in, because she immediately wraps her arm around my shoulders.
Her arm is too short and my shoulders are too broad—I’m too big and she’s too small, but she still holds me. She clutches me tightly, the way only a mother can. And it’s not that I even want her to be my mother. It’s not that I have mommy issues—well, I do, but who doesn’t? It’s not that I want a mother’s love from her. I feel like I’m not only grieving my sister, but the boy I was then, too. He died right beside her.
Then she whispers three gentle words, and they fill me up in ways I’ve never felt before and will probably never feel again. Tears line my eyes as she says them again.
“I have you.”
I wrap both arms around her as I push my chair back, hauling her into my lap. She sits sideways across my thighs, my head still buried in her neck. My arms tighten until I’m sure I’m crushing her, but she never pulls away. She lightly runs her fingers up and down my back, then up my neck and into my hair, gently finger-combing my waves.
“Thank you,” I finally breathe. She nods, her cheek rubbing against mine. “I promise I’m not broken.” I pull away from her so she can see my eyes. I need her to know this—I amnota broken man. I’m not someone she needs to heal, someone she needs to fix. She gently pushes a curl from my forehead and rubs her thumb under my eye, wiping the wetness I didn’t know was there away.
“We’re all broken, Ez,” she whispers, her eyes flicking between mine. “We just have to find someone who's broken pieces fit with ours.”
I press a gentle kiss to her lips, and she rubs her hand down my back. It’s a soothing, comforting gesture. She pulls away to study me, and I slide her plate closer, stabbing an egg, then bringing it to her mouth.
She looks startled, but hesitantly opens and lets me feed her. It feels right, taking care of her like this. She’s taken care of me, of my unhinged emotions in a way no one ever has. The least I can do is take care of her in a way she’s never had either.
“Tell me something,” I say. She grabs her coffee and takes a small sip.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something about you.” I shrug as I cut her waffle and hold the piece to her lips. She doesn’t look as uncomfortable accepting this bite of food. She thinks as she chews, her eyes on the table.
“I was Ian’s age when I got pregnant with him,” she says.
Alright, that’s not what I expected.
“I turned sixteen when I was five months pregnant.” She chews on her bottom lip, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t really talk about this.” I don’t say anything. I just let her navigate her thoughts and what she wants to say. “His dad was a few years older. Now that I’m an adult I realize how fucked our relationship was and how much of a fucking predator he was. But at the time, I thought I was cool because an older guy was showing me attention.”
“How much older?” I ask, unsure if I want to know the answer.
“He was nineteen, almost twenty.” She shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “When I told him I was pregnant, he said I was lying so I could trap him.” She laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as she lifts her eyes to the wall behind me.
Memories shadow her face, her sardonic smile falling as she relives her past.
“He worked with my dad at The Berserkers bike shop. When I got pregnant, he was a Prospect. My dad nearly fucking killed him when he found out.” Her gaze drops back to mine.
“Is he in Ian’s life?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“No.” It’s a harsh word. Final. “He’s never met him. He never got patched into the club, and left a few years after Ian was born.” My mouth opens and closes a few times. I hadn’t expected that answer. “After I gave birth, he tried to poke around, but I told him to fuck off. Then a year later, when Dad died, he tried to reach out again, but again, I told him to fuck off. He’s not on Ian’s birth certificate. He was nothing more than a sperm donor.”
“Fuck,” I breathe. My arm tightens around her waist. “And you’ve never dated? You never thought of finding a guy to be Ian’s father?”
She glares at me. I don’t fully know why she looks so pissed or why that question seemed to hit a nerve, but I wince all the same.
“No,” she says tightly. “I’ve dated over the years, but nothing serious. Ian has been, and always will be, my number one priority. The second a guy showed me he wasn’t worthy of my son, I dumped him.” She gives me a look, and I swallow hard, reading between the lines.
That kid holds my future in his hands. One word about not liking me, and everything could get ripped away. It’s a scary thought, knowing a teenager has that much power, but I understand.
I decide to change the subject, not realizing it might be an even more sensitive topic than his father.
“So, your dad passed when Ian was a baby. What about your mom?” Her jaw clenches, then she clears her throat and takes another sip of her drink.
