Chapter Fourteen Emily
Chapter Fourteen
Emily
“You okay?” Jack asks, getting off his bike to help me.
I have the helmet on my head and am trying to latch the hook under my chin, but my hands are shaking too bad.
I swat his hand away when he tries to help. “Of course, I’m okay. I’m fine! Great. Perfect.”
He holds his hands up. “You just seem a little jittery.”
“I’m not jittery. I just can’t see these damn fasteners under my chin! And it’s so hot in here. And…Agh!” I drop my hands and stomp once against the ground.
Jack’s helmet visor is flipped up so I can see his infuriating smirk. “That was a cute tantrum.”
“I don’t throw tantrums.”
He has the audacity to laugh. “Yes, you do. I’ve witnessed four so far in this year of our Lord and Savior. And that was definitely one.”
“I’m going to smack you.”
He points to his head. “Can you do it while my helmet is still on?”
I drop my eyes from his face to the sleek, black death trap beside us. My heart rate ratchets up and suddenly hanging out with Marissa all day doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe she likes to puzzle. Puzzling sounds nice right about now.
“Tell me what’s going on in that head. I can see your thoughts running a mile a minute. Are you scared?”
“Stop doing that.” I ball my hands into fists.
His eyes drop to my fists and next thing I know, his gloved hands are wrapping around them, gently unfolding my fingers one by one. “Stop doing what?”
“Perceiving me so much!” I look up at him and we’re helmet to helmet. “Believe it or not, there are some thoughts and feelings I like to keep to myself.” But most of the time I feel liquid in front of him. Like he can see straight through me. He’s probably reading these thoughts as I have them.
I’m thinking of a number, Jack…
He smiles. “I can’t help it. I see you and I want to figure you out. Why don’t you ever wear your red cowboy boots to school? And why do your hands ball up so tightly when you realize I’ve seen something about you? Because you want to hit me or because you’re trying to hold back any more feelings from showing? Why did you immediately hate me in college—it had to be more than me spilling coffee on you? And how the hell did you sense there was more to the story of my glasses without me ever hinting at it?”
We’re both silent for a few moments in the wake of his flood of questions. And then Jack blinks and steps away, looking almost embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say all that. Forget it.” He laughs softly and flips his visor back down. “Listen, if you’re not comfortable riding with me, you can stay here, and I’ll go back to the house to get the Land Rover and then come pick you up.” He’s walking toward his bike. Problem solved. “That way you don’t have to see Marissa or ride on the bike.”
“Jack…” He stops and turns his head back to me. “Why did you have a spare helmet?”
All I can see is my own refection in his visor. He waits so long to respond that I know he’s looking for a lie but can’t find one. “I hoped you would ride with me some day and I wanted to be prepared.”
My body softens. I take the two steps to put us helmet to helmet again. I lift my visor and lift his next. “And what did I say earlier that upset you?”
He looks away, sighs, and meets my eyes again. “My dad is a narcissist. I don’t mean it in a hyperbolic way either. I’m pretty certain that he is an actual narcissist. My life growing up…it was painful a lot. And I quickly learned that saying what I truly thought or felt could get turned on me in an instant. Honesty, vulnerability…those things were what I got rid of first. And then I learned the art of reading him. Reading his moods and his energy and becoming what I needed to be to get through the day and to protect my mom from his shit. That mechanism bled into the rest of my life too…mostly by accident. I read people and adapt before I even realize I’m doing it. It’s usually not until later when I’m sitting alone, and I feel hollow and used and upset that I realize I betrayed myself in some way. And so often…I’m scared that all this reading and maneuvering people—even if it’s with the right intent—is somehow going to turn me into him. So when you made that comment—”
I shut my eyes. “The ‘monster in private’ one…”
He nods slowly. “It terrified me.”
I wrap my hand around his forearm and squeeze. “I’m so sorry. It was a thoughtless comment—and one I never would have made if I knew about your dad. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a narcissist.”
