Authors: Tia Giacalone
Fox leaned back slightly and looked down at me. “Ready to go?” he asked. I felt his voice more than I actually heard it, but I nodded. He opened the driver’s side door and all but lifted me into the cab, and I slid along the bench seat to make room for him when he hopped in.
It was somehow freeing to be away from Brancher, somewhere no one really knew us or how we normally interacted with each other. We drove in silence, sitting much closer than before with his arm brushing mine as he shifted gears, a palpable anticipation in the air. The line of friendship that used to be so clear blurred a little more with every mile that ticked by on the odometer.
* * *
I'd assumed we were picking up his belongings at the post office a few miles from campus, so I was surprised when we pulled into a commercial truck rental lot. Fox parked off to the side of the main warehouse and turned to me.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” He slid a hand over my knee and squeezed slightly. I watched him walk toward the office, his stride easy and confident. The sun shone down on his hair, completely dry now and starting to fall into his face, framing it in thick blond strands. Once he disappeared out of view, I grabbed my bag to check my phone. No missed calls, which was always a good thing when Annabelle was in school. I operated strictly by a no-news-is-good-news policy.
A few more minutes went by and I slouched down in my seat, wondering why Fox had asked me to come with him if he only wanted me to sit in the car. I glanced toward the office again and was shocked to see Fox coming out of the warehouse, coasting sleekly on a big black Harley Davidson. He wheeled it right up to the side of the truck and hopped off, a huge smile on his face.
A motorcycle? Fox had a motorcycle? And not just a motorcycle, but a Harley?
I quickly reevaluated everything I’d previously assumed about his cautious nature and steady personality. I knew it was biased, but I ranked motorcyclists right up there with bull riders when it came to making poor decisions. You didn’t live in rural West Texas for any length of time and not hear about various horrific accidents involving bikes and semi trucks on long, deserted stretches of highway. My father’s best friend in high school had died that way. It was before I was born, but I’d heard the stories.
Fox opened the truck’s door and held out a hand for me to exit. I could see the excitement in his face as he glanced between me and the big black death trap parked nearby. I’d been looking for a flaw and here it was. Heather would hate that I was right. No wonder he’d asked me today. I had to drive the truck home. My stomach dropped. He didn’t just want my company, he actually needed a ride.
He told you that, dummy.
He said he couldn’t go alone. Now I understood. He would drive the bike, so someone needed to drive the truck that would be loaded with the pallet of boxes that a warehouse employee was currently toting on a forklift. And that meant that we wouldn’t be riding back together. I wondered if he’d leave me in the dust to play with his toy now that they’d been reunited.
“So, you have a motorcycle?” I said, stating the obvious because I wasn’t sure what else to say.
Fox picked up on my tone and gave me a strange, confused look. Obviously, he had a motorcycle. It was sitting right there.
“I do.” He grabbed my hands and clasped them both in one of his. “Is that a problem?” He met my eyes and I saw the genuine concern there.
I looked down, suddenly feeling silly. Fox had a motorcycle. So what. That didn’t change anything. He was still the same person he was fifteen minutes ago, the one I could barely catch my breath around who set all my nerves buzzing with a single glance.
“No.” Except I meant yes. Except I meant that statistically, he was more likely to be involved in a fatal accident than someone driving, say, an SUV. Like Chase. Chase had a nice, safe SUV. Chase wasn’t putting himself on a rocket and launching it at 90 miles per hour down a highway with nothing between himself and the asphalt but a fucking leather jacket.
But Chase didn’t want his car to be a family car,
I reminded myself. He might’ve had actual seats and doors, but he didn’t want them to be used by my child, or by me, really. He didn’t want a car seat, or snacks, or a stack of Annabelle’s picture books, or anything that could possibly smear his pristine premium upholstery.
Comparing Fox to Chase, especially now, was ridiculous. I’d made my choice when it came to Chase, and I didn’t regret it. No gleaming piece of machinery could change the way I was starting to feel about Fox. Could it?
“No,” I said again.
Fox didn’t seem convinced, but the warehouse worker interrupted us at that moment.
