Ian
When we get to Riley’s place, she points out her door, and I park on the pavement. She gets off the motorbike and takes off her helmet, letting her dark, damp hair wave down her back.
And my heart skips about five, maybe ten beats.
Holy crap.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says briskly, before digging into her jeans. “Shit!” she yells, kicking the gate. “I must have forgotten my keys.”
Perfect.
Getting off my bike, I take a look at the street and the houses on it. There’s an aged cottage, with a wooden door and shutters, the kind of place you rarely see anymore – the kind that would probably fall down if you gave it a good push.
It’s a subtle, still memory – one that shadows over the present.
I shake my head vigorously, hoping to drive it off, but the memory remains, suspended between the need to push it away and the need to remember what I am.
“Don’t you have a spare key hidden under a plant somewhere?” I ask her, forcing myself back into the present. “Do you see any plants around here? I have to find a locksmith or someone that can…”
“Nah. Leave it to me.”
She looks at me skeptically, crossing her arms.
“I’m sure it’s an old lock.”
“I have no idea.”
I give the handle a shake before going to my motorbike to grab some tools from under the seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Make sure no one’s watching us.”
“What?”
“Relax.” I wink at her before getting to work. I clear my throat and make an attempt at conversation. “Do you live by yourself?” I ask, not knowing why.
“What are you implying?” She goes right to the defensive.
“It’s just a question,” I justify, even though I shouldn’t have to.
“We don’t have to make conversation.”
“I was just trying to be polite.”
“No one is asking you to,” she responds bitterly.
And the same bitterness that I hear in her voice invades my stomach, as if someone had set fire to it.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to rid the sensation of being a complete idiot.
It doesn’t make any sense to keep getting angry with Riley. It doesn’t help me feel any better, it won’t bring back all that I’ve lost.
It won’t bring her back to me.
“Well, you know…what do you do?”
“I work at Gate Theatre on Parnell Street,” she says, helping me out of my embarrassment.
