Chapter Five
Jake is ten minutes late for our date the next night.
My stomach is in knots while I wait for him outside of Beth’s house. Before the accident, I didn’t bat an eye if someone was late for plans we’d made. I just figured they’d run into traffic on their way or misjudged the time. Now, my anxiety expects the worst — thinking I will hear that they, too, have been involved in a life-changing accident.
I hear a motorcycle off in the distance, getting louder as it seems to get closer to the house. It turns down our road and then into Beth’s driveway.
Jake removes his helmet and smiles as he sees me. He is clad in black jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket. It melts some of myanxiety away. He’s here, he’s safe, and everything is okay…until I realize that his motorcycle is our method of transportation for the night. He didn’t mention that when he’d text me about tonight.
“Hey, Thea,” he says, before offering me the extra helmet from the back of his bike.
“Hi,” I say, finding my voice as I walk towards him. The gravel driveway crunches under my feet, my footing a bit unsteady in my sandals. The knots in my stomach tighten at the thought of riding on the back of his motorcycle.
“Can we walk?” I ask, eyeing the helmet in his gloved, outstretched hand.
“Nah,” he says, urging me to take the helmet. “It’s only, like, a five minute drive. You scared?” He smiles that wonderful smile that makes me weak in the knees.
He’s only teasing, of course, so I don’t tell him that yes, I am scared.
“We could get our steps in if we walk,” I say, a stupid attempt at a joke. I’m starting to panic and am grappling at anything.
“I’m not walking,” Jake says. He’s more assertive than I’ve seen him before. “It’s really not that far. You’ll be fine. People ride on my motorcycle all the time. Seriously, Thea, you’re not gonna die.”
“I just don’t feel comfortable,” I start, images of the car crash flooding my brain.
“Hey,” Jake says, sensing that I’m panicking.
My eyes fly open and I stare at him, smiling at me. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you. You can trust me.”
I open my mouth for a rebuttal but he stops me.
“I’m not walking,” he repeats. “So, you can either ride on the motorcycle or I guess we end the evening right here.”
I reach for the helmet reluctantly. I just want him to like me. He kicks the kickstand down and swings his leg over the bike. He comes around to help me put the helmet on. Our eyes linger on each other for a moment before he brushes my hair off of my shoulder. I shiver at the contact, goosebumps decorating my skin.
“Atta girl,” he says quietly before he turns back to the bike, motioning for me to follow him. He mounts it, steadies it, and looks at me again.
“Put your foot here,” he says, guiding me to the pillion peg, “and your arm here.” He moves my hand to his bicep. “Step up, put your weight on me, and swing your leg over.”
I do as he says and toss my leg over the side, thanking my lucky stars that I wore jeans instead of a dress. It’s an awkward movement as the bike wobbles a bit but I sit, settling against the seatrest. Jake steadies the bike and gets situated.
I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the back of his jacket and grimace. He turns the key in the ignition and the motorcycle revs back to life. The sound of it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
“Hold on tight,” he says as he starts to back down Beth’s driveway. I wrap my arms around him to hold on for dear life as he pulls out onto the main road. I shut my eyes as he quickly gathers speed and feel him dart in and out of traffic on the main road.
“Can you slow down?” I yell, my hair whipping all around me.
“What?” Jake yells back over his shoulder.
I open my eyes as he zig-zags lanes again. He’s being a reckless driver and I know how this can end. I want off of this bike before he wrecks it. My stomach rolls again as I watch Driftbay pass by in a blur.
He drives us to a less-than-picturesque little dive bar tucked away on the edge of town. There’s a wooden sign with chipped paint standing tall and proud outside and I can barely make out that we’re at The White House Tavern.
Weeds have grown up around the foundation of the tavern, looking messy and unkempt. There’s a neon sign in the dirty window that flashes ‘open’ every few seconds. Jake parks his motorcycle across the street and gently helps me off of it. I rip the helmet off of my head and smooth down my hair, grateful to be on solid ground again.
He doesn’t say a word as he leads me toward the tavern, up a rickety wooden wheelchair ramp to the front door. It’s decorated in handwritten signs displaying various specials. We walk inside, the bell above the door ringing through the silence between us. There’s mismatched diner booths lining the wall, some looking well past their prime with rips and tears in their lining. Christmas lights adorn the walls, even though it’s June. There’s a bright fluorescent light overhead and I squint as I glance around. A few tables are scattered about, with varying styles of chairs accompanying them. It doesn’t look like anyone gave the interior design of this place any thought, just threw together what they could find or salvage. The air is thickas we make our way down a couple steps into a lower-level of the bar. There’s one bartender behind the counter in the main room, a girl that looks to be around my age — young and blonde. I don’t miss how Jake seems to check her out as we pass by, noticing how he sucks his breath in and lets out a low whistle. I spot a couple of slot machines in the far-right back corner, a designated gambling corner. Their neon lights shimmer like a lighthouse to a lost ship at sea. There’s a couple of older men sitting in front of them, pressing their luck and hoping to win big.
The floorboards creak underneath my feet as Jake heads to a table in a secluded, dimly-lit corner. He pulls out his chair before he takes off his jacket and slings it over the back.