“Mr. Fox, sign here please.”
Fox took the clipboard and scribbled his signature, all without taking his eyes off me. He thanked him absently, still focused on my face.
“Avery. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. I really wasn’t. Everything I thought I knew about Fox conflicted with the motorcycle by his side.
“Okay.” Fox turned abruptly and started loading the duffles and boxes from the pallet into the back of the truck. I watched him silently, slightly surprised that he’d given up so easily after he asked me what I was thinking.
He probably doesn’t really care. It was none of my business anyhow. I didn’t get to have an opinion on Fox’s mode of transportation. He wasn’t my boyfriend, and he hadn’t asked me to climb on the back of the bike. Therefore, my feelings were irrelevant.
Fox finished securing the truck’s load with strap-down ties and bungee cords, and came back to where he’d left me standing.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked gently. It reminded me of the night he’d watched Annabelle at the diner and asked if he could follow me home to help with the groceries. This was his ‘don’t spook her’ voice, one that you’d use on a frightened kitten or a skittish horse.
I nodded, still unsure of what had just happened. We had been wrapped around each other, then we drove here, then I saw the Harley and jumped to fifty-five conclusions. That sounded about right. Fox put a hand on my bare upper arm and slid it down until his fingers closed over mine. I let him lead me to the driver’s side and open the door.
“I’ll stay just ahead, okay?” he said as I climbed in and buckled my seatbelt.
I gave him a small smile and started to adjust my mirrors. Fox shook his head slightly at my non-response and started to walk back toward the motorcycle, then stopped in his tracks and turned back to me.
“You can drive a stick, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Fox, I can drive a stick. And a tractor. And even that forklift if I had to.” My dad had made sure of that. Being a girl didn’t get you out of any chores on the small but highly functional Kent spread.
“The forklift?” Fox’s dimple popped. He looked infinitely more relaxed than he had a few minutes ago when my responses were all monosyllabic and vague.
“If I had to,” I said loftily, enjoying the way his eyes started to sparkle at my faux smugness. My trepidation about the motorcycle began to dissipate at the sight of the half smile playing on his lips. Bike or no bike, this was Fox. And I liked him.
Heather was right, I needed to stop looking for excuses and focus on the truth that was right in front of me before I screwed everything up.
“Good to know, sunshine.” Fox smoothed a few strands of hair off my forehead with his fingertip. “You can never be too prepared for a forklift emergency.” He slid his finger down my jaw and slipped it quickly across my bottom lip.
I sucked in my breath at his touch, my eyes locked on his. A moment passed, then two, before I looked away. When he looked at me that way I felt like I saw right into his head and even his heart. Typically I didn’t find pet names to be romantic, but when he called me sunshine? Let’s just say it beat "babe" any day.
* * *
I was grateful to have twenty-odd minutes alone in the truck to process how I felt about Fox and the motorcycle. True to his word, Fox stayed just ahead of me for the drive home. In spite of myself I admired the way he handled the big bike – assertive yet smooth, like it was something alive under him that only he could control.
When we reached the diner and pulled around to the back entrance of Fox’s apartment, I hadn’t changed my mind about the motorcycle itself, but I did remember exactly why I was so infatuated with the man riding it. Fox made life seem accessible, even ideas that I would normally be afraid of or at least apprehensive about. He was rock solid and level headed, two things I greatly admired. I didn’t like motorcycles, no. But I trusted Fox.
I had to smile when I caught sight of his face after he pulled off his helmet. He seemed exhilarated, relaxed, and most of all, happy. It was a good look on him. I hopped down from the truck and came around to help him as he started to unload the boxes and crates from the bed.
“I can do all this,” Fox insisted. “Go inside if you want, I’ll drive you home when I’m done.” His voice still sounded a bit guarded, like he was remembering our strangely stilted conversation at the warehouse.
I put my hand on his forearm, effectively halting his movements. He turned to me, his brow creased into a questioning look.
“I’m sorry about my reaction to your motorcycle,” I said, putting as much sincerity as I could into my words. “This wasn’t what I was expecting when you told me you had things to pick up, and I was a little unnerved by it.”
