Chapter 1 — Katherine #2
The name clicks immediately. Louis is in my Tuesday-Thursday rotation, quiet at school, but his father shows up to every conference and asks real questions about rhythm units and whether Louis is participating enough.
I've met this man three times in professional contexts and somehow didn't register him as the person currently standing in my classroom looking like he just prevented something I don't want to think about.
"You've been to conferences," I say.
"Three of them."
Conference-Holt wore jeans and plain t-shirts and said maybe twelve words total but listened to every single thing I said about Louis.
Current-Holt is wearing a vest that made two dangerous men leave immediately and is standing in my classroom with the kind of stillness that says he's always aware of exactly where his body is in space.
"I didn't recognize you."
"No reason you would."
There's something in the way he says it that makes me look at him more carefully. He's watching me with attention that feels specific, like he's assessing whether I'm really okay or just saying I am.
"Thank you for stopping. I thought they were just kids trying to steal something. I didn't think—"
"You thought you could handle it."
"Yes."
"You couldn't have."
Not cruel. Just factual. I should be annoyed but he's right and we both know it.
"I know that now."
He nods once. "Do you have a car here?"
"The blue sedan near the front."
"I'm driving you home."
Not a question. I start to argue and he says, "Katherine," and the way he says my name stops me. It's the first time he's said it out loud and it sounds deliberate.
"My car," I say.
"I'll bring it back tomorrow morning. Before school starts."
"You don't have to do that."
"Yes I do. You're not driving home alone after this."
"But how will you—"
"I'll figure it out. You're going home now. With me."
We look at each other. He's not going to move on this and I can see it in the set of his jaw. I'm also aware that my hands stopped shaking sometime in the last two minutes and I don't actually want to drive myself home right now anyway.
"Okay," I say.
"Get your things."
I grab my bag and check for my phone, then turn off the lights. Holt waits by the door and doesn't rush me. When I step into the hall he follows and I lock the classroom behind us.
The parking lot is quiet now. His motorcycle waits under the security light.
He walks toward the bike and I follow, my heart picking up speed again for a different reason.
"I've never been on a motorcycle before," I say.
He pulls a helmet from one of the saddlebags and turns to face me. "You'll be fine. I'll go slow."
"What about you?"
"I only have one helmet. You wear it."
"That doesn't seem safe."
"Four blocks. I'll be fine." He holds the helmet out. "Put it on."
I take it from him. It's heavier than I expected. He watches me fumble with the strap under my chin and then his hands are there, brushing mine aside, adjusting it with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Too tight?" he asks.
"No."
His fingers linger for just a second at my jaw before he pulls back. "Okay. Get on behind me. Hold on to my waist. Lean when I lean. Don't fight it."
I climb on, awkward and hyperaware of how close I have to sit to him. My thighs bracket his hips. When he tells me to hold on, I wrap my arms around his waist and I can feel the solid warmth of him through his shirt.
"Ready?" he asks over his shoulder.
"I think so."
"You'll be fine."
The engine starts and I feel it through my whole body. Then we're moving and I tighten my grip instinctively and he reaches down and adjusts my hands so they're locked together at his stomach.
Four blocks has never felt so short and so long at the same time.
He pulls up to my house and puts his feet down to stabilize the bike while I climb off. My legs feel unsteady. He takes the helmet when I hand it back and his fingers brush mine.
"You did good," he says.
"That was terrifying."
"But you did it."
I look at him sitting there on his bike in the near-dark of my street. "Thank you for bringing me home. For everything."
"Lock your doors tonight."
"I always do."
"I'll have your car here by seven tomorrow morning. Keys will be in the ignition."
"How will you—"
"I'll figure it out. Go inside."
I don't want to go inside yet. I want to understand what just happened in that parking lot and why this man I barely know just put me on his motorcycle and drove me home and why that feels more significant than it probably should.
"Are you part of the reason they're here?" I ask. "Marrow?"
He looks at me for a long moment before answering. "We're part of the reason they're leaving."
I nod. I don't fully understand but I understand enough. "Goodnight, Holt."
"Goodnight, Katherine."
He waits until I'm at my door before starting the engine again.
I unlock it and step inside, turn to wave but he's already pulling away from the curb. I close the door and turn the deadbolt and watch through the window as his taillight disappears down the street.
I lean back against the door and close my eyes.
My heart is beating hard everywhere. Throat. Wrists. Chest.
The fear from earlier is still there, sitting cold in my stomach, but under it is something else. Something warm that started when Holt looked at me in that parking lot and asked if I was okay.
I felt it when his fingers brushed mine adjusting the helmet. When I was pressed against his back on the motorcycle with my arms around his waist and could feel him breathing.
I should call Linda about her truck, should call the school and report what happened, should do several responsible things.
Instead I stand in my kitchen touching my lips and thinking about the fact that I was just on Holt's motorcycle with my arms wrapped around him.
And that I didn't want to let go.