by Wendy Owens
“I’m all right with that.” I smile.
“Oh, come on, I’m a great driver.”
“Yeah, you’re not the one I’m worried about.”
“What?” He looks at me.
“I’m more worried about the other big cars or trucks running over us.”
He reaches out a single hand, waiting for me to grasp it. I hesitate, looking at it cautiously. In a soft voice, he says, “Trust me.”
Shaking my head, I stumble forward. Apprehensively, I moan, “I don’t know.”
“I promise, it’s amazing,” he insists, not taking his eyes off me.
I swallow hard, hold my breath, and take his hand. He pulls me close, and I climb on behind him. As I place the helmet on my head, securing it, he starts the bike.
“Ready?” he asks.
I joke, “Not really.”
“Hold on tight,” he instructs, and with a stiff jerk we’re moving.
I reach forward, wrapping my arms around his firm body, burying my head into his back. He slows at the edge of the parking lot. In an instant, my perspective on everything changes. I feel the earth vibrate underneath me with the hum of the engine. First, the wind is tickling my arms, but that’s not enough. I want to feel more. I lean back, allowing the wind to whip against my face, and with a surge of adrenaline I feel like my heart might pop. I’m not in control, and it’s the best feelings in the world—scared, excited, thrilled—all at the same time.
I feel like I’m a little girl, lost and alone, rocketing through the world. I’m flying, soaring toward a destiny I don’t even know. Life feels amazing for the first time since I can remember, and lost in the moment, I want to scream at the top of my lungs in joy.
I dig my fingers into Dean’s chest. I feel him lean to the right, and instinctively I lean with him as we round a corner. The road beneath us is a blur, and I must fight the urge to release my grip and spread my wings. I remind myself that I can’t actually fly. And just as quickly as the ride began, it comes to an end. We pull into a parking spot, and my heart sinks when Dean presses down the kickstand and turns off the engine.
He waits for me to step off first, then stands, straddling the bike, and taking off his helmet, he turns and takes mine from me, securing them onto the back.
“Well?” he asks with a half-cocked smile.
I want to hug him, tell him that it was one of the most incredible feelings I’ve ever had. I want him to understand that few things numb the pain that I’m constantly in, but those few moments on the back of that bike made me forget for an instant. “It was fine.” Fine? God, you’re such a bitch.
He’s smiling. I’m sure he can see I’m lying.
“Okay, it was pretty freaking awesome!” I squeal.
“See, being afraid of life never gets you anywhere.”
“Whatever,” I laugh, waving him off and approaching the door to the restaurant. I’ve had enough of that smug look on his face.
The restaurant is quaint, with a number of small café-style tables in front of the window. When we approach the counter, we discover a tall and extremely slender man with a rather large nose and a bowl haircut awaiting us. Dean begins a conversation with him, something I would have never done, and we find out he and his wife are the owners of the establishment.
He tells us the story of how they met while on a trip to London. They fell in love with the city and returned there years later when the time came to exchange their vows. And when they decided to open a restaurant, the only choice was to open one with the theme of how he met the greatest woman he had ever known. Dean kept glancing at me as the man spoke, and though I tried to stop my cheeks from flushing a bright red, it seemed to be out of my control.
As we wait for our order, Nathan, the owner, makes our coffees while his wife prepares the food in the kitchen.
“Sweet, aren’t they?” Dean whispers.
I smile, glancing over at Nathan, his gangly movement making me grin even wider. “I guess you could call them that.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a cynic when it comes to love.”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean … really, I just don’t think a lot about love these days.”
Dean is quiet as Nathan brings me my latte, before heading into the kitchen. He leans over and whispers close to my cheek, “That’s a damn shame.”
“What is?”
“That you don’t think about love these days.” His breath is warm and lingers all around my face.
The door swings open again, and Nathan sets my plate in front of me. I’m shaking … why in God’s name am I shaking? Picking up the drink and sandwich, I move over to one of the small tables and sit down quietly. In a matter of seconds Dean is sitting across from me with his order.
