I wanted to tell him yes.
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Instead, I told him the truth.
“I’m going to miss you more than anything.”
He nodded.
“But you have friends now.”
“I do.”
“And Wade said I can always be part of the club.”
“You always will be.”
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He smiled faintly.
“Good.”
Drew died peacefully a few days later, with me holding his hand.
Nothing about losing him was easier because of what Dr. Harris had done.
But when the funeral was over, and the quiet became unbearable, I discovered I wasn’t as alone as I’d feared.
Wade called regularly.
The bikers invited me to their gatherings, never pressuring me to attend.
Dr. Harris checked in, too, no longer as Drew’s physician, but as someone who had loved him.
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Six weeks later, I attended a memorial ride organized in Drew’s honor.
The motorcycles lined up under a clear blue sky.
Dr. Harris stood beside Wade, wearing his old leather vest.
