"No promises."
"Basketball tomorrow or the day after?" He calls over his shoulder.
"Tomorrow."
He vanishes.
I lean back again, making myself comfortable on the Ducati. I can’t fucking wait.
He comes out slower this time, not like he’s stalling, more like he’s trying not to show that he’s thinking, which means, of course, that he’s definitely thinking.
Black shirt. Dark pants. Cute. He probably wants to match with me. His hair looks good too. I don’t say anything, just sit there on the bike with one foot on the ground.
He walks up, so I hold out the helmet. "Turn around."
He sighs, annoyed, and turns. I step off the bike, slide the helmet over his head, reach under his chin to fasten the strap.
He looks everywhere but me. The street. The door behind me. The bike. Fucking space.
I smile a little. "You’re looking everywhere but here."
He doesn’t answer.
So I tug the strap snug. "What? My face too much for you?"
He finally looks at me, not just a glance, a stare. I raise an eyebrow. "Oh. Now you’re doing the staring contest thing."
Still no words. I finish buckling the helmet, brushing his throat with the back of my hand, then step back.
That fucker.
"You’re really not scared you’ll die on this thing?" he asks.
"No."
"Just… no?"
"No," I repeat, leaning on the bike. "I actually prefer not dying. Keeps the schedule clean."
He rolls his eyes. "I’m being serious."
"So am I."
"And what if you crash?"
"Then we crash."
"That’s your answer?"
"Yeah. Did you want poetry?"
He glares at me. "You’re unbelievable."
"And you," I say, pointing at him, "God, you are acting like someone’s cautious grandfather."
He opens his mouth. "I—"
"No, seriously." I laugh. "You’re giving big ‘I need to speak to the manager’ energy right now."
