“So, you’re ready for a little stress reliever.”
“Hmm… another skate night?”
“Better. Taking a bike ride with me.”
The phone went quiet.
“That’s no stress relief, riding a motorcycle.”
“You’ll love it. Picture this: You’re on the back of the bike, arms wrapped tight around me. Engine humming, your body leaning with mine every turn, wind in your face. Low speed, no highway. Feels damn good. You and me.”
She didn’t answer.
“Besides,” I added, voice dipping lower, “after Sunday night, I figured you’d trust me with a little danger.”
I let the silence stretch, then said, “You don’t think. You feel it. The road, the pull, the way everything syncs up. It’s all about being in it.”
After a beat, she said, “That was…” She swallowed. “I feel half terrified, half thrilled.”
She was hooked, just like I was.
“Either way, I got you.”
Her breath came through deep. “Okay.”
A wide smile spread across my face. I’d never been the persuasive type—I gave instructions, and they got done. But dating my girlfriend turned me into a student in so many ways. I was discovering parts of myself I’d never needed to exercise before, like spinning motorcycle rides into poetry and trying to outdance her.
We met at my house to swap our cars for the bike. I helped Mel with the helmet. She wore dress pants, which were easier to manage on a ride.
The beast roared beneath us as we set out. She wrapped her arms around me, clinging tightly, the same way her fingers clutched mine that first time I tried to let go on the ice.
We took side streets, a peaceful ride at a slow pace, winding along the Sacramento River with sunset views that looked painted on.
“You’re good?” I called back.
“Yes.”
After a few turns, we parked near an overlook. The open road stretched behind us, and in front of us the water reflected off the lake in molten streaks. Her thigh brushed mine as we sat on the grass beside the bike. I felt that contact more than I should have.
“I like how you trusted me and came with me.”
“I like how you empower me.” She kissed my shoulder.
That kiss felt different. Like this past weekend had cracked something open, and now we were walking through it together.
Silence stretched, easy and comfortable, until—
“So…the tattoo,” Mel said, nudging my arm. “What’s the story?”
I smirked. “Finally came around to discuss my biceps, huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, don’t make me regret asking.”
I chuckled.
“It’s a compass,” I said, turning my arm slightly so she could trace it with her eyes. “Got it when Abby turned fifteen, the same age I was when our Mom passed. She was starting to test her wings, and I wanted her to know she had a big brother she could always lean on. Someone to guide her when she needed it.”
Her expression softened. “I remember you telling me your mom passed away. Why a compass though?”
