Twenty-some years ago ...
Gemma closed the front door behind her, immediately kicking off the black patent pumps and letting her feet stretch out with a relieved sigh. Sore feet were not the main issue of the day, but at that moment sore feet took up her remaining emotional currency.
The funeral had been lovely. Elegant, sombre, very grown-up considering it was all to say goodbye to a six-year-old. It seemed as though it happened under water; she had heard things said, sounding muted and hollow and far away. She'd clutched her twelve-year-old son tight to her side until he'd squirmed under the attention. But she'd needed it, and it was for guilt.
The heart defect wasn't a total surprise, but the suddenness of it taking her boy had been a real stunner. He had gone fast, that was a relief. Perhaps.
There was nothing to be ashamed of. She did nothing wrong; what caused her shame was the volume of questions she couldn't answer. Where's John? John couldn't make it?
Where's John? Wasn't that just the question of the day?
They'd fought when he left for Belfast. Gemma had been horrible; calling him out on the slut across the ocean he was running off to, demanding to know how old she was, what she looked like, what she had that Gemma didn't. And that bastard hadn't even argued back. That had been the worst part. He sat there mute and sullen and as responsive as a fucking house plant.
She'd been furious. He just … left. No arguing, no denying that he was cheating on her. Boy, did she ever show him. He went off to his piece of Irish ass, so she fucked one of his best friends.
Mary Winston had taken her boys for the night because Jax and Thomas loved sleepovers with Opie. They always asked for one right after she and John had a brawl. But the worst part came when she was putting her clothes back on, wondering what the hell she'd done, and Mary Winston called in a wild panic saying something was wrong with Thomas and they were taking him to the hospital.
Immediately she knew it was his heart, and she began praying to a God she didn't believe in that it wasn't serious and that a quick surgery would fix it all. But he was dead within minutes, she never even got to say goodbye.
Then she couldn't get hold of John because he was furious. They had to go ahead with the funeral, and she hadn't even told her husband that their second son was dead.
Her baby.
She pulled the cork out of an opened bottle of red wine that had been resting on the counter, sat down at the table and drank right from the bottle, the burn causing a catch in her throat that made her sob, then she set the bottle down and covered her mouth. She was staring at the window over the sink, remembering every major moment of raising her son that centered around the kitchen sink. Preparing his bottles, pouring out cough syrup, making him help with washing the dishes when he got to that six-year-old sassy stage.
Gemma was alone now. Jax was back at the Winston's. She couldn't blame him; she was a mess and he could sense it. If he was happier with his buddy that was what she wanted.
He would be able to milk her for anything he wanted for quite a while.
She cheated on her husband. While she was doing that her son was taking his last breaths on this earth. She was terrible. Deplorable.
The tears were silent but soaked her cheeks, dripping down to the front of the black shift she'd numbly put on that morning. She didn't move to wipe her tears, she just took another pull on the wine bottle and ignored how much it hurt to breathe.
The door opened, and she didn't look up. She knew who it was. The only man who had seemed honestly concerned when things were going bad with John. She'd always suspected that he might have been attracted to her, but that was a no-go zone for so many reasons. But when she went to him all bets were off.
A warm hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing. She sobbed again, eyes closing as her hand rose to rest on his. He'd avoided being too close at the funeral, but once everyone had headed home or for the clubhouse she had fully expected him to check on her.
The hand slid from her left shoulder across to the right, and he turned her partially towards him. She allowed this, resting her forehead on his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. His other hand came up to wind in her hair, hugging her close, rubbing circles on her back at the same time. She cried loud and ugly, each sob wrenching her body violently. This was the first time she wept. She had to do it in front of someone she trusted implicitly.
"I'm sorry, Gem," Clay said softly, kissing the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, gorgeous."
