Page 73 of More With You

He shrugs. “I knew she’d find something. I won’t be far behind you, okay?”

“Drive safe,” I tell him, thinking about the rain that’s about to come.

He gives me one of his widest, brightest grins. “As I always say, it’s not me you have to worry about, it’s everyone else.”

I turn sideways and tilt my head up, smiling against his lips as he kisses me. His smile presses back against my mouth, and I know, in that moment, that everything is going to be okay. We’re over the biggest bump in our road, and though it’s bittersweet, the gates of our future are now wide open, unblocked by anything the DuCates could’ve done to tear us apart. I know, feeling his arms wrap around me and Grace, that there’s nothing that can.

I hear a “Hmph” coming from Mrs. DuCate as I kiss my husband. My handsome, exceptional, brave husband. It only spurs me on to kiss him harder, taking the opportunity to live out one of my romantic fantasies of kissing a man in the rain. He chuckles a little, but follows suit, kissing me like it really is our honeymoon.

In the end, it’s Grace who intervenes. “I’m getting drenched!” she proclaims dramatically, burying her face under my chin.

“Sorry, Duckling.” Ben laughs and dabs his lips with the edge of his t-shirt, before placing a tender kiss on his daughter’s forehead. “I love you, Duckling. You be good for Summer.”

Grace beams at her father’s affection. “I will. I’m going to tell her a story.”

“Make it your best one yet, Duckling,” he urges her, before walking us to the car.

Once I’ve got Grace buckled into her seat in the back, I head around to the driver’s side where he’s waiting for me. He pulls me into one more, fierce kiss, pressing me back into the door like he did on our first kiss. I loop my arms around his neck, kissing him back with all the love I possess, until the heavens break open and unleash a downpour to cool us off.

“I love you,” he says thickly, keeping his hands on my waist for a moment longer.

I sigh, so happy I could die. “I love you more.”

“Not possible.” He dips in for one final peck, then hares off toward his motorcycle.

I’m laughing, high on love, as I get behind the wheel and put the car into drive. Turning up the radio, I watch Grace in the rearview mirror, dancing along as she munches on a chocolate chip cookie that she must’ve hidden for later. So, with a full heart and a hankering for crawfish heads, I head away from the DuCate Mansion for what I hope will be the last time in a long while.

Once through the gates, I hear the bestial roar of Ben’s motorcycle, and know he won’t be far behind.

23

BEN

There’s no freedom like it, riding a motorcycle along clear roads, feeling the wind in my face, knowing I could go anywhere, though there’s only one place I want to go, right now. Home, to my wife and my daughter. I’ve lost sight of them, but I know the way like I know my way around a palette of paints. It’s instinct… and road signs, though they’re getting blurrier, crying tears spilled from the heavens.

I’m already soaked by the time I pull out of the gates, taking one last look at my mother in the wing mirror as I drive away, but the rain is warm and fresh and necessary, cooling the humidity of the coast. For a few days, at least, the air won’t cling like syrup to my skin.

I sink into the leather seat of the motorcycle, hands on the handlebars and lean back in a comfortable position, feeling the rush of adrenaline pulse through me. There really is nothing like it. Well, almost nothing, but I can’t do the other thing out on the open road in a downpour. There’d be cops surrounding me and Summer in minutes, arresting us for public indecency.

I look ahead to tonight, dreaming of the three of us plucking through a huge pile of steaming crawfish, spicy and sweet, knocked back with a few cold beers—juice for Grace—to celebrate the end of a short era at Summer’s paradise. Marriage and family are engraved with traditions, and I want those to be one of ours. I’m sure there’s a house in New Orleans where we could continue it, or any place that’s ours. Summer and Grace are my home, so the location of a house doesn’t matter. Only they matter.

Peeking through the thunderclouds, I notice sunset trying to make itself known. Shards of electric purple and fractures of molten bronze vie for space with fissures of pink and victorious gold. It’s mesmerizing among the bruised shades of the clouds, forging a kind of curious harmony out of the contrast. The dull and the magnificent, sparring in one expanse of sky. I’m not sure which I prefer, and it’s so unusual that I’m not sure I could choose a preference, even if I had to.

Honestly, it feels like a sign. Summer and I started our love story in fate’s hands, and fate is definitely smiling down on us. It’s in the warmth of the deluge, hitting my bare arms like so many kisses, varnishing my skin in a balmy embrace. If the heavens were angry, the rain would be cold and bitter. It’s not. It’s beautiful. Or maybe I just think everything is beautiful because of the mood I’m in. In all my thirty-six years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve ever known exhilaration like this. It has nothing to do with the motorcycle and everything to do with Summer and the kiss that still tingles on my lips.

“I love you so much,” I whisper, speeding along toward the bridge that holds so many amazing memories. It’s where I found my greatest muse, not in the view but in the woman looking out at it.

On my left, I spot a boat in the water, coming toward the bridge. It’s tall enough to warrant bringing up both sides of the bridge, but I see Summer’s car on the opposite side, already disappearing past the oaks that cluster tentatively, a short distance from the water’s edge, like they don’t dare come too close to the salty shore. Knowing the way the bridge works, Lou, assuming he’s the one tending, won’t raise it for another five minutes or so, giving me plenty of time to get across and catch up to my wife and daughter.

Revving the engine, I shoot along, so happy I want to throw my arms back and lift my face to the downpour, drinking in its congratulations. Of course, that’s no way to ride a motorcycle, but I picture it in my mind and let the imagined sensation pulse through my veins. It would certainly be a spectacle.

At the halfway break of the bridge, I lift up slightly and draw in a breath, shouting, “I love you, Summer!” at the top of my lungs. I’m hoping Lou will hear it from the booth and wonder if he’s imagining things. But, mostly it’s a thank you to the world for sending her to me. The love of my fucking life.

That’s when I feel it. The jolt of the back wheel hitting the dent where the two sides of the bridge meet. A wobble vibrates through the whole motorcycle, and my grip slips on the handlebars, as I try to right whatever is wrong. I glance back for what feels like half a second, trying to figure out if something has come loose or it’s just an aftershock of striking the middle of the bridge.

A second later, the motorcycle rights itself and I expel a grateful sigh of relief, turning back to look at the road. Horror stabs at my chest. I’m too far over. And there’s a car coming right at me. I see the driver, wide-eyed in panic, and hear the feeble screech of brakes as she wrenches on the wheel to get out of my way. More afraid for her than I am for myself, I pull on the handlebars to skid out of her path.

The front wheel gives. The bridge has turned into an aquaplane. Behind me, the back wheel goes in the opposite direction, slipping on the slick water. I’m going too fast and she’s not slowing fast enough. The motorcycle lurches and my thigh hits the road, the asphalt sanding through denim and skin. I’m still sliding. I don’t know how to stop. I pull my brakes hopelessly, but the wheels aren’t kissing the road anymore. Bluish smoke billows from the clamped brakes, reflecting the burst of my desperation.

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