The cool breeze is welcome on my cheeks, in stark contrast to the warmth pulsing down to my bones, a tincture of chemicals synthetic and organic, tangible and unknown. I close my eyes, my jaw resting on Jax's shoulder and stay like that for some time, the pale pink glow of headlights through my eyelids becoming less frequent as we slow and wind down a side road. I open them as we turn into a hilly driveway and he cuts the engine.
"Home?" I inquire, stepping lightly off his bike.
"Nah. Not really." he smirks curiously, giving my jacket a quick tug and heading up the cement steps.
I follow, fumbling with the helmet, finally getting it off and shaking my hair out as he grabs a key from above the door frame and lets us in.
The house is clearly expensively decorated in deep reds and dark wood, accents of gold throughout. It's a bit gaudy for me, but certainly not tasteless. I follow Jax past a huge oak table atop an impressive oriental rug of more red and gold, past a bird cage I briefly pause at, and into a nice kitchen with wooden cabinets and granite counter tops. Though it may not be my choice of decor, I must admit it feels cozy. Lived in. I decide I like it here.
Jax opens up the fridge and pulls out a beer, waving it at me like a question.
"No way." I shake my head.
He shrugs and opens it for himself, taking a heady drink as he inspects the fridge.
I hop up on the countertop and take in my surroundings, tracing my fingers over a decorative nightlight plugged in next to me. It's yellow glass with grapes on it, casting a pool of light on the granite beneath it that I let fall onto my hand and glimmer across my silver rings.
Jax lets out a sigh,
"How do you feel about breakfast?" he peers up from the fridge, looking a little desperate.
"I feel good breakfast." I nod, and he begins taking out veggies, eggs, and chives and placing them onto the counter beside the fridge.
He sets me up with a cutting board and I start at slicing cherry tomatoes and onions. We work quietly for some time. The familiarity of working in the kitchen makes the warmth I'm already feeling expand. I haven't had access to a real kitchen in months and I've always loved to cook. I'm pulling a bread knife through a loaf of sourdough when my curiosity finally gets the better of me.
"So, where are we?" I glance over but his back is to me at the stove. He laughs.
"Oh yeah. We're at my mom and Clay's place."
The name rings a bell and he looks back to find me trying to work out which one Clay was.
"Club president. You met him tonight."
"Ahhh," I nod, hoping he'll go on. When he doesn't, I add, "He's your father?"
"Nah. My mom and Clay got together when my dad died. Dad was Samcro too." he seems to pause, but the silence goes on and I realize he's not going to explain any further.
"Where are they tonight?" I change the subject, wanting to keep the conversation going, though I must admit even silence feels easy with him.
"Mom's visiting her pops until the weekend. Clay never stays in the house when she's not here," he laughs, "he's been bunking in the clubhouse since she left."
I finish washing the cutting board and various utensils before he's done cooking and the smell of hot butter in the pan finally prompts a growl from my stomach.
He laughs. "Sorry I'm slow…don't cook much now." he shakes his head and I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. "You can hang on the couch if you're tired."
He must be able to see the tempted look on my face because he motions with the spatula, "right in there darlin'."
In the living room, I sink into the couch and close my eyes, focusing on the sound of him cooking. I've always loved listening to people in the kitchen, it sounds so lovely and safe. How could anything ever have been wrong, or be wrong, ever again? Like every bad thing must have been only in a dream...
A hand gently moves against my leg and I stir to the sound of my name. I bring my head off the armrest. I hope it's dark enough in here to cover the flush in my cheeks, and the lines the couch has probably left on the side of my face.
"Time to eat." he nods at the steaming plate on the wooden coffee table in front of me.
I take no time pushing out my knees and pulling myself onto the floor, grabbing my utensils and almost starting before realizing there's only one plate.
I pause, my knife and fork in midair, "You're eating, aren't you?"
"My plate's in the kitchen." he assures me, disappearing.
In a moment he emerges and settles onto the carpet across from me, our food on the wooden coffee table. A bohemian midnight breakfast.
I can't wait any longer and dig in.
For some time we eat in silence, every so often catching each other looking, then holding each others gaze for what should feel, to almost strangers, like a too-long moment. But it's never awkwardness or shame that forces me to break his gaze. It's just…the intensity. It wells up like an elephant in the room, flowers in my stomach, and gets to be too much to ignore when it's never even been spoken. And, though I think he must be feeling the same I have no real way of knowing.
My food is nearly gone and I'm reveling in the warm, floating feeling that I can only assume is an effect of the alcohol mixed with the delightful satisfaction of a belly full of a warm meal when he speaks again.
"So, a solo ride cross country?" I look up to a wicked glint in his eyes.
It's a question I'm sure he's been sitting on since he's met me. Across my trip, anyone I've run into who asks me what I'm doing and where I'm going quickly morphs their series of questions into one: 'Why?'
I know that Jax would understand more than most. The appeal of the road—and of solitude—but I'm sure he also knows that there must be some type of catalyst that pushes you off. In truth, I've been waiting for the question. Being offered help like this, I knew I would have to spill my guts about why I was here and why I left and about all of the heavy luggage I've been carrying in my heart for thousands of miles.
But I'm not ready for it to be tonight.
I'll give in, but just a bit.
"I lost someone." I finally say, unsure of what else I'll even hear myself admit before taking a deep breath and continuing, "After, I stayed in my hometown for awhile but I finally needed to just…go." I all but flinch before stealing my eyes down to the coffee table, unable to meet his.
Even to me my words sound a bit like a betrayal, just skimming the surface of the truth.
When I look up I am surprised to find a look of calm and curious understanding. He nods, his seriousness reflecting mine and not a hint of frustration or disappointment in my flimsy answer.
"Here, I'll get the dishes." I offer, needing a moment. I stand slowly and embarrassingly have to steady myself before I collect the plates. He reaches out looking concerned but I'm already headed to the kitchen.
All the pans are already clean but I busy myself there for a few minutes with the plates and utensils. I wash, then dry them, randomly opening cabinets and drawers to find their proper places. While I store the dishes I also stow away thoughts of before I left, unleashed by Jax and his simple, innocent question. Compartmentalizing then and now. Who I am and who I was.
When I dry my hands and turn, he's leaning against the doorway, watching me in silence. I give him a shrug and an exasperated smile that almost shakes my composure, the way a smile sometimes can.
"C'mon darlin'." is all he says, and wordlessly we lock up and make our way out to the drive, where I settle in behind him as we move back into blackness that, somehow, feels light.