“We’ve got a fucking pulse!” one of them screams, which is just about the most Prescott thing you could ever say in an ER. That’s the last thing I remember before I fall back asleep. Not sure if my lips are smiling for real, or if I’m just smiling in my soul.

But it’s there.

And it’s painted in the bright red color of victory.

Aaron Fadler

Two months after graduation day … again.

Lying there on my bed, earbuds tucked in, her phone on her belly, is Bernadette Savannah Blackbird.

A smile teases the edges of my mouth, and I close my eyes, remembering the words that fell from that surgeon’s lips like a miracle I felt beyond unworthy to receive, like a supplicant at the feet of an all-powerful god.

“Mr. Channing, she’s alive.”

Of course, the surgeon said many other things after that, but I got caught on that word and couldn’t seem to pull myself away from it. Alive. She’s alive.

Bernie pulls out the left earbud and glances over at me with a brow raised. Even though the master bedroom technically belongs to all of us—her and Vic most of all maybe, but still—if she needs to think or she needs a moment, Bernadette always comes up here.

“We’re ready,” I say, and then I move into the room to offer my hand. Bernie reaches out and takes it, and even if she isn’t entirely back to her old self physically speaking, well, her mouth and her sass were in full force even back in the hospital.

“Finally wrangled the brats up, huh?” she queries as she falls into my arms and I look down at her with every ounce of love and affection brimming inside of me. It’s almost too much sometimes, like it feels as if all of that desire and want will overflow and flood the world. That’s how much I love her, so much that I could bury the world beneath a blanket of that feeling.

“Brats officially wrangled,” I say, dropping my mouth to hers for a kiss, one that tastes like the very first we shared. It zings across my mouth at the same time that it cuts straight through me, bleeding any insecurities or vulnerabilities that I have right out onto the floor. This is perfect, this is exactly where I need to be right now, in this place where each kiss tastes like the first one all over again. “We’re going to hit Wesley’s on the way back, so … everybody’s going.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” Bernie says as she buries her face against my chest, her hands clinging to my shirt. “That’s why everyone’s going? For French fries and shakes? It has nothing to do with the fact that I got shot and you guys are obsessed with trying to take care of me?”

“I wouldn’t just say obsessed,” I begin, stroking my fingers through her hair and trying my best to hide the smile that lights on my lips. “I’d say fanatical. Or zealous. Something like that.”

Bernadette laughs, and I swear, it’s the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

“Fine. Hot-blooded, impassioned, ardent, blazing, demonstratively charged men.” She gives me another kiss but on the cheek this time, and then pulls away to head for the door, dressed in a pair of my old sweats and a t-shirt that says something political on it. Bernie stuffs her feet into boots as I follow her down the staircase and through the living room, out the front door and toward the waiting vehicles.

Toward a future that looks brighter and brighter with every goddamn step we take.

Even though she’s supposed to take it easy, Bernie snatches the Caddy’s keys from Hael’s fingers, opens the door and climbs in. She starts a song—“Dirty” by grandson—and presses the button that brings the top down.

A warm august breeze teases her hair into a flurry around her face as she slips on a pair of sunglasses and glances over her shoulder at the three little girls in the backseat.

“You ready?” she asks as Vic gets on his bike, and Hael gets in his Camaro. Oscar and Callum look at me for a moment before joining Hael. A smile teases the edges of my lips as Bernie cranks up the volume and I move around the hood of the car, giving the Bronco a fond pat as I pass by and climb into the passenger side of the Caddy.

“Let’s roll,” Bernie says, sliding a piece of gum between her lips and giving it a sassy pop before she pulls out of the driveway with the girls raising their arms and squealing in excitement. The wind’s going to mess up their hair, but let’s be honest, I did a crap job anyway.

I lean by head back against the seat and laugh as Bernadette sends us flying down the street, the Camaro and the Harley following along behind us. An entourage of Havoc for a little kid’s birthday party. Sounds about right.

Because, Havoc, well, we don’t do anything in half-measures.

Bernadette Blackbird

Three months later …

The bonfire is so tall that it kisses the sky; made up of old cardboard and bits of scrap wood fished from local dumpsters, it is clearly and proudly a Prescott High creation. I’m standing in front of it wearing my pink leather Havoc jacket while I wait for the boys to join me.

You’re here, Bernadette Blackbird, I think with a slight twitch of the lips. It’s been one year since Victor and I got married on this very property, property that we now own. Property that we can start renovating now that Vic’s achieved every milestone his Grandma Ruby laid out for him.

Shit, just surviving the past year was impressive enough. And then to end up here? In love? As a family? It wasn’t just havoc at Prescott High. It was chaos. It was mayhem. It was anarchy. It was pure victory. And we survived fucking all of it.

I slip a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of my leather pants and put one to my lips.

“Need a light?” Hael Harbin asks, and I turn to look at him, standing beside me with a lighter in his hands. He offers it up and I lean forward, leaving the cigarette between my lips as I look into eyes the color of bitter chocolate. Some bites are a little sweeter than others, but don’t mistake this shit for a Milky Way.

“I was going to see how close I could get to the bonfire before my smoke caught or my hair went up in flames.” I pull in a sharp inhale, my lips painted that same beautiful red, the shade that tastes like freedom and new beginnings, but I could just be waxing poetic. The color is called Victory, after all.

“No more risks this year, Bernadette. You’ve already had enough narrow escapes as it is.” His voice trails off, and I just know that he’s thinking about it again, those last, few awful moments before his father shot me. Before he killed him. Before I died and then came back to life under the hands of some very skilled doctors.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper, leaning into him and letting him band his arms around my waist. “Stop blaming yourself. I already told you: the only way you’re getting my forgiveness for that moment is to stop asking for it and to stop feeling guilty.”

“I know,” he murmurs with a groan, nuzzling against the side of my head. “I’m trying, but it isn’t easy.”

I think about Ms. Keating’s words on the last day of school—nothing worth having ever is—and I smile. She’s been awesome lately, Breonna has. Not only has she acted as a babysitter whenever we’ve needed one, but when I was tucked up in the master bedroom at Aaron’s house, convalescing and stoned off my ass to get through the pain, she brought me plenty of treats. Apparently, her mother was a Ghanaian immigrant and she learned to cook from her. I’ve eaten things in the past few months that I’ve never heard of in my entire life.