Lifting the latte to my lips, I close my eyes and breathe in the sweetness of the mocha. A toasted bagel topped with bacon and avocado slices waits for me, and I decide not to linger too long on the crisp smell of the caffeine heaven at my lips. I open my eyes to see Dean staring at me, one nostril lifted in disgust.
“What?” I huff.
“Okay, I get a latte, and I get the bagel, but together? Avocado and mocha, that’s just disgusting.”
“Sorry, we can’t all be twelve year olds and order dessert for lunch,” I tease.
“A scone isn’t dessert,” he argues.
“One with chocolate chips is.”
He picks the pastry up off his plate and takes a huge bite. Chewing for a moment, he smiles and laughs, “Oh yeah, it’s dessert.” As he moans, crumbs spray out, and he quickly covers his mouth.
“Gross!” I exclaim, but it’s obvious by my tone I’m more entertained than upset.
He finishes his bite, and then takes a sip of his black coffee. There’s something sexy about him drinking a cup of black coffee. I always load mine with cream and sugar. To see him take the bitterness head on makes him seem so strong and raw.
“It’s good,” he comments at last.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
He nods, peering at me as though he’s inspecting me. “I have to ask. Was that your first motorcycle ride?”
“Was it that obvious?”
He bites his lip, then shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much.”
I take in a deep breath, sighing into my coffee mug. “My dad was never into them, and neither was Travis.” I look down at my drink, my dead husband’s name still stinging my lips.
“So you guys started dating in high school?” Dean asks. I’d shared little bits and pieces of my past over the last few weeks, careful never to reveal too much. Dean kept his past much closer, never willing to share any of his secrets.
I nod, taking another sip, then set my mug down and take a bite of my sandwich.
“Was he your first boyfriend?”
“Why so interested?” I taunt.
“I just find it amazing that you married your high school boyfriend. You don’t really hear about that happening anymore.”
“Sometimes you just know. Haven’t you been in love?” I ask, trying to probe and knock loose one of those demons I know is tailing him.
“Nope, never.”
So the pain he’s carrying isn’t from a woman, I think to myself.
“Well, trust me, when you find it, you know.”
“Yeah, but some people are so scared of being hurt that even when they find it, they’re too afraid to leap.” His words make me wonder if he is trying to say something.
“Are you saying you’re too scared to love?” I ask directly.
“No, but I know people who are.”
My cheeks are hot; I think he must be talking about me. “Like who?”
He presses his lips together, hesitating to reveal a name.
“You can’t just put that out there and let it hang in the air.”
Lifting a shoulder, he easily relents to my protests, “Fine, Christian.”
I’m still lost in a cloud of confusion. Is he saying I’m afraid of Christian or that Christian is afrai
d of finding love? “What about him?”
“He’s so stuck in his past he’s missing his chance at happiness.” Does he mean Paige? I wonder. Does he think Paige is Christian’s past? If that’s the case, is he trying to say I’m his chance at happiness? Am I reading into everything completely wrong? God, this makes my head hurt.
“Have you said something to him?”
“I try, but he’ll only listen when he’s ready.”
I stare at Dean. What is he thinking? There is so much more to him than I ever realized. Does he have insight on me he isn’t sharing? I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it anyway. I take another bite of my sandwich, content with the company and no more major revelations for the day.
After my lunch with Dean, all I’ve been able to think about are his insightful words. I’ve been analyzing them repeatedly, trying to figure out what exactly he was trying to tell me about Christian. I like Christian, at least as a friend. Does Dean see something there I don’t? While Christian isn’t exactly what I would call my type, he is very sexy, and the idea of kissing him doesn’t exactly turn me off.