The side of his mouth hitches. “Well…you would be the best judge.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re the only person I’m nothing but honest with.”
His words snip the last vines of loneliness from my heart and replace them with balloon strings.
I lift my chin. “Help me with the buckle.”
His chest expands with a breath, and he smiles before closing his visor. “You truly hate the word ‘please,’ don’t you?”
“It’s a terrible word.”
He pinches the front of my shirt and gently tugs me even closer. My stomach muscles clench as his hands move under my chin to secure the loops of the fastener.
I wish his visor were open so I could see his eyes. I like looking into them this closely.
But maybe it’s a good thing I can’t see his eyes for what I’m about to say next. “I hated you immediately in college because you were the first man to smile at me after my ex broke my heart. I wasn’t in a good place to be flirted with.” His fingers pause for only a second and then finish up, pulling the strap taut but comfortable under my chin. “The red cowboy boots are my summer treat. I look forward to them every year. If I wore them during the school year, they wouldn’t be special anymore.” I take a breath. “You’re the most intentional man I know. You don’t do anything without a reason. And that’s how I knew there was a story behind your glasses and why you never wore them. And lastly, my hands ball up because it helps me not cry. I don’t cry in front of anyone. Ever.” One more pause. “Except you apparently.”
His head tilts. “For the record…I’ll still think you’re strong as hell even though you cried around me. And I like that I’ve gotten to see your summer treat boots.” He pauses. “Thank you for telling me all of that.” He snaps my visor down. “But if you scream like a little baby on the back of this bike, I’ll make fun of you for eternity.”
I laugh and smack the side of his helmet. But then he grabs my wrist and tugs me up so close to him our helmets bump. My heart punches against my sternum, especially as Jack’s gloved thumb runs up and down the tender inside of my wrist. “I’ll be so careful with you, Emily,” he says, but I don’t have the heart to ask him if he means on the motorcycle or not.
I nod.
He lets me go and situates himself on the bike, twisting to look at me. God help me, he looks so good. “Okay, this is your seat,” he says, patting a tiny little sliver of cushion behind him that’s slightly higher than his seat. “Put your foot on that and then kick over.” He lifts his visor once again and looks at me expectantly when I don’t move.
“You sure there’s not like an extra pop-out seat or something? This looks…small.”
“It’ll be okay. I promise.” He extends his hand to help me on. And I still can’t quite get used to the sight of him doing that—offering to help me. To touch me. It does dangerous things to my insides. And my outsides. And every side I own.
It’s not my prettiest choreography, but a minute later, I’m on the back of the bike with hands primly on Jack’s shoulders. I am a two-by-four sitting straight up behind him. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I say as he adjusts our weight, and the bike leans a little. “I’m going to fall off! There’s no way this is safe. Why would you get one of these? This is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made. And my stupidest decision for getting on here with you!”
“Are you done hollering at me? Put your arms around me and lean in.”
“Excuse me? I will not be leaning anywhere.”
He laughs. “You think I’m going to drive on the road with your ass dangling off the back like that? Scoot in, hug the bike with your thighs, and wrap your arms around my torso here,” he says, taking my hands and pulling them around his body and tugging them together until I lean my chest against his back. And was it strictly necessary to say thighs so erotically like that? “Better, right?”
I can only make a mm-hm -type sound because yes, this is definitely much better. Oh yes, being pressed against Jack’s body is worlds better.
“Good,” he continues. “Now if you can’t tell already, I have helmet coms that let us talk easily to each other. I can turn on music too when you get more comfortable. Only rules are to brace your core when we get ready to stop so you don’t slam your helmet into the back of mine, and don’t fight me around turns. I know you’ll want to lead, but I need you to follow me on this one, okay? Where I lean, you go with me. Don’t try to counterbalance the bike yourself or it’ll throw my weight off. I lean, you lean, got it, Goldie?”
