He settles back onto the stool. “Okay,” he mouths, his right hand forming the two letters. I’m proud of myself for recognizing them. As I grab the tote bag that holds my clothes, he runs his hand through his hair and looks around the restaurant again, sighing.
I fake a happy skip into the dingy little bathroom and creak the door closed, leaning against it.
What was I thinking? What are we going to do? Go to frickin’ McDonalds? Trent and I just went to each other’s houses and pretended to practice, but actually made out! I’ve only known Carter for two days! He could be an ax murderer for all I know! I don’t even know his last name! He probably doesn’t know a thing about Westfield. Can two people even fit on his motorcycle? Maybe he wants me to drive! I can’t put that beautiful person in my crappy car!
I grasp both sides of the sink and look into the dilapidated mirror. “Get a grip, Robin,” I command my reflection, forgoing the usual whisper. Who the heck cares? He can’t hear me anyway. I pull the band out of my hair and grab a brush from my bag, tugging the dark waves back into a neater ponytail. Once my hair has been ponytailed, there is no way to let it down without a nasty ponytail bump.
I pull off my diner clothes and slip into jeans and a loose-fitting white lace-back tank top layered over a bright-blue tank, fixing my boobs so the push-up bra does its darn job. I untie my Vans and exchange them for sandals, exposing my newly painted coral-colored toenails. And voila! The greasy diner waitress has been replaced by a somewhat cute (admittedly very pale) girl!
I do one last check (panty line, bra line, tags in), take a deep breath, and creak open the door. Carter is thumbing through his phone. I wipe my hands on my jeans, fix a smile on my face, and tap him on the shoulder.
He looks casually over his shoulder until he catches my eye. Then he spins the stool to face me, one eyebrow shoots up to his hairline, and his perfect lips part slightly. He stares and I smile for a second. Even though he’s sitting on a diner stool, he’s still taller than I am. He smells like oranges and motorcycle exhaust and light boy-sweat. It is divine. Finally, I reach past him for the paper.
“It’s a girl!” I write.
“I can see that,” he writes back. Music pipes over the radio: “One Fine Day.” The mattress sale is long gone.
“I’m ready,” I write. “You?”
“Yeah,” he writes. “You hungry?”
I must look surprised. Most people think that if you work at a restaurant, you eat all the time. The total opposite is true. I work when everybody else is eating. Because of that, I have a bizarre eating schedule. And I’m starving.
“Or maybe you’re not… ,” he writes.
“No! I am!” I take the pen before he can change his mind.
“Good,” he writes. “You ever ride a motorcycle before?”
Chapter 10
Carter
God, she’s beautiful.
I keep glancing over my shoulder as she follows me to the bike. She takes one little detour to toss her bag in an old Subaru station wagon.
When she joins me at the bike, she reaches out a tentative hand to touch the shiny metal and leather. Just before she touches it, she looks up at me.
“Can I?” her mouth says.
I nod and cover her delicate hand with my sweaty one. After making sure the metal isn’t too hot, I run her hand along the matte black and yellow. Her pulse beats under my hand, and I stifle a surprise impulse to turn her wrist over and kiss the soft underside. At that moment, she looks up at me and smiles. The impulse grows stronger. I swallow and let go of her hand, unhooking my leather jacket from the handgrips. I hold the jacket open for her and she gives me a look, so I pull out my notepad and write, “To protect your arms from all the bugs.” And road rash. But she doesn’t need to think about that.
She laughs and shrugs into it, letting the cuffs hang over those white wrists. I love it.
I look down at her feet and over at the foot pegs on the back of my bike. They’re right next to the tailpipe. Sandals, like the tank top, are another no-no. Maybe she’s just not meant to ride the bike. What was I thinking, that every girl would kill to be on this bike just because I like it? Too late now. I swallow and pick up the pen again.
“You have sneakers?” I write. “Or boots?”
She makes a face but I keep writing, “Your feet are by the tailpipe. Don’t want you to get burned.”
She goes back to her Subaru and digs the black Vans out of her backpack, lacing them up. As she ties her shoes, I write a few instructions:
“I’ll let you know when to get on the bike. Hang on to me around my chest. You’ll be perched up pretty high and leaning forward in order to hang on. Lean with me on the turns, but not too much. Keep your feet on the pegs. I’ll let you know when I’m about to go and when I’m about to make turns or stop. Don’t worry, I’ve carried passengers before. I’m a really safe driver.”
I look up and hand her the notepad, kind of digging the tank top/leather jacket/jeans/Vans look. It suits her. Her blue eyes grow steadily bigger as she reads the instructions. Finally, she looks up at me and gulps. I take the paper back from her limp hand.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to!” I write hastily. “Your car will take us places just as well as my bike.”
“No!” she writes. “I want to do this!”
“You sure you’re okay?” I write. I sign it, too, when I show her the paper.
She nods confidently, then her whole face lightens and she signs yes with her right hand. She points at it with her left hand and I golf clap, impressed. She takes a deep breath and smiles as she lets it out through pursed lips.
I unhook her helmet from the back of the bike and give it to her. She slides it on, but I buckle it to make sure it’s snug. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at me, then holds her hand out for the pad of paper.
“Hot stuff?” she writes, then strikes a pose.
I laugh and dig my phone out of my pocket to take a picture, flipping it around so she can see it—the full-coverage helmet (can’t mess up your face if something goes wrong) and the too-big jacket on her little body. As I’m holding my phone up, I notice two figures in the diner windows: the older waitress and the cook. I wave. They scurry away like they were never there.
I turn back to Robin. She’s shooing them away. She shakes her helmeted head and shrugs at me, holding out her hand for the pen and paper. I pass it over and she writes, “Let’s do this!”
I smile and pull on my own helmet and motorcycle gloves, then flip down the passenger foot pegs.
Swinging my leg over the bike, I start the engine. A little motion catches my eye—she’s jumped back a bit. “You okay?” I sign.
“Yes,” she signs back.
I do a half turn and pat the passenger’s seat behind me, if you can call it that. It’s perched way above the rear wheel. I point to my foot, then the foot peg. She shakes out her hands and puts them on the seat like she’s about to mount a horse. One, two, three bounces and she’s up in the seat, her feet firmly on the pegs. The bike settles a little under her weight. She leans forward in the seat and wraps her arms around me, loosely at first. I put my hand up and make a motion like I’m going to rev the bike. She tightens her grip and I kick off from the ground to glide out of the parking lot.
The bike and I take a little time to get used to having a passenger. By the time I’m out of town and on the winding country roads, though, the three of us are a well-oiled machine.
Once I’ve found our rhythm, I’m very aware of how tight she is against my back. Her thighs are pressing into my sides. I breathe in and out, once, and glance down. If I were to lean back, I could rest my arm on her leg like an armrest. It’s right there. Her hands tighten as we bank a corner and I feel her helmet against the back of mine. I glance in the mirrors and see that she’s watching the road.