Maria looked toward the road.
“I showed up to the memorial ride wearing Luis’s cut.”
“His club vest?”
“His cut.”
“What happened?”
Maria smiled faintly.
“Half these idiots nearly swallowed their tongues.”
Cassie laughed.
“I told them I wasn’t giving it up.”
“Did they ask?”
“Some wanted it returned to the club. Different traditions back then. Different expectations.”
“What did you do?”
“Kept showing up.”
“For how long?”
“Two years before everybody stopped acting like I was a widow visiting her husband’s friends.”
Maria flicked ash.
“I wasn’t trying to become Luis.”
Cassie nodded.
“I wasn’t trying to take anybody’s place either. I was grieving with the only people who understood what I’d lost.”
She looked at Cassie.
“That’s something you need to understand before you write a word about people like us.”
“What?”
“Most outsiders think belonging starts because everyone likes each other.”
“It doesn’t?”
Maria laughed.
“God, no.”
“Then what does it start with?”
“Showing up.”
She looked toward the motorcycles.
“Again.”
“And again.”
“And again.”
“Until people know what you do when it rains.”
Cassie frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means anyone can love the road when the sun’s shining.”
Maria put out her cigarette.
“Character shows when the weather turns.”
Then she walked away.
The rest of the ride hurt worse.
Cassie said nothing.
At one point Graham turned his helmet slightly.
He knew she was struggling.
She knew he knew.
Neither acknowledged it.
By late afternoon they stopped at a diner outside Millbrook.
The place smelled like fried onions, coffee, and pie.
The Iron Wolves took over three booths near the back.
Cassie lowered herself carefully into one.
Hank slid in opposite her.
He saw the notebook.
“You still got strength to write?”
“My hand hurts less than everything else.”
“Good answer.”
He wrapped both hands around a coffee mug.
“You want a story?”
Cassie opened to a clean page.
“Yes.”
Hank stared into the coffee.
“My little brother Jimmy bought his first real bike in 1969.”
Cassie began writing.
“I bought mine four days later because I was older and incapable of letting him have anything first.”
Cassie smiled.
“Matching?”
“Same year. Same model. Different colors.”
“What happened?”
Hank’s smile faded.
“Three months later, his front tire failed on Interstate 40.”
Cassie’s pen slowed.
“He died?”
“Before the ambulance got there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So was I.”
Hank rubbed the cup with one thumb.
“For two days after the funeral, I sat in our parents’ garage.”
“With his bike?”
“His helmet.”
Cassie looked up.
“Graham found me.”
Across the diner, her father sat with three veterans at another table.
He was laughing at something.
Hank followed her gaze.
“He didn’t give me a speech.”
“What did he do?”
“Sat.”
“That’s it?”
“For six hours.”
Cassie stopped writing.
“He came back the next day.”
“And?”
“Sat again.”
“The third day, he brought tools.”
Hank’s eyes softened.
“Jimmy’s motorcycle needed work.”
Cassie understood.
“He got you riding again.”
“He annoyed me into riding again.”
Hank smiled.
“Told me my brother would haunt me if I let the bike rot because I was too busy drowning myself.”
Cassie looked toward Graham.
“Did it help?”
“No.”
She blinked.
Hank continued.
“Not at first.”
He leaned back.
“That’s another thing people get wrong. They think the right person says one perfect sentence and grief changes direction.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
“The ride didn’t save me.”