Chapter 7: Confessions Under Canvas
The rain settled into a steady, rhythmic drumbeat against the heavy green canvas tarp Jax had strung between the lower branches of the cottonwoods and the rear wheel of the motorcycle. Inside our makeshift tent, the air smelled of damp earth, hot engine oil, and the dry wool of the oversized blanket Jax had pulled from his bedroll.
We sat cross-legged facing each other in the dim light, sharing a single can of peaches Martha had shoved into our bags along with the sandwiches. Jax used his pocketknife to slice the fruit, handing me pieces on the clean blade before taking one for himself.
Outside, the storm wind howled through the canyon, but under the canvas, it was surprisingly warm and still. The only light came from a small, battery-powered camping lantern Jax had clicked on and set between us on the tarp.
For a long time, neither of us spoke. We just ate in silence, listening to the water rush through the dry creek bed fifty feet away. But the heavy, defensive wall that Jax had built around himself since I walked into the diner was gone, worn down by the miles of asphalt, the encounter with Sheriff Vance, and the quiet intimacy of the roadside breakdown.
“Your mom,” Jax finally said, his voice barely louder than the patter of the rain. He didn't look at me; he stared down at the tip of his pocketknife, turning it slowly between his calloused fingers. “She wasn't always the way she is now.”
I stopped chewing, holding my breath so I wouldn't miss a single word. In the eight years of my life, Clara had never talked about the past. Whenever I asked about my dad, she would either look away out the window with a faraway, haunted expression or simply go silent for hours, staring at her hands.
“What was she like?” I asked softly.
Jax gave a faint, bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes. “She was the toughest girl in this county. Lived in a beat-up station wagon behind her uncle’s garage, worked double shifts at the diner, and still had enough fire in her to laugh at all my stupid jokes. She didn't want anything to do with guys like me—guys who lived on the back of a bike and didn't know where they’d be sleeping tomorrow night.”
He paused, the knife freezing in his hand. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle.
“So why did you leave?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it—the very question I had asked the folded paper a hundred times in my head.
Jax closed his eyes for a second, taking a long, deep breath. When he opened them, they looked older, heavier, filled with a decades-old sorrow that he had carried alone down every highway in America.
“Because I knew what I was,” Jax said, his voice cracking just a fraction. “I was a dead end. I had a record, a bad temper, and a dozen enemies in every town between here and the coast. One night, some guys I ran with came looking for trouble at the trailer park. They weren't just talk; they were dangerous. I realized right then that if I stayed, my life would drag her and whatever came after down into the dirt with me.”
He looked up, meeting my gaze squarely, his hazel eyes shining in the dim lantern light.
“I thought I was doing her a favor,” Jax whispered, the confession hanging heavy in the damp air. “I packed my gear at three in the morning, left the photo on the kitchen table with a twenty-dollar bill, and rode out into the dark before the sun came up. I thought she’d forget me. I thought she’d find some decent guy with a house and a steady job who could give her what she deserved.”
“She never forgot you,” I said, my voice trembling slightly as I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper, holding it out toward him. “She kept your picture in her Bible. And she told me, every time her memory got clear enough to talk... she told me you had hazel eyes just like mine.”
Jax reached out slowly, his large, scarred hand trembling as he took the folded paper from my fingers. He unfolded it with immense care, as if it were made of glass, and stared down at the shaky, faded handwriting Clara had pressed into the lined notebook paper twenty years ago.
May you like
He didn't try to hide his face. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, cutting a clean path through the road dust on his cheek before disappearing into his dark beard. He didn't wipe it away. He just pulled me close against his leather vest, wrapping his strong arms around my shoulders and holding me tight against the cold night wind.
“I’m not leaving again, Leo,” Jax whispered into my hair, his voice fierce and absolute. “We’re going to finish this ride together.”
