She’s got to be standing five, maybe six feet away from me.
Good.
I lean against my bike, bracing my weight with my hands, and I sigh.
“I’m just gonna come out and say it,” I tell her.
“Connor, wait, let me—”
“We can’t do this anymore,” I say.
Her eyes widen as she blinks away her surprise, and she lets out a breath that seems to release tension from her entire body.
“Oh, thank God,” she says, taking the steps necessary to reach me. Her hands reach for mine as my face twists. “I’ve been trying all day to figure out how I would tell you the same thing. Not because I don’t care about you – I do. It’s just…”
“It’s Tripp,” I shrug, and she nods in response with a squeeze to my hands.
“He’s my husband,” she says. “I know it might already be over, and I know it might be too late, but if there’s any hope at all, I have to try.”
I offer her my understanding by way of a firm nod, not wanting to ruin a peaceful ending by throwing any more words into it. Her hands fidget with the string of her apron for too many moments too long before her body pivots toward the salon.
“There’s a meet tonight,” I tell her. “Are you…will he be there?”
“He’ll be there.”
Reaching forward to offer another tight squeeze of my hand, she presses her lips to my cheek.
“There’s another world somewhere, where we don’t have to choose between the things that matter to us,” she tells me. “Whatever this was and however short, it mattered to me, and I’m sorry.”
“I’m only sorry about parts of it,” I admit as I pull my helmet back into place.
Her lips pull into a wistful smile and I throw my chin down to close my visor before starting the bike again.
A clean break is good.
No one is crying. Tripp doesn’t know.
I’ll probably feel guilty over this for the rest of my life, but at the very least, I can say that I’m not lying to my best friend anymore.
There have to be a hundred riders here. Maybe more; and this is after the peak in attendance that we had a couple of hours ago. It’s the biggest meet I’ve been to in years.
Bikes of all make, model, and color surround me at every angle. Supersports, cruisers, even a few motocross guys are here on their dirt bikes. The smell of gasoline hangs in the air with the loud revving of engines and conversation.
I give Tripp a nudge with my elbow as someone rides past on a bright, fire engine red Panigale.
“If you quit smoking now, it’s only six years until you can get your own,” I taunt.
He’s not wearing any gear tonight, because of course he isn’t. Just a loose muscle tank that shows off many of the tattoos covering his skin, a pair of jeans, and his favorite worn-out Chucks.
It drives me insane. One day, he’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t start gearing up.
One would think that, with as many friends as we’ve buried since we met, it would inspire him to put on a fucking jacket, at the very least.
“Shut the fuck up,” he laughs, rolling back his accelerator to let the engine of his bike purr. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Stop for a fill-up?” I ask.
He offers a quick thumbs up before slapping his visor closed and tapping on the screen of his mounted phone to bring to life the teeny-bopper pop music that he likes to play while we ride. I let my engine roar as I carefully follow him through the others, until we make our way past the group and onto the open road.