“Why do you say it like I can’t follow directions?”
“Because you don’t follow directions. You invent them—but never follow them.”
I tickle him and he flinches with a laugh. It stops me dead in my tracks. Are Jack and I playing? Yes. We are…and I love it. I’m scared of it—this joyous, reckless feeling—but I love it.
“All right, you ready?”
“Quit babying me. I’m fine. If I weren’t fine, I wouldn’t be on this bike. I’m not scared in the— eep! ” I scream, squeeze the life out of his abdomen, and tuck my head against his back when he gives it gas and we start rolling.
He’s laughing his head off. “You were saying?”
“Shut up and pay attention to the road!”
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Liar. Open your eyes,” he says in that taunting voice of his.
“My eyes are open!”
“Emily…open your eyes.”
Son of a mind-reading bitch. I crack my eyes open and miraculously, we’re not dead.
“Did you see that?” he says. “A snail just passed us.”
“And he was going way too fast.”
Eventually we roll to a stop at the front of the parking lot (we haven’t even left yet?) and Jack looks both ways before telling me to hold on tight again and to lean with him as we take the turn. I think my soul is going to leave my body at these directions, but somehow, we make it. Jack keeps us off the pavement and before I know it, we’re cruising down the road, emerald-green fields on both sides of us, sun bright and happy overseeing the entire adventure. Jack keeps the bike at a nice cruising pace that doesn’t feel quite as scary as I imagined it would. He does not attempt anything lawbreaking with me on board.
“How ya doing back there?” he asks, and the joyful tone in his voice has my cheeks aching.
“Happy not to be dead.”
“Admit it,” he says through the helmet coms. “You’re having fun as my backpack.”
“I’m uncomfortable,” I say snootily.
“You’re in love with this thrill.”
“I hate adrenaline.”
“You’re a junkie now,” he replies.
“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. But I’m not impressed enough to want to do this again.”
I’ll die before admitting to him how good it feels to have my arms around him. That the competency with which he drives this bike is turning me on maybe the slightest bit. Just a small amount. Tiny. Minuscule. It’s manageable.
A few minutes later when we pull up to the stop sign, he taps on his phone screen that’s mounted between his handlebars and then music is coming through my helmet. But not just any music. The familiar bars of “Pony” by Ginuwine blare in my ears as we take off.
“What are you doing?” I yell over the music.
“Impressing you enough to make you want to ride with me again.” His helmet angles a little in my direction. And then I gasp when his gloved hand grabs my fist that has been locked against his sternum. He spreads my fingers out flat against his body and then tugs my hands up to the top of his chest. Just as I hear the lyrics to something about a pony and getting on it his hand squeezes mine, pressing it into his hard chest as he slides it sensually down his abdomen. He’s singing along to the music and rolling his body like he moonlights in a dark club with a spotlight on the stage and a cowboy hat. Magic Mike on a bike.
He’s carrying my hand down down down and even though I’m mostly sure he’ll stop before my hand reaches the land of no return, I rip it away and smack him in the shoulder. “Pay attention to the road, menace!”
I can hear his low laugh when he cuts the music and takes the handlebars again, leaning forward. “I’m very good at multitasking.”
As we cruise for the next twenty minutes through our town’s gorgeous back roads, I realize I’m actually having fun. Maybe the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. And I’m having it with Jackson Bennett. And the fear and anxiety that always guides me, it’s nowhere in sight. I’m not thinking about anyone else on this bike besides me, and it’s the greatest relief I’ve had in years.
When we reach our road, Jack asks if I want him to turn in or keep going. It feels like a loaded question—with more than one interpretation. “Keep going,” I tell him.
Jack’s hand reaches back, wraps around my calf, and squeezes.
—
That night, with shaking hands and a sober mind, I open my laptop and purposely attach my manuscript to an email and hit send. I flop back on my bed, wondering how long it will take for a message to send one house over.