“That long?”
He leans forward. “Sometimes every fucking day. Honest to god. And I make myself cum nearly every time.”
I laugh. “Quite an accomplishment.”
“Thanks.” He leans back and pretends to brush something off his long-sleeved tee. “I normally try not to brag about it.”
“In that case, I’m surprised you can tear yourself away from your own hand long enough to go out and find a date.”
“Point is,” he says, “I think it will be good for me. I made the decision when I was back in Seattle working on the album. It’s not uncommon for me to go a couple months without finding a hookup. It’s like a cleanse.”
“Like how I drink wheatgrass shots.”
Gabriel sits up straighter. “I got an idea. How about this? Close your eyes.”
I flip the salmon. “Seriously?”
He pouts his lips. “Please?” And he keeps looking at me with his eyes wide until I sigh and close my eyes.
“Okay. Pretend you just won the Grand Slams. All four in a row. And now you’re celebrating. What are you doing?”
“I’m speeding down the highway on a motorcycle that I just bought,” I tell him and calmly open my eyes. “Happy? That was easy. I’ve already considered how I’ll celebrate that.”
“You like motorcycles?” he asks.
“I’ve never ridden one, but I’ve always wanted to.” I grab a couple plates and turn to the food. “I generally try to avoid breaking any limbs. Bad for the career. But if I just won all four Grand Slams, I think I probably earned a ride.”
“Perfect. All we have to do is not crash,” he says. “Motorcycles are a perfect date.”
I hand him a plate. “You think I’m going to drive a motorcycle around Boston tonight? Did we just meet?”
“Can’t you see it? You squeezed up all tight behind me, arms around my chest. We can find an indoor track, maybe dirt. We’d look awfully hot on a bike together.”
I sit next to him with my plate. “First of all, I didn’t say my fantasy was to ride on the back of your motorcycle, hotshot. I said it was to drive the motorcycle.” I smile at him and pop a piece of fatty salmon into my mouth. “In this fantasy, you can ride on the back.”
Gabriel chews, and I watch his face melt. “Did you seriously whip up something this delicious in, like, ten minutes?”
“The vegetables were pre-cut.”
He shakes his head. “No. This is perfect. This is perfectly cooked fish. I change my mind about everything. If marriage means I get to eat like this every night, I’m in.”
I laugh. “Who said I’m cooking for you every night?”
He gives me a hopeful smile. “I’ll make dessert?”
I’m smiling too much, so I turn my attention to the food. Though I always try to cook a nice solo meal for myself, cooking for Gabriel feels a certain kind of special that I can’t quite place.
He catches my eye. “The bad news is you need a license and a few lessons to drive. But if you can settle for a second-rate fantasy, I could take you for a spin tonight. I’ve been on bikes since I was eighteen, and I’d promise to not jump it to impress you.”
Typically, this is where I’d defer. The risk-benefit analysis of a motorcycle ride comes down firmly against.
But Gabriel is looking at me like, even though he wants me to say yes, he kind of knows I won’t. I’m not sure why that tangles me up so much, but it does.
And that’s how I end up at a motorcycle arena an hour later.
The place is massive. The stadium seating is mostly empty, but the actual tracks are busy with people racing and riding. Bikes fly through the air off of one big jump at the other end, and the roar of the motorcycles is loud enough that we immediately put in earplugs.
“Whatever speed you’re intending on going,” I tell Gabriel as he hands me a helmet, “drop it.”
