Chapter 7: Porch Light Realities
We pulled off the highway and turned onto Maple Street, the gravel driveway of our small, weathered rental house crunching loudly beneath the Harley's heavy tires. The single yellow bulb above the screen door cast a weak, flickering circle of light over the peeling white paint of the porch. A small window in the front room was cracked open, letting out the faint scent of boiled potatoes and cheap dish soap. That was the smell of my mother's evenings—weary, quiet, and endlessly heavy with a grief she had tried to drown in silence.
Jax cut the engine, and the abrupt stillness that followed felt heavier than the roar of the motor. The headlight died, plunging us into the dim glow of the porch lamp. I climbed off the bike, my legs slightly stiff from the ride, and slipped off the spare helmet, handing it back to him. He didn't put it on his handlebars right away; he just stood there beside the bike, his boots planted firmly in the gravel, staring up at the house with a look of profound, guarded hesitation.
Before I could reach for the screen door handle, it creaked open. My mother stood in the threshold, her apron stained with flour, a dish towel clutched tightly in her hands. Her eyes went past me, landing instantly on the tall, bearded figure standing in the shadows of the bike. The color drained entirely from her face, leaving her skin nearly as pale as mine. The dish towel slipped from her fingers, dropping silently onto the frayed welcome mat.
May you like
"Thomas," she whispered, using the name she had kept locked away in old boxes and midnight prayers. It wasn't the name the club used, and it wasn't the name on his jacket. It was the name of a boy who had left a small town a lifetime ago.
Jax stepped forward into the weak circle of yellow light, taking off his own helmet and running a hand through his damp, dark hair. His broad chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath. "Hello, Clara," he said, his voice rougher than it had been at the diner, carrying the weight of two decades of unspoken regret. "I got the note."
