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FOURTEEN
DIA
"In the dance of life, move with the grace of a bear and the heart of a warrior." — Unknown
One morning in the middle of the month, I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself.
Not in a bad way.
I just…
see someone new.
Belly round, skin flushed, hair tied up.
I look like someone building a life.
Someone rebuilding after ruin.
I place my hand over my bump and whisper, “We’re going to be okay.”
And for the first time, I believe it.
My belly isn’t small anymore.
It’s there when I wake up, stretching the hem of Justin’s shirts.
It’s there when I brush my teeth, lean over the sink, and see a version of myself I barely recognize in the mirror.
But she’s stronger.
More real.
And when I place my hands over the curve of my stomach and feel a tiny kick thump against my palm, I remember: I’m still here.
We’re still here.
When everything fell apart I still made it through.
Justin walks into the kitchen behind me, shirtless and rumpled, hair sticking up in every direction because it’s starting to grow back thick again.
He didn’t lose all his hair, just thinned out a bit.
As they phase down treatments, he is getting stronger.
He pauses when he sees me.
The way he looks at me, it’s like I’m art.
Not fragile.
Not broken.
Just something worth noticing.
A treasure to admire.
“You staring because I’m glowing or because I’m the size of a small sedan?”
“Glowing,” he says, but his eyes drop to my belly, and he smirks.
“And maybe the sedan part, too. I like you having all these curves and swells.” He cups my breasts and I feel the heat rush through my body.
I laugh, lean against the counter, and stretch my arms.
“This kid is doing somersaults.”
Justin steps behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses his palms gently to my belly.
“Wants to ride already,” he murmurs into my hair.
“God help us.”
He kisses the top of my head.
“Club legacy.”
“You better be the one teaching him how to ride. I’ll be the one wrapping them in bubble wrap and crying during school plays.”
“You’re gonna be the best damn mom.”
I don’t say anything, because I’m scared I won’t be.
I’m scared I’ll screw it up.
I’m scared they’ll grow up and ask about their real father, and I won’t know how to answer.
But I press back into Justin’s chest, and for now, that’s enough.
Everyone’s been good to me.
I never thought I’d feel like I belonged in the MC world after Benji died.
For a while, I floated like a ghost between the clubhouse and my grief, numb and unreachable.
But now?
My mom brings over casseroles and insists on giving me foot rubs.
Maritza texts me baby name ideas at midnight.
I have a name picked out.
I’ve made my decisions and I’m at peace with them.
I just don’t want to share that piece yet.
So I let my best friend send me all the ideas.
I can save them for her whenever she needs ideas.
Even BW checks in, dropping off peanut butter milkshakes and pretending it’s because he wants one.
They all know.
About the baby.
About Justin.
About the messy middle we’re living in.
But no one judges.
They just love.
And that’s more than I ever expected.
I started going with Toon to his treatments.
He tried to talk me out of it at first, saying it’s not a pretty scene and he doesn’t want me wasting hours in a beige room while he’s hooked up to a machine.
I go anyway.
Karsci handles most things at the rescue, my non-profit business where I love saving and training local dogs.
In my current state, I don’t do as much hands ons with the dogs, but I still show up for paperwork and screening potential homes for the animals we take in.
Since I don’t work at the Salty Dog anymore, it’s not like I have someone who is going to write me up or fire me if I don’t come in on my designated time.
He hasn’t missed a single doctor’s appointment for me, I won’t miss any more treatments.
The first time, I sit beside him in the chair, reading some cheesy romance novel while he dozes off, blanket up to his chest, color drained from his face.
He looks older when he’s asleep.
Like the weight of pretending falls off him.
And I watch him, heart clenched in my chest, wondering how it’s possible to love someone for both who they are and what they carry for you.
When he wakes up, he jokes that I look like I’m reading porn.
I tell him that’s why his heart rate spikes during chapter ten.
And like every treatment, we leave and go home where he sleep most of the afternoon.
Even with the dark circles under his eyes, he’s still the man I’m choosing.
Every damn day.
The call comes while I’m in the middle of folding baby clothes.
It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Dia Crews?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lisa Carrington with the District Attorney’s office. I’m calling in regard to the upcoming sentencing hearing for Michael Brenner.”
I stop folding.
My breath catches.
Brenner.
The drunk driver.
The man who killed Benji.
“I, um, yeah,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
“We’re offering you the chance to give a victim impact statement at the sentencing hearing next week Would you be willing to participate?”
I sit on the edge of the bed.
My hands are trembling.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” the woman says kindly.
“I’ll send over the packet. If you want to read a statement, we’ll help prepare it.”
“Okay,” I say again, because it’s the only word I can manage.
After she hangs up, I stare at the folded onesie in my lap.
It’s red with tiny motorcycles printed all over it.
Benji would’ve loved it.
That night, I tell Toon while we’re brushing our teeth.
He freezes, toothbrush midair.
“You gonna do it?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He spits, rinses, leans against the sink.
“What’s holding you back?”
I shrug.
“It’s been months. I’ve been trying to move forward. I don’t know if opening that up again is going to help. Plus, baby boy could come any day now. I’m not far from my due date.”
Toon doesn’t push.
He just nods and hands me my floss.
Later, in bed, he reaches for my hand under the covers and squeezes once.
“I’ll be there,” he says quietly.
“If you do it. Or if you don’t.”
I don’t say anything.
I just hold on tighter.
Two days later, the packet arrives.
I don’t open it right away.
It sits on the counter while I wash dishes.
It follows me into the bedroom like a ghost.
Every time I pass it, I feel like Benji is waiting for me to speak.
When I finally crack it open, it’s just paper.
Dates.
Guidelines.
Sample statements.
But it feels like I’m holding a loaded gun.
I write the first draft at midnight.
Then I rip it up.
I write the second one the next day.
Too angry.
Too raw.
It takes four tries before I land on the version that feels right.
That doesn’t scream for vengeance, but doesn’t let him off the hook either.
I read it aloud to Justin one night while he’s rubbing cocoa butter into my swollen ankles.
He doesn’t interrupt.
Just listens.
When I finish, my voice shaking, he leans over and kisses my calf.
“That’s what strength sounds like.”
The day of the sentencing, I wake up nauseous.
It’s not morning sickness.
It’s something else.
Something heavier.
Justin drives me to the courthouse in his truck.
He wears a black button-down shirt, no cut, sleeves rolled just enough to show the edge of his ink.
He looks like a soldier.
Like a man on a mission.
We sit in the hallway for a long time before they call my name.
When I step into the courtroom, it feels like time folds in on itself.
There’s the judge.
The attorneys.
And at the defense table— him.
Michael Brenner.
He looks nothing like the man in the newspaper photo.
He’s smaller somehow.
Paler.
Wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit.
I take my place at the podium.
My hands shake.
My knees want to buckle.
But I look at him.
And I speak.
“I lost the love of my life because you decided your convenience was more important than his future.”
I talk about Benji.
About who he was.
About how many birthdays he will miss.
About the baby who’ll never know him.
I don’t scream.
I don’t cry.
I say every word with the kind of strength you only find when you’re at rock bottom.
And when I walk back to my seat, I don’t look at Michael Brenner again.
I look at Justin.
He’s already standing.
His eyes are glassy.
His arms open.
And I fall into them.