Page 82 of Grace

“Or”—I hold up a hand—“put me behind bars. Arrest me for a week.”

Cyrus lets out an amused laugh and kisses my brow. Even though I wasn’t kidding. I was dead serious.

He suddenly stands and pulls a brown cardboard box down from the top of the kitchen shelf. He sweeps the motorcycle magazines off the table and sets the box down.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

A wide smile spreads across his face as he runs his fingers through his dark hair, leaning his hips against the counter, arms crossed.

I open the box eagerly and pull out the clothes. I lay them in my lap and take a long look at each piece: the tight jeans, the fitted T-shirt, the black leather jacket, and the red biker bandanna.

“These are…”

“Exactly your size.”

My throat goes dry.

“You know that outdoors, I don’t wear anything that shows my body. I know the way I dress is lame—that I might be the opposite of cool—but…”

“You want to wear oversized clothes forever just to hide yourself?” he asks in a gentle voice. He’s careful because it’s a sensitive subject.

“I never really…”

“You used to dress much prettier. More freely. I…” he runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t want you to flaunt your body. All I want is for you to be free. Wearing those rags only sends the message that your life is a losing battle.” He kneels in front of me. “I want you to finally be alive. To finally be brave enough to be happy. To show Chase Baker you’re no longer afraid of him.”

A huge knot forms in my throat. My heart races, my pupils dilating with pure anxiety.

“I think it would only increase his appetite.”

“Even better.”

My brows furrow in confusion. Cyrus’s face darkens, his mouth twisting into a lopsided, wicked smile. “The court would find you innocent. You wouldn’t go to jail.” He kisses the tips of my fingers, one by one.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Since you learnt he’s out there, you’ve kept a knife under your pillow. It would count as self-defense.”

My heart and stomach clench. “Cyrus, I… I can explain,” I stutter.

“You don’t have to. I’d never blame you.”

There are moments when a huge burden lifts off your soul. This isn’t one of them. Because the knife isn’t for Chase—it’s for Nikky. Chase won’t kidnap me. He won’t hurt me. He’s had ample opportunity to do it, and still, he didn’t. And since he got free, I’ve started to see myself more clearly. It was never only him I was running from—never only him I was afraid of. I used my wrath and hate to keep myself away from him. I wanted to bring back to life the girl who died in the summer of 2000. Because Chase Baker crushed me to pieces and put me back together as someone else. A different Grace. Still, that doesn’t mean I must be with him.

Cyrus is leaving for Tulsa to see Greta this evening. Before that, we’re driving to Newcastle—a twenty-minute ride from Willow Creek—to check out a motorcycle.

Cyrus found a Harley-Davidson FXSTC 1340 Softail Custom from 1988 and fell in love instantly. While I was putting on my new clothes, he was flipping through the magazines. When he saw the ad, he said that Harley had been sent to him by the universe.

He looked so happy when he shoved the magazine under my nose that I didn’t have the heart to say no. I never thought I’d be a biker girl… and no matter how much my life has changed, I still haven’t gotten used to the idea. But Cyrus is right. I have to live my life. No matter how reluctant I was about those new clothes, I had to admit they look good on me. They fit my body perfectly, tracing every curve—making me feel like a woman instead of a girl whose life was derailed, whose life is still hurtling downhill at breakneck speed.

The red bandanna is striking, contrasting nicely with my pale face and bright blue eyes. I didn’t put on the black leather jacket, but I brought it with me. I’ll need it if Tom—the current owner—lets us take the bike for a ride.

“We’re almost there.”

Cyrus’s deep voice pulls me out of the sticky web of my thoughts. I look to the right, and my mouth parts slightly when I see the gorgeous gray-and-red house. The gabled roof and the upper portion of the house are gray. The lower section is clad in red brick. Like most American houses, this one isn’t fenced in. A white mailbox stands at the front of the property, and a neatly maintained, acid-green lawn stretches around the house. A wide driveway leads to the massive garage. On the idyllic porch, rocking chairs with floral cushions sway gently. Five hanging planters line the porch, flowers spilling down like a colorful waterfall.

They probably have a lot of kids and grandchildren—at least that’s what the pool and playground in the backyard suggest.