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)
I don’t reply. We sit in silence tossing back the Jack Daniels, drink after drink.
The fire pit out back is burning solid by the time we all make our way outside. Tripp stands, holding a cup and bottle high. Even in his sixties now, the man still stands tall and ready for anything.
“To Clutch. He came here in the most unorthodox way. He caught hell for letting his woman bring him to the patch, but he did so with pride.” Tripp looks to Dia, “my daughter, that man loved you in a way a father could be happy about. To one of the good ones. Benjamin “Clutch” Henderson you will be forever missed.”
The crowd murmurs as everyone raises a cup and we all take a drink in his memory.
I didn’t know the man, but I stand behind him as a brother nonetheless. BW stands up sharing a story of Clutch attempting to fix a bike problem with a shoestring mid-ride once. It didn’t end well and everyone laughed at the memory.
Red shares about a charity Black Jack tournament where Clutch beat three brothers, including Red, and refused to take their money, saying it was all luck, he wasn’t actually good.
People share the humility of the man and I find myself happy that Dia had a taste of that goodness in her life even if for a short time.
A voice comes from the crowd, a female voice, but I’m not sure whose it is. “Dia, do you want to say something?”
My chest tightens in worry for her.
She freezes. I see it. The hesitation. Shoulders stiff, eyes on the fire, jaw stuck. Maritza touches her elbow. I wait for her to shake it off and continue her silence. Instead, she surprises me as her head lifts, her eyes find mine and she speaks.
“Benji hated motorcycles,” she swallows, clearing her throat. Her voice isn’t loud, but it is steady. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “He was everything I never wanted,” she gives a half laugh. “He loved me. He didn’t understand my life, but never judged it. For me, he learned to ride. And he tried. Then he found his footing. Found his place here. He joined the club, not for me, but because he wanted this. He understood family and why all of this matters not just to me but to all of us.”
She looks around finally breaking our stare. “He once told me this was the only place he ever felt like he was accepted exactly as he was. The nerdy, goober, who was as gullible as they came. He said being here, he could walk into a room and be a hundred things at once, smart, soft, tough, loyal, and no one would expect him to be one single thing.”
She brings her gaze back to me. “He gave everything and still I wanted more.” Her voice cracks as I can see she begins to visibly tremble. “I miss his laugh,” she whispers now. “I miss how he never left me without telling me to be safe, like it was a prayer. I miss the stupid way he asked my dog if she approved of dinner before we ate. I miss the way he didn’t ask me to explain myself when I clearly couldn’t make the words make it make sense.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, she doesn’t attempt to stop it.
“I wish we weren’t here tonight. Being here, means he isn’t coming back. I wish he was here. I wish I didn’t have to wish. But that’s all that is left for Benji, unspoken wishes.”
Later, after the stories are over, the alcohol slowing down, I find myself outside leaning against the fence with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
Dia is sitting on the steps to one of the duplexes that are crash pads for the brothers. She’s looking up at the stars in wonder.
I want to go to her. I want to say something that matters. The reality is, what could I possibly offer her? She gave her whole world to someone else because I told her to. She gave her goodness, her tenderness, her loyalty to him.
And he deserved it.
And now he’s gone.
I’m still here. The wrong man in love with the right woman, always at the wrong time for us.
I’m a man watching her from afar just how we started. A man wishing I could take the weight off her shoulders. And I’m a man selfish enough to still wish she looked at me like she used to.
I never told her, or anyone, how hard it was for me to walk away. How many nights in Catawba I tried to drink away the part of me that ached to just hear her voice. How many miles I put on my bike running from the memories of her, of our night together.