I stepped outside of my comfort zone, confronted my fears to take this job, and as a result it’s been the most alive I’ve felt in three years. I never thought I’d feel excited to wake up again. What if there are other things I’m afraid to experience? I convinced myself you only get one shot at love, but what if that isn’t true? I’ll never have my first love back, and I know that. Maybe Dean was trying to tell me I could find a new chance to love in a different way. Jesus, I need to stop obsessing. I’m probably reading into things, and it’s making my head spin.
Across the parking lot I catch a glimpse of Christian—he’s covered in grease, elbows deep under the hood of the cargo van. With a hard swallow I decide to go talk to him. I’ve never even tried to imagine anything romantic with him. There are times I may have thought he might have been flirting with me a little, but maybe it was more.
He sees me approaching and smiles. He leans in lower with one arm, then pulls his body out of the engine compartment. “Hey beautiful, give me a hand?”
“Huh?” I grunt.
He beckons me with his head, and I move in closer. I’m only inches from him now, and he moves behind me, pressing me up against the van with his body. My breath catches in my throat. “See this?” he holds up a black rubber tube.
I nod, trying to ignore his mouth as he speaks, which I soon realize is impossible.
“I can’t seem to fit my hands down in there to slide this onto the spot it needs to go. There’s a half-inch piece of metal that juts out, and this piece needs to slide over it, got it?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I protest in a high-pitched voice.
Taking hold of my hand, he guides it deep into the engine. “There, feel what my fingertips are on, go slow, ease it on. You don’t have to rush it.”
My god, I’m sweating, my heart is racing, and if I didn’t know better, I would think he was talking about something quite different than an engine. Grasping his long fingers, I follow them down to the piece of metal he described. The tube slips with a slight shove. I linger, keeping Christian close to me a few more seconds before I lean back and free my hand.
“Thank you!” he exclaims, and I notice his eyes catch the grease on my hand. He grabs a nearby rag and begins cleaning off my fingers. I tremble at the tender move. Maybe this is right; maybe Christian is exactly what I need.
I look up to see he’s staring into my eyes. Why would he do that if he didn’t want me? There are only inches between us, so if he didn’t like me in that way he’d move away, right? I ask myself.
I lick my lips; this is it, now or never. I lean in. Our lips are going to touch, and I’m going to kiss a man who’s not Travis. My chest is aching. Our lips are less than an inch apart now, there’s no stopping th—without warning, Christian grabs hold of my upper arms and steps back.
“Whoa, Mac, what are you doing?”
“I—I thought—I…” The words are tumbling out of my mouth, but I can’t seem to put them together in a way that makes sense.
I want to run, run as far away as I possibly can, and hide my head. My face is hot and red; there is nothing I can do to erase this mistake. Leaning away from him, I prepare to dart back to the bus, but when my feet begin to move I realize Christian has a tight grip on one of my arms.
“Let go,” I plead, my voice cracking.
He pulls me back and wedges me against the van. I’m helpless in his strong arms.
“Don’t run away, talk to me. Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know, I thought—I guess I misread the signs.”
He breathes out a heavy breath. “Fuck. Goddamn it, Christian,” he mumbles to himself.
“I’m sorry,” the words squeak from my lips.
“No, Mac, don’t do that. You’re very beautiful,” he continues, and I look anywhere but in his eyes. “And you’re exactly the type of girl I would be with.”
I stop struggling when I hear those words. A stitch knits itself across my brow, and I can’t stop the questions from spilling out, “Then why didn’t you want me to kiss you?”
“Because it’s not fair to you. I like you a lot. I might be single, but I’m not really available.”
“Paige?” I whisper.
He nods. “I like you too much to hurt you, and I know that’s what would happen.”
My head collapses into his chest. I want to cry, but I manage to hold in the flood of emotions. He wraps his arms around me, and in that moment I feel safe. I’m embarrassed, but at the same time, I just discovered what an incredible friend I have in Christian. I’m sure once I get back to my bunk, though, I will shrivel up into a ball of misery.
I pull back and smile up at him. “Christian, I can’t ever get my Travis back. I’ve lost him forever, but Paige is still here. Why don’t you go after her?”
