Chapter 10
Jax walked over to the small wooden cabinet near the corner, pulling out a couple of cracked ceramic mugs and a tin pot filled with spring water, which he set on top of the woodstove. He tossed in a few dry kindling sticks and touched the match to them, watching the flame catch and grow until a steady, crackling heat began to radiate from the iron surface.
"Are you hungry?" Jax asked, gesturing toward the paper bag Martha had handed them before they left the diner.
Leo nodded slowly, walking over to the table and pulling out one of the wooden chairs. He sat down, his legs dangling a few inches above the floor boards, and carefully unfolded the greaseproof paper. Inside were two thick turkey sandwiches piled high with lettuce and homemade cranberry spread, along with a heavy wedge of apple pie wrapped in wax paper.
Jax pulled out the second chair and sat down opposite the boy. He watched as Leo picked up one of the sandwiches with both hands and took a tentative bite, the tension in the boy's jaw finally relaxing as the rich, savory taste registered.
"She makes good pie, doesn't she?" Jax asked, breaking a small piece off his own half of the sandwich.
"It's sweet," Leo mumbled around a mouthful of food. He paused for a moment, chewing thoughtfully before looking across the table with those piercing hazel eyes. "Why didn't you ever come back for us, Jax?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and unvarnished, cutting straight through the pleasant warmth of the woodstove. Jax didn't flinch, nor did he look away. He knew the question was coming; it was only a matter of time. He stared down at his large, scarred hands resting on the wooden table, tracing the jagged outline of a faded tattoo on his right knuckle before raising his eyes to meet the boy's gaze.
"Because I thought I was poison, Leo," Jax said, his voice raw and honest, stripping away every excuse he had used for a decade. "When you live the way I lived—fighting, running, breaking every law in the book—you convince yourself that everyone you touch gets dragged down into the mud with you. I thought leaving was the only decent thing I had ever done in my life."
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"Mom didn't think it was decent," Leo said quietly, his voice devoid of anger, carrying only a heavy, heartbreaking sadness. "She cried every time the wind blew too hard against the trailer walls. She said you had a good heart, but you were too stubborn to let anybody help you carry it."
Jax felt as though he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer. The words hit with the devastating accuracy of a sniper's bullet, stripping bare every rationalization he had built around his cowardice. He had called it sacrifice; she had called it stubbornness. And looking at the boy sitting across from him—thin, exhausted, yet fiercely resilient—Jax knew she had been right all along.
