Despite everything, Eli’s mother laughed.
Mack looked at her.
Aaron had known her.
Really known her.
He kept reading.
I want to marry her. I haven’t asked yet because I don’t own a decent shirt and Walter says that’s not a reason.
The letter shook in Mack’s hands.
If she says yes, I want you there eventually. Not right away. I’m not ready. Maybe you aren’t either. But I don’t want our last conversation to be our whole story.
Mack covered his mouth.
The final paragraph:
Walter brought me to Red Hollow. He told me what happened when you were young. He showed me the place where he pulled you out.
For the first time I understood why you always acted like something terrible was one mistake away.
That doesn’t excuse everything.
But it explains something.
I’m trying to learn the difference.
Then:
If we ever have a kid, I want them to know you when you’re ready to be known.
—Aaron
Mack bent forward.
The letter rested against his knees.
He cried.
Not quietly.
Not like bikers in films who turn away and wipe one eye.
His shoulders shook.
Thirty-three years of Red Hollow.
Twelve years since Aaron’s death.
Nine years of a grandson living without him.
All of it arrived at once.
Eli stood uncertainly.
Then did something nobody expected.
He walked forward.
Set the red lunchbox down.
And put one small hand on Mack’s shoulder.
Mack looked up.
Aaron’s eyes.
Not exactly.
Enough.
Eli asked:
“Are you mad?”
Mack wiped his face.
“At who?”
“Grandpa.”
Mack thought.
“Yes.”
The boy nodded.
“Mom too?”
Mack looked at her.
“Yes.”
She accepted it.
“Me?”
Mack stared.
The question horrified him.
“No.”
Eli looked relieved.
“Good.”
Mack laughed through tears.
The boy asked:
“So what happens now?”
Adults hate that question because children expect the future to have instructions.
Mack looked at Eli’s mother.
She looked at him.
No one knew.
Mack answered honestly.
“I don’t know.”
Eli considered.
“Could we eat again?”
Mack laughed harder.
“Yeah.”
“We can definitely do that.”
8
The other bikers knew something had happened before Mack returned.
His face told them.
Eli walked beside him.
His mother carried the letters.
The red lunchbox remained in the boy’s hands.
The long-bearded biker stood.
“What?”
Mack looked at the three men he had known most of his life.
Then toward Eli.
“My son had a boy.”
Silence.
Mack pointed gently.
“Him.”
Nobody moved.
The broad biker whispered:
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
The quiet biker looked at Eli.