I should have let him go. I should have crumpled the paper, taken the dog, called my sister in Portland, and started over.
He taught me on this bike—his hands over mine on the throttle, his chest pressed to my back, his voice a low rumble through the helmet intercom. Easy. Feather it. Trust the lean. I’d learned to feel the bike as an extension of his body first, and mine second.
He pulls back, looks at me. “I’m not planning one now.” xev bellringer ride
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “Last night. I want to come home.”
The town is exactly what I expected—one main street, a hardware store, a bar with a flickering neon sign, and a motel called The Pines that hasn’t been renovated since 1987. His truck is parked outside Room 12. I recognize the dent in the rear bumper from when he backed into a fire hydrant two summers ago. I should have let him go
We end up tangled in the motel sheets, the window cracked open to let in the cool night air, his heartbeat pressed against my ribs. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pull away. For once, he stays in the room.
“I don’t deserve you coming for me,” he says. I’d learned to feel the bike as an
“I always leave the keys.”