Page 107 of Vandal Unbound

“Then always remember that whatever time you have with Daisy and Elsie, spending it with someone you can see a future with, accepting love from two people who don’t owe you any, feeling the peace of putting someone else first, a child, her mother, none of it would have been a waste if it made you happy.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

“You’re welcome, Vandal. I need to go because I don’t usually take these calls during the day and have to start my next appointment. But I’m very glad you called me.”

“I’m glad I did too.” Because it was a step to admit I wasn’t perfectly fixed, because that was what I had hoped for. Now I realize how unrealistic I was being, while still celebrating the progress I made.

I hang up the phone and step back inside. The house is quiet. Elsie is at camp. Daisy is at the bar. And I head to an appointment with one of the specialists looking after my eye. But, by the time the doctor finishes shining lights in my eyes and asking me the same three questions in twenty different ways four hours later, I’m about ready to take the eye chart screen and eat it.

Not because the appointment is bad, but because I’m suddenly itching to get back to the club and talk to my brothers.

Dr. Kilner leans back on his stool, rolling away from the examination machine with my file balanced open on his knee. He has the careful expression of a man used to giving both good and bad news in the same tone.

I brace out of habit.

“You’ve made significant progress,” he says finally.

I blink once, then let out a long exhale. I shouldn’t be surprised. The edges of my vision don’t blur the way they did a few weeks ago. It isn’t perfect, but I knew it was improving. And yet, somehow, I placed all my confidence in the doctor confirming it than trusting my own observation.

“How significant?”

His smile is small but genuine. “Enough that I am very pleased with where you are, and the odds of a better recovery outcome are higher than when you walked in.”

I don’t know what to do with the information, so I look down at my boots and realize they’re all scuffed to shit.

There’s dried mud on the heel from where Havoc and I started digging to put a more secure fence around the pool, and one of the laces needs replacing. But studying them feels easier than accepting the stinging of tears at the fact that my vision is returning.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“It’s still a journey, Mr.…Vandal. The trauma to the eye was severe. So I’m not going to stand here and promise you everything will return to exactly how it was before. There’s still inflammation. Still some irregularity. You may have sensitivity to light for a while. You’ll probably have days where fatigue makes the vision worse.”

“Sounds like a party.”

“It’s not the kind of party I choose to go to, but compared to where we started, Vandal, this is excellent. And cosmetically, the scarring is healing well. Some of it will soften over time. Some won’t. But the tissue looks healthy, and there’s no sign of complications.”

My fingertips automatically brush the raised edge near my temple where the damage cuts into my hairline. I’ve been letting my hair grow back since the attack, but lately, every time I catchmy reflection, the uneven length makes the scars look worse, like I’m trying to hide them and failing. “So, what does this mean?”

“It means you’re healing, and we keep doing what we’re doing. Drops for another few weeks. Sunglasses when you’re outside. No unnecessary strain. And please, for the love of God, stay out of fights.”

I give him a look, and he gives me one right back.

“I’m serious,” he reiterates.

“Fine.”

He flips a page in the file. “As far as riding goes, I’m comfortable easing restrictions provided you’re honest with yourself. Daylight first. Short trips. No longer rides. No night riding. And if the vision starts to blur or depth perception feels off, you stop immediately.”

I don’t tell him that I’ve already been behind the wheel of a vehicle many times. I know I was riding illegally, but sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do.

As I put on my sunglasses and get on my bike to begin the ride back to the clubhouse, I realize the wordhealinghas become somewhat of a theme. There was a time, not so long ago, when that word would’ve made me want to put a fist through something. It sounded too soft and too easy for what it was. Healing makes people think of soup and sleep and getting better in a straight line, and my recovery has been nothing like that.

I make it three blocks when I see a narrow store with a barber’s pole sandwiched between a bakery and a vape shop. Without overthinking it, I pull my bike up outside. The barber is a man in his seventies with hands that are gnarled but don’t shake and a face that suggests he’s heard many of the secrets in this town.

There’s a flicker of empathy when he takes in my scars, but he still asks me what we’re doing today, even though it’s clear my hair is a mess.

“I want it to look like a haircut, and I don’t care how short it has to go to make that happen.” I stare at myself in the mirror, at the scar carving through my brow, at the puckered skin near my temple. “I want it short enough that it doesn’t look like I’m hiding anymore.”

The barber meets my eyes in the mirror, then nods once. “I’ll give you my best.”