And there I go again, wondering about a future that involves him.
Archie is silent and a little disconnected, so I ask, “You still want to go to that brewery?”
“Sure,” he says. “You have a warm jacket?”
I don’t understand the question. Or rather, I get its literal meaning, but not its point. “Yeah, why?”
I grab my gray suede jacket from the closet, which I brought in case the nights became chilly.
“Want to go on the bike?” Archie asks. “I have an extra helmet.”
I refrain from asking how many ladies have donned that same headgear, because that is a question a jealous girlfriend would ask, and I’m neither his girlfriend nor the possessive type. Instead, I accept.
The bike is everything I expected: big, black, and sleek. But seeing Archie zip up his black leather jacket, don his helmet, and mount his ride, it’s not something I’m prepared for. Watching him rev the bike gets me all hot and bothered, prompting the usual flutters in my belly I can’t control. And thuds in my chest I can’t control. And I might’ve drooled if I hadn’t swallowed in quick succession a couple of times. This man is hitting all my emotional and lust buttons simultaneously.
The coup de grâce comes when Archie grins at me, the first real smile since he came back from seeing my sister. “Ready?”
The sun is bouncing off his black helmet and motorcycle bodywork, and he has never been more of a forbidden fruit I crave with all my being. With a sinking heart, I realize I do want him to be mine. I want to see that smile every day, while the reality of our situation couldn’t be further away from this fantasy.
The grin drops from his face as he stares up at me. “Are you scared?”
“Yes,” I say.
Only not about the bike, I add in my head.
“Don’t be,” Archie says, an incredible tenderness in his tone as he extends a hand toward me. “I’ve got you.”
I take his hand and mount behind him. In for a penny, in for a pound. I mean, at this point the pain of letting him go will be the same no matter what I do in the next few days, so I might as well enjoy the time we have left together before I retire to a convent and really go off men for the rest of my life.
The rumble of the bike underneath my thighs shakes me away from any wishful thinking, grounding me to the present. The second he twists the accelerator, I gladly take the excuse to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on as tightly as I can. His back is broad and hard and warm, and I want to keep hugging him like a baby koala for the rest of my life.
We exit the resort at walking speed, but once we’re on the open road, Archie opens the gas, and the engine roars in response, tires skidding on the concrete. The bike’s rumble is powerful; maybe too loud, too in your face, just like its owner, and I love it. I love the vibrations crawling up from my legs to my upper body. I love the speed. The sensation of flying. And I’m afraid I might be a tiny bit in love with the driver as well.
A steep turn in the road makes my stomach drop and my focus shift as Archie bends the bike closer to the ground, then straightens it up again in a split second. I close my eyes, tightening my embrace, and hope this ride will never end.
Archie works the clutches, making the bike gather even more speed, again giving me the perfect excuse to tighten my grip on his waist. In response, one of Archie’s hands moves onto mine and gives a gentle squeeze before he has to get it back on the handle. A small gesture, but one that makes my chest swell with opposite sensations: warmth and sadness. Wonder, at how attentive this man can be. How sweet. While also being hot and manly and a bad biker boy. And hopelessness, at the waste of him refusing any long-term attachment. Archie would be an amazing partner. If only he gave it a chance… And, oh my gosh, here I go again, trying to turn him into something he’s not. Wanting to mold him to my expectations, when he’s a free agent and has never claimed any different.
Summer, I give myself another pep talk, you gotta live in the moment, girl. ’Cause that’s all you’re gonna get.
I must focus on enjoying the ride. The intimacy the bike affords us. Physical, for how close our bodies touch, and emotional, for the trust I have to put in him, surrendering all control. That’s how it’s been with Archie from the start. I might’ve set some stupid rules, but he’s been the one in charge since he promised to make me forget my name that first night.
The plan succeeded. But at what price? What will it take to forget him?
Green country sweeps by, and I wish we could exist in this suspended universe forever, where there’s only him and me on a bike. Our bodies so close they might’ve been fused. My heart pounding faster and faster, jacked up on adrenaline at every turn, incline, and acceleration Archie makes. If this is what flying feels like, I wish humans were born with wings.
But all too soon, we reach our destination. Archie parks in the brewery parking lot, and I let go of his chest as fast as if I’d been electrocuted. The daydream is over; now we’re back to reality, to a world where in two days we’ll say goodbye to each other for good. I’d better remember that and keep reminding myself: enjoy the time you have left, but start distancing yourself.
I hop off the bike and begin the act. Like a person without a care in the world, I unhook my helmet and hand it to him, saying, “That was amazing.”
Archie smiles, removing his helmet. And I have to suppress the instinct to run my fingers through his hair to flatten it out. Right now it’s deliciously disheveled, sticking out in all directions.
“You were a dream passenger,” Archie says, after securing both helmets to the bike. He comes close to me and pokes my nose. “Not a wobble in you.”
Ah, because he has no idea how precarious my knees feel right now. Wobbly doesn’t begin to cover it.
He rises a bent elbow, offering it to me. “Shall we?”
I nod, link our arms, and follow him inside the brewery.
The visit, and the two pints of beer, relax the tension between us. But at lunch, Archie spaces out again. As if his mind was a million miles away from our conversation. That’s when there’s any talking happening at all. At times, silences stretch for longer than I’m comfortable with, and whenever I ask him questions, most of Archie’s answers are short and of the yes or no kind. And he never asks me anything.
Once we’ve made our order—we’re in a French bistro in Yountville—I can’t take the weirdness any longer and finally ask, “Are you sure you’re okay? Did something my sister tell you freak you out?”
Archie stares at me. And his gaze is present and not the least detached when he asks, “Did you really freeze your eggs?”
Seventeen
Summer
I’m going to kill my sister. Strangle her. Drown her in confetti.
I want the ground to open and swallow me whole. Or, better, I want a meteor to fall from the sky and obliterate us. I wish lightning would strike our table, even if we’re sitting under a porch and it’s not even raining. Or for the San Andreas fault to finally get a move on and bring The Big One. Because anything, anything would be better than having to answer this question.