Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I can talk.” I toe at a bolt sunk into the dock boards, paint flaking off like old memories. “Sometimes I’ll still want to scream, I think.”
“Scream on the bike,” he states like this is all normal. “Wind doesn’t judge.”
We stand in silence that doesn’t press. Just listening to the water rolling in against the dock.
“I don’t want to be scared of him,” I express, like a wish I can turn into a job. “I don’t want him to be the thing someone thinks of when they see me.”
“They won’t,” Kellum states. “They’ll think of you on a porch telling a man to leave. They’ll think of you behind a desk making a day easier for ten different people who will forget your name and still say a prayer for you because the coffee was hot and their appointment ran on time. They’ll think of you on the back of a bike, leaning in.”
I shoot him a look. “When did you get so good at speeches?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I listen.”
We stay until the knot in my chest becomes a knot in my stomach and my stomach reminds me I only had a granola bar for breakfast. We put our helmets back on, and the engine shudders awake like it missed us. The bike accepts us exactly as we are and I find comfort in the simplicity of it.
On the ride back, the wind doesn’t slap. It’s a hand on my back, steadying. I find the line of his shoulders and fit myself to it. We take a different route—little two-lanes that pretend they’re private, one tight curve that corkscrews my stomach and makes me laugh into my helmet like I’m a teenager who got away with something. He feels it; I can tell by the way his weight shifts, the way he twists the throttle another breath and then settles it again like he’s saying a million things but without words.
He parks and kills the engine. I slide off and unclip the strap. My hands don’t shake.
“You good to go back in?” he asks with real concern.
I nod. “I’m going to mail the keys as soon as I get off. Certified. First, I’m going to schedule someone’s facial and refill the mints and write ‘porch camera’ in my notebook and not think about him if I can help it for the rest of the day.”
“Good plan.”
I glance down at his gloved hands. “Kellum?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for letting me decide. Not just doing it for me.”
He tips his chin. “First mate, remember.”
“And for the ride.”
“Anytime, darlin’.” He taps my helmet with a knuckle. “Text me a dot if you need me.”
I grin. “A dot.”
He waits until I’m inside and Trina is behind me at the desk making a face that says she’s got me. I stand for one extra breath, palm on the cool top of the counter, feeling steadier than I did an hour ago.
I’m not trash. I’m not a sinner. I’m not in need of someone’s forgiveness because I haven’t done wrong. I’m the one holding the wheel. And for once, the water looks calm enough to leave the harbor and still wild enough to be unexpected.
By five, I’m outside pretending to check a hangnail and actually scanning for him. When the rumble threads into the day, I feel that now-familiar drop in my shoulders like a heavy bag put down. He parks, kicks the stand, holds the helmet out. Our hands brush. It feels less like a movie and more like clockwork. Beautiful, reliable, and safe.
“Yo captain,” he says, low. “Where to?”
“Home,” I reply, because I want a porch that smells like ash and safety and maybe cinnamon if he’s got that gum in his pocket. “But the long way.”
“Long way it is.”
We take two wrong turns that aren’t actually wrong to get there. I count mailbox flags—down, up, up, down—until I’m out of breath from a laugh I didn’t expect.
At the house, the porch is just a porch. No car. No man. Just two shadows on the rail where a pair of moths decided to die dramatic last night. I sweep them off without ceremony.
Inside, the air smells like coffee and dish soap and us. I set my tote on the chair, pull out the notebook, and flip to the page where I wrote today’s plan. I add certified mailed keys with a box and then check it like I’m getting extra credit. I add call county about harassment file because I want the words paper trail to be a spell against future anxiety.
Kellum watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, quiet. “Good day,” he says finally as a statement not a question.
“Good day,” I echo, meaning it in my bones.
He cooks without comment. I slice tomatoes like I’m auditioning for a commercial where women are allowed to be competent in kitchens without being smarmy about it. We eat sitting across from each other at the table like it’s something we have done for years. It’s perfect.