When he comes out, he looks lighter. Not fixed—nothing that broken gets fixed in one night. But present. Willing.
“I came all this way,” I say, “to see if there’s anything left of you worth staying for.”
“I thought about the first time you took me on this bike,” I say. “How safe I felt with your arms around me. How stupid that was.” xev bellringer ride
Afterward, I trace the scars on his knuckles—old ones, from his father’s house. He traces the road rash on my hip—new, from a fall I took practicing alone last fall.
“I meant what I said too. This is the last time.” When he comes out, he looks lighter
He comes up behind me. Puts his arms around my waist. Rests his chin on my shoulder.
“You’re a better rider than me now,” he says. Willing
“Anything.”