Three
Mya
I was holding onto Nick, gripping the hell out of his waist and hoping like hell we didn’t crash. When I said I wanted to not be me for a night, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. But here I was, riding a motorcycle and trying to feel normal for once. The roads turned and twisted, nothing but darkness in front of us, carved only by the shadows of his headlight and the occasional glint of moonlight on the asphalt.
The wind whipped past us, biting at my cheeks and tugging at my hair, but all I could really feel was the solid weight of him in front of me. I tightened my hands again, almost like if I let go, I’d fly off into the night, and maybe part of me wanted to.
Up ahead, I spotted the lookout I’d driven past a hundred times but never actually stopped at. I tapped Nick’s shoulder to get his attention. His hand immediately reached down and rested on my thigh. He squeezed gently, and I felt those butterflies low in my stomach again.
I loosened my death grip and pointed toward the overlook. He nodded once, but his hand stayed on my thigh as he guided us to the edge of the pull-off and cut the engine.
The stars above us were beautiful. Not a city light in sight, just endless black sky and those tiny scattered truths burning down at us. Reminding me that I was here and maybe slightly insane to be doing this tonight.
I slid off the bike and shook out my hands, still buzzing with nerves and adrenaline. He followed, standing beside me but not saying a word, the engine ticking softly as it cooled behind us. I thought he was going to lean in to kiss me, but instead he reached for the helmet and unbuckled it. He threw it to the side and pushed my hair behind my ear.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low.
“I think my soul left my body somewhere back on that last curve,” I muttered.
He smirked, and it was so brief, so subtle, I almost missed it. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.
I leaned against the metal rail at the overlook, staring out into the dark valley below. “I didn’t know where we were going. I still don’t.”
“You said you wanted to feel something different,” he said simply. “Sometimes that means getting on a bike and riding into the dark with a stranger.”
I glanced at him. “Even when they’re emotionally unstable?”
He tilted his head slightly. “You don’t seem unstable.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” I said. “But you clearly haven’t seen me cry over a broken laminator.”
His laugh was quieter than I expected. Almost like it surprised him too.
A moment passed, me sliding down on the dirt and him following. Both of us were sitting so close our shoulders were touching. I wasn’t sure why I felt so close to someone I’d nevermet before, but I couldn’t say I hated the feeling. “Why did you used to drink?” I blurted, but before I could take it back, he answered.
“Because it made everything quiet.”
I turned to face him fully now, my hands wrapped around my knees as I brought them up to my chest.
Nick stared straight ahead, jaw tight. I felt bad for asking, but then he kept going.
“My head… it never shuts up. Regret. Anger. Guilt. I used to drink because I thought if I could drown it all out, maybe I could finally sleep. Maybe I could finally forget.”
“Forget what?”
He swallowed. “I didn’t know I had a problem foryears. Everyone around me did. My parents, my brothers, my friends. They all knew. But I started drinking at such a young age. It wasn’t because I was running from something then. I was just drinking because I was a dumb teenager and I wanted to have fun.” He sighed, laying back and looking straight at the sky. I lowered my back to the ground, following the airplane he was now watching. “Sometimes even innocent things have consequences. I never understood why I needed to drink to feel alive. Then I started to drink to forget about all the people I was disappointing and letting down. It became so normal for me. I had to drink in order to forget that it wasn’t what you were supposed to do. That version of me was easier to be when I was numb.”
I didn’t speak. Just let him say it in his own time. Because something told me Nick never actually let people in, and if he needed a stranger to confess these things to, then at least here I was.
“I wasn’t a good person, Mya,” he said, voice rougher now. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Been the guy you cross the street to avoid. Drinking… it gave me an excuse not to care.”
“But you got sober.”
“I did,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’ve fixed everything.”
“No,” I said, quietly. “But it means you started trying.”
His eyes met mine for a second, sharp and dark and impossibly sad. But grateful too. Like he wasn’t used to being seen, and he didn’t quite know what to do with it.