Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“You okay?” I ask, because some questions are a responsibility.
She unclips the helmet and pushes it up, hair wild where the foam pressed it. Her eyes are wide and bright in the lot light. She grins, small but wild. “I am more than okay.”
The words hit me square. I didn’t know I wanted to hear that until I did.
“Good,” I tell her, like I’m not warmed by it. “Hop down.”
She does, boots crunching as we make our way down the public access walkway. She stands at the edge of the dock and looks like a woman who just remembered she has a body. Shoulders loose. Chin up. Color in her cheeks that has nothing to do with blush. The wind plays with the hem of her T-shirt and tries to steal it; she grabs it with an absent hand, eyes on the black slick of the water like she would walk across it if it promised to keep her.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I provoke. I don’t ask often. When I do, I mean it.
She tips her head, considering. “That it feels…that life feels simple on the bike. Not easy. Simple. Like there’s only forward and lean and trust.”
“Sounds right,” I share understanding exactly what she’s expressing.
“And… I don’t know… I’m not… in my head. Not the way I was.” She gestures at the water with a small, helpless laugh. “Usually I’m listing and planning. Out there, I was just… holding you and breathing. It felt safe and something that is only ours.”
Safe. Ours. The words land heavier than most. I don’t touch it. I let it sit between us and do its work.
Moon’s not much tonight just thin and barely present. The dock boards flex under our weight, nails complaining softly. Somewhere behind us, a truck door slams and a man curses about bait. The world keeps on like it will whether we’re broken or not.
“How long we staying?” she asks after a minute. Not a whine. Logistics.
“Long enough to remember why we left the house,” I explain.
The restless thing that chased me home from the shop and then chased me from home to here is smaller now. Not gone. It never goes. But it’s contained for now.
She stands beside me without touching for a long time. Then her knuckles graze mine, tentative like a question. I let my hand turn so our fingers can tangle, just enough to prove the point: you’re not alone on the edge of anything.
“Ready?” I ask finally.
She squeezes twice. “Ready.”
Back on the bike, everything clicks faster. She knows the moves now, or maybe her body does and her head’s not trying to talk it out of them. When I roll on the throttle, she leans first. When I shift my weight for a curve, she’s already there, a half-breath ahead, like we invented the route. Wind sneaks under my sleeves. Night peels the day off both of us, layer by layer, until the part that needs quiet finally gets some.
I take side roads on the way home. Houses appear, then don’t. A dog chases us half a yard and reconsiders when the engine tells him who we are. A porch light flips on and off, like someone’s forgetting what they wanted to look for. Kristen’s helmet rests lightly between my shoulder blades now and then when we accelerate. I could ride like this until morning and not resent the sunrise for crashing in on my private party.
Instead I point us home because endings matter and I don’t want this one to lose its shape by dragging out. When we roll into the drive, I wait for the heavy to come back, but it doesn’t. I kill the engine and the night closes in around us with its silence.
She slides off, unstraps the helmet, and turns to hand it to me. Her hands aren’t shaking. Her eyes are steady.
“How’s the head?” I inquire wanting to know if she cleared her mind too as I hang the helmets on their hooks.
“Quiet,” she says, almost surprised. “Good quiet.”
“Good.” I reach past her to the door. The key slides in and the lock turns easily. Inside, the air smells like the leftover heat of the day and the lemon cleaner I use when my mother’s voice gets too loud in my head about sinks being clean. I flip the lamp, a soft pool of light spilling over the table and the map on my living room wall and the stupid chair I still haven’t replaced.
I expect the post-ride comedown to hit her—adrenaline drop, little shake, the crash you get after holding your breath for too long. Instead she turns in the doorway and braces her hand against the frame like she needs it to steady a thought, not her body. She looks at me in the way people do when they’ve decided on something.