Page 77 of Thick

“They’ll need to stay cool, out if the sun, and away from anything that might tip over on them. Is that what you mean?”

“That answers my question, yes.”

She glanced through the storefront glass and then looked at me. “You weren’t thinking about--”

“I was.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “In the little things on the back?”

“Saddlebags. They’re called saddlebags.”

“In the saddlebags?”

“That’s what I was thinking, yes.”

“Oh. No. They’d wilt in five minutes and be dead in ten.”

“What if I pack it with ice?”

“I don’t think it would matter.”

I sighed. “Damn the luck. What other options do I have?”

“Nothing will live in that little container. Maybe roses. If you did the thing with the ice. And, if you drove really carefully.”

“Rode.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rode. You said drove. It’s rode. You don’t drive a motorcycle, you ride it.”

She smiled. “You’re cute.”

“I like your necklace,” I said, although it was a blatant lie.

She reached for it. “Thank you.”

“Well, crap.” I let out a sigh. “I don’t ride carefully. Not in this traffic, anyway.”

“How far were you intending on taking them?”

“Costa Mesa.”

“Los Angeles?” she gasped.

“No. Costa Mesa.”

“Isn’t that Los Angeles?”

“No. It’s Costa Mesa. It’s south of Los Angeles. Maybe an hour from here.”

“Los Angeles is two hours in traffic.”

“It’s not Los Angeles, it’s Costa Mesa.”

“They’ll never make it.”

I looked at the flowers and then at her. “How’d they get here?”