Page 11 of Brazen Being It

But he knows. I sense it. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sharper now.

I want to lie. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I don’t need anyone.

But the words won’t come. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

There’s a pause on the line. A long one.

Then: “You at the same place?”

I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

“Give me a few hours. I’ll be there.”

The line goes dead before I can say anything else. I stare at the phone, stunned. He’s coming. Why? Why would someone like him give a damn about someone like me? Is he really coming?

I don’t understand it.

But I don’t hang up.

I wait.

Hours pass.

I try to distract myself—clean more, re-fold the threadbare clothes in my duffel, sweep the floor with a towel. I peek out the curtain every five minutes like I’m expecting Santa Claus.

Then I hear it. The low rumble of a bike engine. I don’t even hesitate. I run to the door and fling it open. There he is. Black Harley-Davidson. Leather cut. Sunglasses. Boots that kick up dust as he walks across the lot.

My chest tightens. “You came,” I say.

“Told you I would.”

We stand there, just looking at each other. For the first time in a long time, I feel seen. Not pitied. Not picked apart. Not judged. Just… seen.

“Come ride with me,” he says.

And God help me—I go. Throwing all common sense and caution to the wind, I take the helmet from his hand and climb on behind him.

We ride for what feels like hours.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I just hold on. My arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed into his back. The wind tears at my hair, but I don’t care. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel free.

He takes back roads, cuts through the woods, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. It’s not until we pull off near a wide, quiet overlook that he finally kills the engine.

I slide off the bike and stretch my legs. The view is beautiful—rolling hills and thick green forest that looks untouched by the mess I left behind.

“You hungry?” he asks, pulling a small bag from his saddle compartment.

I nod. “Starving.”

He hands me a bottled water and a sandwich wrapped in foil. “Turkey,” he says. “Best I could do on short notice.”

I eat like I haven’t seen food in days. Maybe I haven’t.

He sits beside me on a wooden bench, unwrapping his own sandwich, but mostly just watching me.

“Why’d you come?” I ask between bites.

His jaw tics. “Because you called.”

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