Chapter 5 - THE POCKET AND THE FLOWER
As Rachel wept softly into her hands, overwhelmed by the staggering display of solidarity, a tiny tug pulled at the leather fringe of Cole’s vest.
Cole looked down, surprised.
Lily had stepped out from behind her mother’s waist. She was standing right beside Cole’s hip, her tiny hand firmly grasping the lower edge of his black leather club vest. She wasn't looking at the pile of money overflowing the jar. She wasn't looking at the heavy motorcycles parked along the curb.
Her small, bright brown eyes were looking straight up at Cole’s chest—specifically at the small, internal pocket stitched into the left side of his leather vest, right over his heart.
Lily pointed a small, delicate finger toward the leather seam.
“Mr. Cole?” Lily asked, her voice soft and full of a strange, knowing quiet.
Cole lowered his broad frame slightly, bending his knees so he was closer to eye level with the small girl. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“You still have Daddy’s flower?” Lily asked.
Cole’s entire frame went rigid as iron.
The ambient sounds of the evening—the rustle of the wind through the oak trees, the faint chirp of crickets, the murmur of the bikers along the curb—seemed to vanish entirely from Cole’s consciousness.
His face lost its calm composure, replaced by a look of profound, shocked disbelief. His dark eyes widened as he stared at the seven-year-old girl standing before him in the fading amber light.
Slowly, with hand trembling slightly, Cole reached his large, tattooed right hand inside his leather club vest. His fingers slid deep into the concealed interior pocket—a pocket he had kept closed for five long years.
His fingers brushed against something delicate, dry, and carefully preserved.
Cole slowly pulled his hand out of his vest. Resting in his broad, calloused palm was a small, hand-crafted paper flower made from bright yellow construction paper, its stem wrapped in green floral tape. The paper was faded around the edges, showing the subtle wear of years spent carried close to a man's chest, but it had been kept in pristine, uncrushed condition.
May you like
Cole looked at the fragile yellow flower sitting in his palm, then looked back up at the little girl.
“Daddy’s?” Cole whispered, his gravelly voice cracking for the very first time.
