By Any Other Name(52)

Maybe it’s as simple as this: For the first time, I let myself fully enjoy the sight of him. The way he ambles. How his thin T-shirt ripples a bit in the wind, revealing an unexpectedly defined chest, lean and muscular. How his hair shines in the sun. When his eyes find mine, I don’t look away. By the time he reaches me, I’m a little out of breath.

“Morning,” he says, his green eyes bright. “Are you ready to ride?”

“Ride what?” I say, as Bernadette rumbles around from the back of the trailer on a vintage Moto Guzzi motorcycle.

“Are you serious?” I gasp.

Tears burn my eyes. I try and fail to fight them back.

Noah’s face falls. “Was this a mistake? I thought . . . after that story about your ex, I hoped you could reclaim the motorcycle for yourself. I never meant—”

“No,” I say, blinking maniacally, “this is a very cool idea. I’m in.”

His smile is wide, relieved.

“Do you ride?” I ask, getting an interesting mental picture. He does wear the boots well.

“Once upon a time I did,” he says, “but I could use a refresher. And B happens to teach a master class.”

“There could definitely be a book in this,” I say, remembering the reason we’re here. Making sure Noah remembers, too.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “That’s the point.”

“Right.” Somehow the conversation got awkward. It got too close to me. We’re here for professional purposes, bonus points if I learn to do a thing I’ve long wanted to do.

Bernadette cuts the Moto Guzzi’s engine and climbs off the bike. “I hear you’ve got a trip to Italy coming up, Lanie,” she says.

“A possible trip to Italy,” I clarify.

“Well, just in case, Noah asked if I could get you ready to ride the Amalfi Drive. Better safe than sorry.”

We follow Bernadette inside the trailer, which is set up like a classroom, a few desks and a whiteboard at the front, posters of motorcycles on the walls. Bernadette hands us both a liability waiver and a thick packet titled Motorcycle Safety for Beginners.

“For our first couple of hours together,” she says, “I’m legally obligated to bore the pants off you. But after that, I’m going to light a fire under your ass.”

Our morning is fifty percent Bernadette plowing through the course material for the written exam—and fifty percent Noah and I locking eyes as she takes off on wild tangents and hilarious personal anecdotes.

“I learned the hard way,” she says, looking at me, “that it’s a bad idea to cry on a motorcycle. No free hands for tissues. So promise me, Lanie,” she says, wagging a finger, “that you’ll never board your bike in a sorrowful mood.”

In the afternoon, we suit up: hard-knuckled gloves, helmets, goggles. I barely recognize Noah inside all his gear, and it’s kind of a shame. We leave the trailer and walk to the far side of the lot where three customized motorcycles await.

I choose the red Honda because it’s smaller, easier to handle. Bernadette keeps her black Moto Guzzi. That leaves Noah with a sleek Suzuki street bike.

I mount the bike, grip the handlebars, and lean forward. A strange vibration passes through me. I’ve ridden hundreds of times with Ryan, but the joy of wielding a motorcycle by myself is new.

We do practice drills with the engines off. I learn how to walk the bike in neutral, how to let out the clutch smoothly, how to brake with my right hand and foot.

“Ready to fire ’em up?” Bernadette finally says.

I grin at her, at Noah.

“We’re going to ride in a smooth, straight line across the lot,” Bernadette says. “Ease the clutch out. Pick your feet up when you’ve got your balance. When you’re ready, roll that throttle.”

My engine hums. I put the bike in neutral, press the start button, and ease the clutch out, but my arms are shaking, not relaxed. I lift my feet and roll the throttle, but I roll it too fast, and the bike lunges like a mechanical bull.

My heart catches. Out of my mouth come curses I can’t decipher. I become aware that I’ve lost control, and in my panic, I grip at everything that can be gripped and slam on everything that can be slammed in hopes I’ll somehow find the brakes. I do—but too fast. My back wheel locks. The bike jerks to a stop and twists to the left. It slides out from under me and I hit the ground with the engine grinding into my left ankle. The pain is a fiery pop that spreads all the way up my leg.

A moment later, the bike lifts off me, and I see Noah’s face over mine.

“Are you all right?”

I’m so embarrassed, I’m in shock. “How do I know if I’m all right?”

He helps me up carefully, studies me from head to toe. “You shake it out, and see what hurts. Wounded pride or wounded hide.”

I’m worried about my ankle, but when I stretch it, there’s only a dull pain. My jeans are shredded and a scrape bleeds through. But he’s right, my real injury is a sprained ego.

Bernadette appears with a first aid kit. I roll up my jeans and clean the scrape.

“I panicked,” I say.

“Fear is enemy number one on a bike,” Bernadette says as Noah hands me a bottle of water. “Noah would say that’s a metaphor for something or other.” She playfully punches his arm. “You want to talk about panic, you should have seen him at sixteen.”