Page 3 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"Sounds like hell."

"It's not so bad. Beats funerals." The moment she says it, her face changes: regret, old grief, the same look she gets every time Tommy's death comes up in conversation. "Sorry. I didn't mean…"

"I know." I do. Seven years later, we're both still tripping over his ghost.

Lou brings the food. My burger with extra pickles, June's grilled cheese with tomato soup. We eat in silence for a while, the diner filling up around us with the usual crowd. Families, couples, a few solo truckers passing through on their way to somewhere bigger.

I'm halfway through my fries when June sets down her spoon and looks at me.

"Can I ask you something?"

Every instinct I have screams *no*, but I nod anyway.

"Are you happy?"

The question lands like a gut punch. I chew slowly, buy myself time, try to figure out what the hell kind of answer she's looking for. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." She hesitates. "You work all the time. You're in a motorcycle club that's currently at war. You never talk about dating anyone, never mention wanting anything for yourself. And every time I see you, you look a little more worn down."

"I'm fine, June."

"That's not what I asked."

No, it's not. And the honest answer, that I've spent twenty years in love with my best friend's wife and the last seven trying to figure out if telling her would destroy us both, is not something I can say out loud in a diner on Main Street.

"I've got the garage," I say instead. "The club. Good people around me. That's enough."

"Is it?"

The way she's looking at me, like she can see straight through the deflection, like she knows I'm lying and is just waiting for me to admit it, makes my throat tight.

"Why are you asking?"

June glances down at her soup, then back up. "Because I worry about you. Because you've been there for every hard thing in my life since Tommy died, and I don't know if anyone's been there for yours. Because I..." She stops, swallows. "I don't want you to just exist, Jackson. You deserve more than that."

I want to tell her everything, that I'm not just existing, I'm waiting, have been waiting for seven years to see if there's ever a moment when it would be okay to admit I love her. That sitting across from her once a month is the best and worst part of my life. That if Demon puts a bullet in me tomorrow, my only regret will be dying with the truth still buried.

My father had no secrets or regrets. Told my mother he loved her every single day, told me the same, died with nothing left unsaid.

I'm failing his example in every way that matters.

Instead, I finish my burger, wipe my mouth, and meet her eyes.

"I'm okay, June. Promise."

She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way her shoulders drop, the sad smile that says she's letting it go because pushing harder would break something neither of us can fix.

Lou brings the check. I pay before June can argue, leave a tip that's probably too big, and follow her toward the door.

Through the glass, I can see the sky's opened up. Rain hammers the pavement, turns the parking lot into a sheet of dark water under the streetlights. My bike sits exactly where I left it, already soaked.

"Damn," I mutter.

June stops beside me, peers out at the downpour. "You rode?"

"Yeah."

"In this?"