“It’s how we met? On your bike? Last summer we went for a joyride every weekend we were in D.C.?” I feel like knocking on his skull to see if he’s actually in there.
“You know, just because we met on a motorcycle and rode it a lot last summer doesn’t mean we’re bound to travel that way exclusively for the rest of our lives.”
“I didn’t say we’re bound to anything—”
“What about our luggage? What if it rains? What if I want to have a few glasses of wine with dinner? Honestly, Lanie, it sounds like more of a headache than it’s worth.”
“Backpacks instead of roller bags. A couple of those raincoats that fold into little pouches,” I say, taking out his catalog of complaints one by one. “And if you want to drink, then I can drive.” I nuzzle into his neck. “Think you’re man enough to hold on?”
“Since when do you drive a motorcycle?” he asks. “You let your regular driver’s license expire when you moved to New York.”
“I could learn,” I say. “I can get my license in time for a trip. That way you don’t have to do all the driving. I could practice on your bike. You could teach me—”
“Actually,” Ryan says and clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Why not?”
There’s a long pause, where I hear the background noise of the restaurant like the roar of a Roman coliseum.
“I was going to tell you,” Ryan finally says. He puts a hand on my thigh in a way that makes me nervous. “I sold my bike, Lanie.”
“You what?” I gasp. “But you loved that bike . . . I loved that bike. We loved that bike. Why would you ever sell it?”
“Baby,” he says, rubbing my leg. “This friend of a friend offered me twice what the bike is worth. I was thinking about you, and how, when you move in with me, we’ll need that garage space for a second car. Maybe a Volvo. Plus, once we have kids, our priorities are going to change. It won’t be long before I’m running for office, and a motorcycle is just a liability. I don’t want to be ‘that biker dude’ in the attack ads.”
Attack ads? Priorities? I reach for my champagne and guzzle it.
“That bike was the beginning of our story.”
“Everything’s a story with you,” he says.
What about the feeling of freedom each time we hopped on the bike together? What about the wind on our skin? Or the front-row seat to the sights and smells of a city, how everything changes with the seasons? What about those few wonderful weeks each spring when the cherry blossoms bloom?
What about the way the motorcycle drove his mother crazy?
Oh my god.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Did your mother make you do it?”
“Don’t start with my mother again.” Ryan groans.
“I’m just shocked. I wish you would have talked to me before you sold it.”
“Hey,” he says, more warmly. “If it’s that important to you to have one last hurrah on a motorcycle before we get married, let’s rent one and do the Appalachians.”
It’s his I-surrender voice, the hoisting of the little white flag. And this is when I’m supposed to laugh and say thanks, baby, and then we’d let the conversation drift to something pleasant. We could start talking about the trip, about making it real. About the route we’d want to take and where we’d stop along the way. This is when I’d pretend Ryan didn’t just say some truly alarming things about his expectations of our life.
We’ve become masters at changing the subject, lightening the mood. Pretending certain realities don’t loom in our near future.
But tonight, I don’t do the thing we always do. I don’t lean in for a kiss or shrug it off. I look him in the eye and say:
“I’m tired of this idea that everything has to change—that we have to change—after we get married. It’s a wedding, not an apocalypse. Isn’t the point to celebrate what we already have?”
“Okay . . . how much have you had to drink?” he says, bumping my shoulder with his. I know he means to be playful, but it feels patronizing.
I rise from the barstool, grab my purse. “I need some air,” I say.
Ryan glances around, always aware of appearances. Even when he doesn’t know a single person in this restaurant or this neighborhood. As if everyone is already deciding whether to vote for him. It’s maddening.
“Sure,” he says when he realizes I’m serious. He throws down a credit card and motions the bartender. “Let’s get you some air.”
I march outside alone before the bartender runs his card. I have half a mind to hail a cab and head back to my apartment by myself. The thing that stops me scares me.
If I left now, made Ryan meet me back home, I might cool off a little by the time he caught up with me. And we might make up without having the fight we really need to have.
We’re overdue.
So I wait on the curb, and I think. About why I love him—so many reasons. Ninety-nine of them. But since learning the truth about Noa Callaway, there’s been a voice in my head asking if they’re the right reasons. I think about the life each of us wants—so different from the other.
Before I’ve figured out how to square all this, Ryan comes outside. He’s as handsome as ever in his navy bomber jacket and jeans. His eyes twinkle, as if to say, You’re not still mad, are you?
“Feeling better?” he says, and opens his arms to me.
I step into his embrace, feel his arms close comfortingly around me. For a long time, we say nothing. Tears sting my eyes as I pull back to look at him.
“Why do you love me, Ryan?”
He drops his arms, rubs his face. “Lanie, what are you doing?”
“I’m being honest. It’s an honest question.”
He shakes his head and turns away, facing the street and the traffic, the cabs stopping and spilling out happily chattering young people, looking for the heart of Saturday night.
“I don’t understand what happened to us,” Ryan says, not looking at me. “We used to be so happy. The night we got engaged I was ecstatic. Kissing you on that jumbotron, my ring on your finger, I felt so proud that everyone could see we were the perfect couple. Now . . . recently, you act like you’re being held at gunpoint just to pick a date for our wedding—”
“I don’t think I want to be a perfect couple,” I say.
He laughs like this is crazy. “What?”