Amelia sees the bike and stops.
The first night she rode with me, she looked at Widowmaker like death had handlebars. Now she looks at her like a dare.
“Can I?” she asks.
“Figured.”
“Bikers always want to ride.”
“You a biker now?”
“I learned to ride from a man who is emotionally bonded to an engine named Widowmaker.”
“Don’t shame our relationship.”
Her smile curves.
Then fades a little.
She glances toward the trailer, toward August in the window pressing Throttle to the glass so the new dinosaur can watch us leave.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Liar.”
She sighs. “It’s still hard to leave him.”
“I know.”
“But it’s easier when I know he is staying somewhere that belongs to me.”
That lands.
Good and sad.
The way most true things have been with us.
I hand her the helmet.
Not Lottie’s Queen Bitch one this time. This one is new. Matte black with a tiny painted crown on the side.
She stares at it.
I stare at the bike because suddenly the gravel drive is fascinating.
“I saw it,” I say. “Thought of you.”
“You bought me a helmet with a crown?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
“Fine. It’s practical. You need to let me buy you your own motorcycle.”
Shaking her head, no, she touches the little crown with one finger. Her hair falls forward, hiding the tattoo behind her ear.