He lets go of me, turns his back to the van, leans against the grill, and crosses his arms. “It’s not that simple. She needs me to be someone I can’t be for her. So much of me would have to change for that to ever work.”
“I guess you should probably get started on that.”
Christian looks down at me. “I wish it were that easy.”
“Really? My family is dead, and you’re going to complain.”
He forces a grin. “Gee, I feel like a real ass.”
“Well, you are, but that’s okay. We all have to start somewhere.”
He laughs, nudging me with one arm. “Still friends?”
“Always,” I answer, and the amazing thing is, as embarrassed as I am, I mean it.
Waking up, I fight to open my eyes against the thin layer of salty crust that has settled on the edges. They are tender and swollen, reminding me of all the tears I’d shed the night before. My tears weren’t from embarrassment about Christian anymore. He’d handled my misstep so beautifully; I couldn’t be upset about him. There would be no more confusion about his comments or lingering looks. He is a friend, and he made that abundantly clear. Nor did my tears stem from disappointment. A huge part of me didn’t even know how I really felt about Christian. Had Dean not placed the thoughts in my mind, I doubt I would have ever pursued the idea.
The bus is dim, the morning light just starting to work its way through the curtains. I hear a snort above me and remember Storm. She and Pete had a very loud argument outside the bus last night, and though this wasn’t anything one would consider strange for the two of them, it did result in her sleeping in her own bed. I push the blanket to the other side of my bunk, sitting up and rubbing the crust away from my eyes.
Last night’s tears had been brought on by the reality that I’d almost kissed another man. A man who was not Travis. A man who was not the father of my daughter. Our vows had said until death do us part, but what if what that truly meant was both of our deaths?
When you divorce someone it’s because you can’t stand being with him or her anymore. I don’t get that clo
sure. I get a lifetime of still being in love with the man I married, but knowing I can never be with him. Or what about Katie? Am I a terrible mother if I choose to move on with my life? Maybe she would want me to be happy, and perhaps my grief is the way I’m dishonoring her. But then doubt creeps in, and I worry instead she would she think I forgot about her. These were the thoughts that made me cry myself to sleep last night.
I must be going mad. It’s been three years, and everyone tells me I should move on, try to be happy again. What if I’m just broken? Maybe happy isn’t something I’m capable of anymore. I wish I were home in my comfy recliner.
Stretching, I give a hardy yawn and, in my crop sweatpants and tank top, I move to the back of the bus, maneuvering a bra on under my shirt. The stuffiness in the bus is making it hard to breathe. I peer out the curtains; a heavy fog has settled on the caravan. Yanking on a skullcap to cover up my bed head, I wrap myself in an oversized sweater, slip on a pair of shoes, and step out into the brisk morning air. Most mornings on the trip have been warm, but soon after reaching the West Coast we began experiencing brisk temperatures in the mornings and evenings.
Taking in a deep breath, the coolness washes over my lungs. I look around and realize it must still be early as nobody else in the camp is stirring. Glancing off to the right, I squint and see a playground in the distance. The haunting emptiness of it somehow seems to beckon me. As I walk in the direction of the swing set, kicking the earth up in front of me, the salty smell of the ocean fills my nostrils. I wonder how close we are to the water.
I take a seat on one of the swings, and see that directly next to me is an old wooden infant swing that is shaped like some sort of animal. It’s so weathered I’m unsure what it is, perhaps a horse. In the early morning light and layers of fog I think how it feels like a graveyard.
“Hey, Macaroon.” Dean’s voice causes me to jump, like a ghost reaching out to touch me. I choke on my air, shifting anxiously on the swing. “Sorry, did I scare you?”
He rounds the corner to stand directly in front of me. I pull the layers of my sweater tight around my body and am suddenly thankful I chose to take the few extra seconds to put on my bra. He’s wearing jeans, sandals, and a white T-shirt. He could be straight out of a ‘50s movie if it weren’t for his modern tattoos.
