Chapter 9: The Kitchen Table
The kitchen of our house smelled like cinnamon tea and old cedar, a comforting warmth that stood in sharp contrast to the damp morning air outside. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains of the small window above the sink, cutting bright, dusty squares across the worn linoleum floor.
Mom stood by the stove, her back to us, waiting for the small aluminum kettle to whistle. Jax sat at the wooden kitchen table—the exact same table where I did my homework every afternoon—looking entirely too big for the chair. His tattooed arms rested flat on the wood, his scarred fingers tracing the grain where the varnish had chipped away over the years. I sat across from him, watching him carefully, waiting to see if he was going to stand up and walk out the door the moment things got too quiet.
"The roof leaks over the back bedroom when we get heavy spring rains," Mom said, not turning around as she poured the boiling water into two mismatched mugs. She carried them over, setting one in front of Jax and keeping the other for herself. She didn't pour one for me, handing me a small glass of orange juice instead. "The plumber wanted four hundred dollars last November just to look at the pipes."
Jax wrapped his large hands around the hot ceramic mug, letting the steam rise up past his dark beard. He stared into the dark liquid for a long moment before looking up at Mom.
"I can fix the roof," Jax said quietly. "And I know a guy down in the valley who owes me a favor on plumbing supplies. We can get it sorted before the autumn storms roll in."
Mom sat down in the chair between us, pulling her mug close to her chest. She blew across the surface of the tea, watching Jax over the rim with eyes that were sharp, analytical, and deeply tired. "You talk like you're planning to stick around for more than an afternoon, Jax. Last time you made house plans, you vanished into the dust before the sun came up."
"I was running," Jax admitted, his voice drop-dead serious, stripped of all the tough-guy bravado he wore like armor out on the highway. He didn't look away from her gaze. "And as long as I was running, I figured you and the kid were safer if I stayed as far away as the map would let me get. But standing in that diner yesterday, watching Leo walk straight up to me without a second of hesitation—knowing he didn't even know my name, but he knew my face—I realized the running was over. The past caught up, Sarah. And honestly? I'm damn glad it did."
Mom's shoulders dropped an inch, the rigid tension that had defined her posture all morning finally easing away. She took a slow sip of her tea, the silence between them filled with nine years of unsaid words settling into place.
"The local sheriff is still old man Miller's nephew," Mom said softly, setting her mug down with a faint click. "He remembers the trouble you were mixed up in back then. If you're going to stay in this town, Jax, you can't be dragging that shadow behind you on the back of a Harley. People here have long memories."
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"Let them remember," Jax said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling growl that left no room for argument. He reached across the table, his rough, scarred hand stopping just an inch short of Mom's before he pulled it back, resting it flat on the wood again. "I'm done with the club. I'm done with the road. I've got a house to fix, and a boy who needs to learn how to throw a baseball."
I looked down at my glass of orange juice, a strange, warm feeling blooming right in the center of my chest. For the first time in my life, the empty chair at the end of the table didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like it was finally waiting for someone who wasn't going to leave.
