He hesitates. He knows I don't have much. He knows he's doing better than me financially with a steady job.
"Let me do this," I say again. "Please. At least let me buy your food when you're here."
He nods slowly and lets me pay, but I can tell he wants to argue. I can see it in his eyes—the desire to take care of me, to provide, to be the one with resources. We'll have to figure this out eventually—the moneything, the fact that he has more than me and probably always will. But not today. Today I just want to feel like I can take care of him, even in this small way.
"Where to now?" he asks as we leave the diner and step out into the warm afternoon sun.
I've been thinking about this since last night, planning it in my head during the dark hours. We can't just stay in the motel room all day. I want to give him more than that. I want to give him a real day, a normal day, the kind of day couples have when they're getting to know each other.
"There's a grocery store a few blocks over," I say, taking his hand as we walk. "We could pick up some stuff. Have a picnic at the ridge. A real date thing."
Ivan's face lights up like I just offered him the world. "A picnic? Really?"
"If you want to. I mean, it's not fancy or anything—"
"I definitely want to." He squeezes my hand. "Lead the way. Let's do it."
The grocery store is small, one of those local places that's been around forever. We wander through together, grabbing a bunch of things. Bread that's still warm from the bakery, deli meat that the guy slices fresh for us, cheese, a bag of chips, a couple of sodas. Ivan adds a package of chocolate chip cookies and a bunch of green grapes. I add a chocolate bar because I've seen him eyeing the candy aisle.
"You didn't have to do that," he says when he sees it in the basket.
"I wanted to. You like chocolate."
"How do you know that?"
"You always did."
At the register, Ivan tries to pay again, pulling out his wallet, but I wave him off firmly. "I've got it. Let me."
"Jay—"
He relents this time, but I know he won't keep doing it.
We take the groceries back to the motel and pack them into a bag, then head to where the Shadow is parked in her usual spot. Ivan climbs on behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, settling against my back like he's been doing this for years.
"Ready?" I ask over my shoulder.
"Let's go."
I start the engine and pull out onto the road. The day is perfect. Warm with a blue sky and a few white clouds. Ivan is holding me, his chin hooked over my shoulder, his mouth close to my ear.
"I love being on this bike with you," he says, loud enough to hear over the engine.
"Why?"
"I love holding onto you." His arms tighten around my waist. "Go faster. Open her up."
I grin and open up the throttle. The bike surges forward, the engine roaring, and Ivan whoops against my ear, his grip tightening around my waist. I take a curve faster than I probably should. I lean into it hard, and Ivan leans with me perfectly, trusting me completely.
"Again!" he shouts, laughing.
I push the bike harder, weaving through the empty road, taking curves faster, opening up on the straightaways. Ivan is laughing, a joyful sound that gets lost in the wind but I can feel it vibrating through his chest against my back.
He trusts me. On this bike, at these speeds, with his life in my hands—he trusts me completely.
That means more than he'll ever know.
We take the long way to the ridge because Ivan keeps yelling in my ear to keep going. Whenever we slow down at intersections, he keeps his mouth close to my ear, whispering things that make my face heat and my hands unsteady on the handlebars.