He nodded and started to speak. “I’m–”
“Wait,” I said, moving my hand from his arm to lay a palm on his chest. “It scares me,” I admitted, focusing on my hand where it rested. “It’s none of my business, but it scares me.” I slid my eyes up to his and was surprised to see emotion burning there. “Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Fox seemed at a loss for words. He put his hand over mine and held it tightly to his chest. My body began to relax from his warmth, and I leaned in slightly, wanting to be even closer.
“I promise,” he said finally.
Those two words had never meant much to me unless they came from Heather or a blood relative, but I took Fox’s statement as truth. “Okay.”
I disentangled myself slowly from our half-embrace and reached for what I hoped would be a light box, intending to carry it upstairs.
“Shit,” I grunted, earning a chuckle from Fox. “What’s in this? Bricks?”
“Close,” he grinned. “Books.” He grabbed the box from me, stacked another on top, and tossed me a big duffel that must’ve been filled with bedding or clothes.
Books.
That’s right, Fox was a reader. I’d almost forgotten in the wake of MotorcycleGate. I followed him up the stairs quickly, my curiosity piqued. Not many people had large book collections on shelves these days, with the e-reader being so popular, but I’d kept all my favorites in their paper and ink form for nostalgia’s sake. That, and the fact that my e-reader was a first generation that wasn’t always reliable, like much of the technology in my life.
Fox switched on the light in the apartment and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but I blinked again because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The rooms were completely transformed – fresh paint, new fixtures, and were those hardwood floors? The tiny, formerly dated flat was nearly unrecognizable.
“Fox!” I exclaimed. “This looks amazing.”
He set down the boxes of books on the small breakfast bar and surveyed the space, looking satisfied. “It needed a few things. Your dad gave me a free hand.”
I dropped the duffle I was holding and walked through the cozy living room into the equally small bedroom. Sunlight streamed in from the western window, highlighting the crisp white comforter on the platform bed and the gleaming new floors. Last time I saw this room it had been piled high with files of old receipts and produce orders. I couldn’t believe what a difference Fox made in such a short span of time.
Well… Couldn’t I? He’d made the same difference on me. I spun around and headed back into the front living area. Fox had opened the boxes of books and was beginning to place them on the empty bookshelf tucked into the corner. I quickly scanned the titles and authors as he arranged them.
Vonnegut, Dostoyevsky, and a little Shakespeare. Tolstoy’s
War and Peace
, which I expected. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s
One Hundred Years of Solitude
, which I did not expect but should have. A small collection of poetry, including Whitman and Frost. Some Christopher Moore, which made sense, and a few political autobiographies. Hunter S. Thompson, John Updike, Faulkner. Books about war, history, and fire. A Smokejumper’s memoir and a few on survival. It reminded me that riding the motorcycle was in no way the most dangerous thing Fox had ever done.
Pushing that thought from my head quickly, I held up a worn copy of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
. “Favorite of yours?” I asked with a smile, noting the tattered cover.
Fox looked over and flashed me his dimple. “Gotta love Twain.”
“I might have to raid your collection,” I mused, picking through the remaining titles in the last box. “You have quite a few I haven’t read.”
“Be my guest,” Fox said, shelving what looked to be an early edition of London’s
The Call of the Wild.
I loved that he had the perfect mixture of adolescent favorites, classics, and mature, masculine nonfiction.
Silently, we finished arranging the books together. I was acutely aware of Fox beside me, like always, but in his apartment, his personal space, it seemed even more intimate. When Fox ran outside to bring up more boxes, I sat down heavily on the futon he had functioning as a living room couch. Looking through Fox’s books was the best insight I’d had to him so far. It confirmed that he was just as multi-faceted and interesting as I’d thought. Maybe too much for my own good, especially if he wasn’t going to be here long.
But neither was I
, I reminded myself. I had an exit strategy already in place.
Take one day at a time and keep your eye on the prize
. Fox had his stuff shipped here, which meant something, for now anyway.