Page 20 of Diesel’s Second Chance

Coming from Saint, whose brother is the man we're riding out to kill, who understands complicated family dynamics and buried truths better than anyone, the advice lands hard.

"Yeah," I say. "I will."

I fire up my bike and head for June's house, breaking every speed limit between the clubhouse and town.

Seventeen hours until I might die.

I'm not wasting a single one.

Chapter 6 - June

I've been lying in bed for the past two hours staring at the ceiling and pretending I'm trying to sleep.

I'm not. Sleep requires closing your eyes, and every time I close mine I see Jackson's face in candlelight, feel his lips against mine, hear his voice saying *I've been in love with you for twenty years.*

So, I keep them open and stare at the water stain in the corner that's shaped like Ohio and tell myself I made the right choice leaving before dawn.

I didn't. I'm a coward.

My phone sits on the nightstand, silent. I've checked it fifteen times in the past hour even though I know Jackson won't call. I asked for space. Told him I'd reach out when I was ready.

The problem is I don't know if I'll ever be ready. How do you process something like this? How do you reconcile loving your dead husband with being in love with his best friend? How do you move forward when every step feels like a betrayal?

Tommy.

I roll onto my side, pull his pillow against my chest even though it stopped smelling like him years ago. I washed the sheets too many times, trying to erase the emptiness, trying to make the bed feel less like a monument to everything I lost.

It didn't work. The bed still feels empty. The house still feels empty. I still feel empty.

Except last night, for about thirty seconds when Jackson kissed me, I didn't feel empty at all.

I felt terrified, guilty and more alive than I've been in seven years.

My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it, heart racing against my ribs. It's not Jackson. It's my boss, Carol, responding to the text I sent at 5:30 AM asking if I could take a personal day.

**CAROL:** Of course, honey. Take all the time you need. The spring rush can wait. You doing okay?

I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to answer that. *No, Carol, I'm not okay. I'm in love with my dead husband's best friend and we kissed last night and I ran away like a coward and now I don't know what to do.*

Instead, I type: **Just need a day. Thank you for understanding.**

**CAROL:** Always. Love you.

I set the phone down and press my hands to my face. Carol's known me since high school, gave me the job at the flower shop when I needed something to fill the empty hours after Tommy died. She's been nothing but kind and patient, never pushing when I show up with red eyes or need to take a break during particularly hard days.

But I can't tell her this. Can't tell anyone this.

Because how do I explain that I confessed my love to my dead husband's best friend and then ran away before dawn? That I feel like I'm betraying Tommy's memory just by wanting to be happy again? That the guilt is eating me alive but the longing is worse?

A knock at my front door makes me jump.

I sit up, heart racing. It's barely 9 AM. Nobody visits this early unless something's wrong.

Another knock, more insistent.

I swing my legs out of bed, grab the cardigan hanging on the chair, and wrap it around myself. I'm still wearing Jackson’s T-shirt, the one I put on last night in his guest room, the one I couldn't bring myself to leave behind when I ran. It smells like motor oil, detergent and him.

I should've changed. Should've put on my own clothes before answering the door. But the knocking continues, urgent, and I'm already halfway down the stairs.