Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
And I watch him, heart clenched in my chest, wondering how it’s possible to love someone for both who they are and what they carry for you.
When he wakes up, he jokes that I look like I’m reading porn.
I tell him that’s why his heart rate spikes during chapter ten.
And like every treatment, we leave and go home where he sleep most of the afternoon.
Even with the dark circles under his eyes, he’s still the man I’m choosing. Every damn day. The call comes while I’m in the middle of folding baby clothes.
It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Dia Crews?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lisa Carrington with the District Attorney’s office. I’m calling in regard to the upcoming sentencing hearing for Michael Brenner.”
I stop folding.
My breath catches.
Brenner. The drunk driver.
The man who killed Benji.
“I, um, yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”
“We’re offering you the chance to give a victim impact statement at the sentencing hearing next week Would you be willing to participate?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are trembling.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” the woman says kindly. “I’ll send over the packet. If you want to read a statement, we’ll help prepare it.”
“Okay,” I say again, because it’s the only word I can manage.
After she hangs up, I stare at the folded onesie in my lap. It’s red with tiny motorcycles printed all over it.
Benji would’ve loved it.
That night, I tell Toon while we’re brushing our teeth.
He freezes, toothbrush midair. “You gonna do it?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He spits, rinses, leans against the sink. “What’s holding you back?”
I shrug. “It’s been months. I’ve been trying to move forward. I don’t know if opening that up again is going to help. Plus, baby boy could come any day now. I’m not far from my due date.”
Toon doesn’t push.
He just nods and hands me my floss.
Later, in bed, he reaches for my hand under the covers and squeezes once.
“I’ll be there,” he says quietly. “If you do it. Or if you don’t.”
I don’t say anything.
I just hold on tighter.
Two days later, the packet arrives. I don’t open it right away.
It sits on the counter while I wash dishes. It follows me into the bedroom like a ghost. Every time I pass it, I feel like Benji is waiting for me to speak.
When I finally crack it open, it’s just paper. Dates. Guidelines. Sample statements.
But it feels like I’m holding a loaded gun. I write the first draft at midnight. Then I rip it up.
I write the second one the next day. Too angry. Too raw.
It takes four tries before I land on the version that feels right. That doesn’t scream for vengeance, but doesn’t let him off the hook either.
I read it aloud to Justin one night while he’s rubbing cocoa butter into my swollen ankles. He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
When I finish, my voice shaking, he leans over and kisses my calf.
“That’s what strength sounds like.”
The day of the sentencing, I wake up nauseous. It’s not morning sickness. It’s something else. Something heavier.
Justin drives me to the courthouse in his truck. He wears a black button-down shirt, no cut, sleeves rolled just enough to show the edge of his ink.
He looks like a soldier.
Like a man on a mission.
We sit in the hallway for a long time before they call my name.
When I step into the courtroom, it feels like time folds in on itself. There’s the judge. The attorneys. And at the defense table—him.
Michael Brenner.
He looks nothing like the man in the newspaper photo. He’s smaller somehow. Paler. Wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit.
I take my place at the podium.
My hands shake. My knees want to buckle.
But I look at him.
And I speak.
“I lost the love of my life because you decided your convenience was more important than his future.”
I talk about Benji. About who he was. About how many birthdays he will miss. About the baby who’ll never know him. I don’t scream.
I don’t cry.
I say every word with the kind of strength you only find when you’re at rock bottom.
And when I walk back to my seat, I don’t look at Michael Brenner again.
I look at Justin.
He’s already standing.
His eyes are glassy.
His arms open.
And I fall into them.
FIFTEEN
TOON
"When life becomes unbearable, channel the resilience of a grizzly." — Unknown
Tripp calls sermon at six sharp.
No warning. No soft lead-in. Just a single text to every patched member with the word:
sermon.
That call means shit has hit the fan when we have no heads up it’s coming.
I drive like hell to get there, heart pounding, stomach sour. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Not because of the chemo this time. Just this gnawing instinct. The one that tells you to brace for something ugly.
When I walk into the cave, it’s already quiet. BW’s jaw is tight. Pretty Boy sits with a sinister face, making his scar almost come alive. Smoke curls from his cigarette, untouched in his hand. Tank and Red sit opposite each other, arms crossed, brows low.