Page 66 of Heart of Stone

"I made a mistake. I'm not abandoning anyone."

"No? Then where were you?" Each word feels like glass in my throat. "Where were you when I was begging them to help her breathe? When Amy wouldn't stop crying? When I had to make medical decisions alone?"

He flinches. "I'm here now."

"Yeah. Now. When your club business is handled." I wrap my arms around myself. "That's not good enough. We need someone who puts us first. We deserve that. Those kids deserve that."

Even if I don't.

"Andi, please?—"

I step away from him. "I've already had Steel move our stuff back to the house."

He rears back. "You what?"

"You heard me." I lift my chin despite the tears burning the back of my throat. "I won't do this anymore. I won't let these kids think they come second. Not again."

"They don't?—"

"They do. They always will." I swipe angrily at my eyes. "And that's fine. It's who you are. The club comes first. I knew that going in. I just... I thought..." I shake off the wishes I know better than to make. "But I was wrong."

"Don't do this." His voice is rough. "Let me explain. We can fix this."

"No. We can't." I turn toward the room. "Because next time it'll be the same thing. Club business will come up, and you'll have to choose, and it won't be us. It's never going to be us."

"Andi—"

I pause in the doorway. “For what it’s worth, she’s going to be okay.”

“Andi, please, let me?—”

"Goodbye, Hawk."

I walk away—back to my kids, back to the life I'd chosen. I don't look back.

I can't.

Because if I do, I might break. And I can't afford to break. Not when I have three kids who depend on me.

I have to do what is right. No matter how much my heart hurts.

17

ANDI

Ipull into the driveway, trying to ignore the party happening across the street at the clubhouse. Music pulses through the night air as I check the rearview mirror. Abby's still wheezing slightly in her car seat, but we’ve been discharged–thank god. She has a follow up next week but all signs are good.

"Almost home, babies," I say, forcing cheer into my voice. "We’ll have a bath then bed, I think."

Amy tugs at her car seat straps. "Tummy funny."

She’s needed to go to the toilet since we left the hospital.

"I know, sweetie. Just hold on?—"

"Wawy," she whimpers. "Tummy."

I'm already moving, scrambling to unbuckle her, but I'm not fast enough. She makes a tiny hiccuping sound and then?—