Chapter 2: The Faded Photograph
The grease-stained counter was sticky beneath my fingertips as I pulled my hand out of my jacket pocket. I didn't say another word. Instead, I slid the old, dog-eared photograph across the speckled formica right in front of Jax’s coffee mug. The edges were soft and worn from decades of being handled, curled inward like dry autumn leaves.
Jax’s right hand, resting flat beside his cup, froze completely. His knuckles were scarred, the skin weathered by wind and highway miles, but they didn't twitch. For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. The photograph showed a younger, thinner Jax standing beside a rusted pickup truck, wearing the exact same intense gaze, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue blanket against his chest.
"My mom said this is you," I said, keeping my voice low, just like she taught me. Never yell, never beg, just state the facts.
A sharp intake of breath hissed through Jax’s teeth. Without thinking, his fingers twitched, desperate to reach out, but he forced them to curl into a heavy fist instead, hovering inches above the glossy surface of the image. The waitress stopped wiping entirely, her damp rag dropping back into the bucket beneath the counter with a dull plop. She stepped closer, sliding down the length of the laminate top until she was standing just over my shoulder, her gaze darting from the photograph up to Jax’s rigid jawline.
"Jax… what is that photo?" she asked quietly, her tone dropping from professional cheer to something sharp and probing.
May you like
Jax didn't answer her. His chest rose and fell in one long, restrained heave, the leather of his vest straining against his ribs. He didn't look at the waitress; his dark eyes remained locked on the tiny baby in his arms from twenty years ago, as if the paper might suddenly burst into flames. The diner noise around us felt miles away now, reduced to a distant hum of engine rumbles and muffled country music from the jukebox near the door. I shifted my weight from one scuffed sneaker to the other, feeling the cold draft from the front door sweeping across the floorboards.
I watched his hand slowly uncurl. The tremor in his fingertips was so slight most people would have missed it, but I didn't miss a single thing. He wanted to touch it, and I knew why. Because beneath all the leather, the tattoos, and the heavy leather armor he wore like a fortress, he was looking right at a ghost he thought he had buried deep in the past.
