Despite being late in the summer, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was fifty degrees and cloudy, with a chance for rain. Even for a seasoned rider, the day wasn’t a good one to spend eight hours on a motorcycle seat.

After checking the weather forecast on my phone, I peered through the wall of windows and into the cloudy sky. “Probably not a good idea for you to go on this one, Baby. Sorry the weather went to shit.”

She stepped through the bedroom door. With her hair up and a bandana tied across her forehead, she looked like an Ol’ Lady of a one-percenter.

“I’m going,” she said. “I don’t care what the weather’s like.”

I gestured toward the cloud-filled sky. “Look.”

“There’s windows in the bedroom. I’ve seen it. I’m going.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

We rode the forty minutes to the clubhouse. After eating breakfast and having a cup of coffee with the fellas, we waited anxiously for the event to start.

She scanned the countless motorcycles that were neatly parked for as far as the eye could see. “Does everyone leave at once?” she asked. “This will be a mess.”

“We’ll be up front,” I said. “Leading the group. Side by side, there will be two columns, until everyone’s out.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s a long line of bikes.”

“Miles and miles,” I said.

“What about traffic?”

I gestured toward the four Sheriff’s cars that were parked at the side of the lot. “They’ll lead us out of town. After that, we’re on our own.”

The corners of her mouth curled into a smile. “This is so exciting.”

Half an hour later, the cool morning air was thick with the rumble from the exhaust of that very sea of motorcycles. Most found the sound deafening.

It sounded like comraderie to me.

Various motorcycle clubs, nationalities, and ethnic groups converged in one place. For a day, they set differences and past arguments aside. They rode for a cause. On that year, to raise money for suicide awareness.

The police cruisers pulled out of the parking lot. King raised his hand high in the air. “Let’s roll.”

Side by side, we exited the parking lot. We followed the police escort for the first few miles. Then, with a wave of their respective hands, the officers freed us of our confines.

Parked cars lined the highway, as if pulling over for a funeral precession. Children waved. Mothers cringed. Fathers dreamed.

Within an hour, contrary to the forecast, the sky cleared. We rode for seven hours that day. Jessica never complained once. In fact, she was disappointed when the ride ended.

Afterward, we ate the traditional barbeque. Men told stories of their experiences during the days’ events, and of past events and rallies. We attended a silent auction and waited on the announcement of who won the poker run. Although Jessica believed it would be us, we didn’t win anything except a beautiful day of riding.

One by one, and in small groups, the motorcycles left the lot. All that was left was the men of the MC.

“Anyone up for some moonshine?” King asked.

“I’ll try some,” Jessica responded.

King raised his clenched fist. “Stearman Field!”

We rode to Stearman Field. After lining the runway with Harley-Davidsons, we sauntered inside and sat as a group. Seated at half a dozen large tables, we sat with the sun in our faces. We talked, laughed, and drank our way into the evening.

Jess learned on that day that family isn’t always bound by blood.

Sometimes it’s chosen.

When the sun began to set in the western sky, I looked at Jess. “Need to get home pretty quick. Babysitter’s expecting us.”

She finished her moonshine lemonade and wiped her mouth. After slamming the empty Mason Jar onto the table, she looked at King and grinned.

He smiled in return. “Atta girl.”

Jess glanced at me. “Okay. I’m ready.”

She stood. She stumbled. She steadied herself against the table. At five-two and one hundred and thirty-five pounds, she had no business matching drinks with the fellas. But, she somehow managed to.

“She’ll fall off the back of that bike, Scott,” Big O said with a laugh. “Let’s get some bungie straps and we can wrap them around you two.”

“You’re not going to tie her to me,” I said. “She’ll be fine.”

“She’s as drunk as a monkey,” he said. “She’ll fall off the back when you gas it at a light.”

“She’s a biker’s Ol’ Lady.” I raised my index finger. “She’ll ride without aid or assistance.”

Jess shot a playful glare to each of the men. “She sure will.”

We made it home without incident. As I tucked Jess into bed, I couldn’t help but grin. “Did you have fun?”

She flashed a drunken smile. “Best. Day. Ever.”

Then, she fell asleep.

That day, whether she realized it or not, she was widely accepted by the men in the club. She had met the presidents of other MC’s, loners, weekend riders, admirers, and even a few men who I’d had problems with in the past.

She did so without embarrassing me, putting me at risk, or making a fool of either of us. She was accepted with open arms by all. She had also gone toe-to-toe with some of the best drinkers the Midwest had to offer.

She was now a part of all three worlds in which I lived. I admired her as she slept. In a moment, my mouth curled into a prideful grin.

There was only one more step I needed to take.

The next day, we sat along the southern exterior wall of the coffee shop. Landon and Lily sipped their Frappuccinos. I sat beside Svetli and watched the cars pass. Hiding beneath her hat and sunglasses, Jess was seated at my side. As she recovered from the previous evening’s alcohol intake, I stole admiring glances when she wasn’t looking.

She was undeniably beautiful. Beneath the surface of her skin, however, was the most beautiful part about her.

Her willingness to accept me wholly and without reservation. Her wit. Her willingness to place the children first, and herself second. She was ambitious, had a great work ethic, and loved her job. She was nurturing. Genuine. Kind. Honest. Compassionate. She was also predictable, which brought me tremendous comfort.

I had no idea women had the capacity to be predictable.

I glanced at Landon. He was instructing Lily on how to remove the lid to her drink and lick the whipped cream from the inside.

I looked at Jess. Nursing a hangover, she was gazing at the passing traffic through her mirrored Aviators.

“Got a question for you, Baby,” I said.

She turned her head to the side. “I hope it’s an easy one.”

“I hope so, too.”

She pulled the glasses down the bridge of her nose and looked over the tops of the lenses. “I’m ready.”

“Do you want to get married?”

She swallowed hard, and then choked on her response. “I mean yeah. I want to someday.”

“Let me rephrase that.” I cleared my throat. “I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

She removed her glasses. “You’re asking me to marry you? Right now?”

I smiled. “I am.”

“Yes,” she blurted. “Absolutely. I will.”

I clenched my fist. “Let’s make it official.”

She glanced at my hand and met my gaze. “Seriously? On the day you propose to me?”

Stone-faced, I held her gaze.

She made a fist. As she pressed her knuckles to mine, she smiled. “I don’t know why I’d expect anything else from you.”

On that afternoon, with the assurance of a fist bump as her only proof, we became engaged.