Page 33 of Diesel’s Second Chance

I stand on the corner of Market and Fifth, holding our son against my hip while Jackson parallel parks the truck, and try to reconcile the gleaming high-rises with the rundown buildings I knew twenty years ago. Half the shops are different. The coffee place where I used to study until 2 AM is now a boutique selling overpriced candles. The pizza joint that stayed open until dawn is a CrossFit gym.

"Mama," Tommy says, patting my cheek with his chubby hand. "Down."

"Not yet, baby. Wait for Daddy."

He's eighteen months old and looks exactly like Jackson, same sandy dark hair, same warm brown eyes, same stubborn set to his jaw when he doesn't get his way immediately. But he has my dimples and my tendency to talk nonstop about everything and nothing.

We named him Thomas Reed. Tommy for the man we both loved and lost.

I cried for an hour when Jackson first suggested the name. We were lying in bed two months after that terrible night when he rode out to war, one month after he'd officially introduced me to the club as his old lady. I'd just told him I was pregnant, terrified he'd think it was too soon, too fast, too complicated.

Instead, he'd pulled me into his arms and whispered, "If it's a boy, we should name him Tommy. Keep his memory alive. Make sure our son knows about the man who made us possible."

That's when I knew for certain I was going to marry this man.

Which I did. Six months later, small ceremony at the courthouse with the whole club in attendance. Phoenix stood as Jackson's best man. Eden and Nora stood with me. Grace was flower girl and took her job so seriously she counted every petal she dropped.

The truck door slams and Jackson rounds the front, looking relaxed in jeans and a flannel despite the November chill. Three years later and I still get butterflies when I see him. Still can't quite believe he's mine.

"Sorry," he says, joining us on the sidewalk. "Parking's a nightmare here."

"It always was." I shift Tommy to my other hip. "The city's changed so much. I barely recognize it."

"That happens." Jackson reaches for our son. "Come here, buddy. Give Mama's arms a break."

Tommy goes willingly, immediately grabbing Jackson's beard. "Dada. Hungry."

"I know. We're getting hot chocolate, remember?"

"Choc-it!"

I smile and take Jackson's free hand as we start walking. "The place I was thinking of is about two blocks down. If it's still there."

"And if it's not?"

"Then we find somewhere else." I lean into his side, soaking up his warmth. "I just wanted to show you both where I used to hide between classes. Best hot chocolate in the city."

Jackson's fingers tighten around mine. We can talk about my college years now without the weight that used to come with it: the loneliness, the homesickness, the way I counted down days until I could get back to Millhaven. Back then, this city felt like exile. Now it's just a place I used to know.

"There." I point ahead to a small shop wedged between a bookstore and a dry cleaner. "That's it. Still there."

The sign reads *Stella's* in faded gold letters. Through the windows I can see mismatched furniture, local art on the walls, and a long counter with an ancient espresso machine that's probably the same one from twenty years ago.

"Looks exactly like the kind of place college kids would camp out in," Jackson observes.

"I practically lived here junior and senior year." I push open the door, triggering a bell. "Stella, the owner, used to let me stay past closing if I was cramming for exams."

The interior smells like coffee beans, chocolate and old books. It's warm, cluttered and completely unchanged. Even the corner booth is the same, cracked red vinyl and a table carved with decades of initials.

A woman in her sixties appears from the back, gray hair in a messy bun, flour on her apron. Her face lights up when she sees us.

"Welcome to Stella's!" She wipes her hands on her apron, then does a double-take. "Wait. June? June Miller?"

My brain stutters. "Stella?"

"Oh my God, it is you!" She comes around the counter, arms outstretched. "I haven't seen you in what, fifteen years?"

"At least." I say, as we hug. "I can't believe you remember me."