irrevocable

{Two}

Remember When // Wallows

Holly

My after-work-routine is disrupted by an extra stop at Blue Bloods tattoo parlor. I don't spend much time there even though it's run by my father's motorcycle club buddies. He does, however. When he's not on a long haul, Dad spends his free time loitering in the tattoo shop and talking shit with the other Bitter Reapers. The few times I was there with him were more than enough. I may be a Bitter Reapers daughter by default but that doesn't mean I'm adopting the lifestyle.

I'm not even sure what the lifestyle is. They don't do much anymore. When I was younger there would be get-togethers. I remember watching the men in their leather biker vests looking over each other's motorcycles, drinking beer and laughing. Their old ladies, including my mom before she got sick, would cook and gossip, smoke cigarettes or hang out. The kids would play ball or get each other wet with a hose. Jackson and I always ran off together to find mud or a lizard, anything other than the rowdy kids at the party.

I've heard stories of years ago when the entire club would travel as a pack, riding from city to city or town to town until someone would run them off. I never dealt with anything like that, thankfully. But I never got a good vibe around any of them.

I still don't.

A chime rings over the door as I enter. The first face I see is that of Butch. He's behind the front counter where he roosts most days from what I recall. In place of his usual stained t-shirt, he's wearing a light blue polo, not a stain to be found. His hair is styled, short on the sides and slicked back on top. I've never seen him looking this nice.

"Well, hello there, little lady. I was just talking to your ma' yesterday mornin'."

"Yes, she mentioned that." I reach into my purse for the envelope I brought. "She gave me these to bring to you." I hand him the envelope and watch his face light up.

"That was darn fast. Tell her thanks for me, will ya?" He doesn't wait to open the flap and pull out the stack of pictures. "Will you look at that." His voice turns quiet, reverent. He handles the pictures like glass as he looks from one to the next.

"I didn't get a chance," I say, not bothering to mention the one picture I did see. Those emotions are still raw. I start toward the door intending to leave when Butch stops me.

"In some ways it feels like he was here just yesterday, running around asking all the questions he used to ask. I think his favorite word was why. Wonder if that's still the case. Guess I'll be finding out any minute."

"Wh...what?"

"I should check the back room one more time, make sure everything's ready." Butch sets the pictures on the front counter and heads to the back of the shop.

My heart races as awareness peaks. He's coming here? Jackson is coming...here. Now.

I don't know why but I'm not ready to see him. Something about seeing him again for the first time in more than a decade feels huge. Monumental. We were little kids. Silly children who played in mud. Seeing him shouldn't be a big deal. It should be a welcome event, if all things were relatively normal.

But our friendship was not normal. As a five-year-old I knew it wasn't normal. He was everything to me. And when he left, I was devastated. I don't think I could handle it if he didn't remember me. Or if he didn't put the same weight on what he meant to me back then as I did. As I still do.

Without even mumbling goodbye I take two steps toward the door and am stopped once again as it opens. As the bell chimes announcing a newcomer. The newcomer. The one that's been highly anticipated.