Page 2 of My Older Biker

"Don't know. Depends on what Cain finds."

"Great." She shoves her feet into sneakers by the door without untying them. "So I'm stuck with you for an indefinite amount of time. This should be comfortable."

I lock her door behind us and follow her down the stairs. She throws the bag in the saddlebag on my bike without asking how to do it. She's been around bikes her entire life.

"You ever ridden?" I ask.

"Not in a few months."

She climbs on behind me without waiting for help, and I feel the weight of her thighs against mine. The press of her body close enough that when I shift my weight hers shifts too.

I kick the bike into gear and pull onto the street.

The ride to my place is fifteen minutes. Every one of them I'm aware of her. The way her hands rest on my waist. Light pressure. Not holding on for safety. Just there. Every time I shift gears my hand comes close enough to her bare thigh that I feel the heat of her skin without touching it.

My house is three miles outside Bloomfield on Old Mill Road. Single story. Brick. I bought it eight years ago when I got tired of living at the clubhouse. I park in the driveway and kill the engine.

Zoe climbs off first, pulls her bag from the saddlebag and stands there waiting while I lock the bike. Inside I flip lights on as I go. Living room. Kitchen. She follows me. Sets her bag by the door like she might not stay.

"Guest room is down the hall," I say. "Second door. Bathroom's across from it."

"You really don’t know how long I have to stay here?"

"Could be tonight. Could be a week."

She drops onto my couch and leans back. Looks at me like she's deciding something.

"So, I'm stuck here with you," she says. "And you've spent a whole fucking year avoiding being in the same room with me. This should be fun."

The directness catches me off guard. No preamble, just the truth said out loud.

"I haven't been avoiding you," I say.

She laughs. "Dean. You left Thanksgiving dinner the year I turned nineteen because I sat next to you. You stopped coming to Sunday dinners at Dad's unless you confirmed I wouldn't be there. You haven't been in the same room as me for longer than ten minutes in a long time. So, either I did something that pissed you off, or there's another reason."

I don't answer. Don't have a lie ready that would hold up.

"Which is it?" she asks.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what?"

I walk to the kitchen. Put distance between us because the way she's looking at me is making it hard to think. I open the fridge and pull out a beer I don't want.

"You want something," I say.

"An answer."

I close the fridge. Turn to face her, and she's still on the couch. Arms crossed. Waiting.

"I needed distance," I say.

"Why?"

"Because you were nineteen and I was noticing things I had no business noticing."

She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just looks at me like she's processing what I just said and deciding what to do with it. Then she stands, walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet like she's been here before. Pulls out a mug and pours herself coffee from the pot I made this morning and forgot about.