Page 2 of Patch Perfect

Roan laughs, not just a polite laugh but a real, surprised one. And for some reason I can’t explain, I want to hear it again.

When the wagon hits the familiar rut, I brace my hand against the rail. Roan lifts his arm behind my back, but he doesn’t touch me. “You knew that was coming,” he says.

“I know every bump in this field.” I glance at his hand, hovering. “You can put your arm down. I won't break.”

“I know.” He rests his arm on the seat behind me, still leaving me room to decide. “I didn't want you to fall.”

We stare into each other’s eyes, neither of us saying a word. It isn’t until the wagon stops that I realize we are at the bonfire.

“Looks like this is where we get off,” I finally say.

“Looks like it.” Roan jumps off the wagon with the ease of someone well over six feet tall, then rests his hands on my waist to help me down. As he lowers me to the ground, our bodies brush. I can still feel the heat of his body even after he steps back.

“Roan.” A voice from somewhere beside us says. “There you are. The guys and I have been looking all over for you.”

I glance over my shoulder and spot four guys in matching leather jackets, each wearing a patch that reads Iron Saints. “Looks like your friends have arrived.”

“Kate, I,” he starts to say, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

“Thanks for helping with the fog machine and the wagon ride, but I have to get back to work now.” I walk away before he can say anything, reminding myself I’m the help and he’s a paying customer. But that doesn’t stop me from sneaking glances at him whenever I can, only to find he’s already watching me.

two

Roan

As I drive home, I catch the scent of apple cider and smoke on my jacket. It makes me feel like something in my life has shifted, even if only a bit. I went to Patch Perfect because the guys wanted to see if it would work for our kids’ fall party on Saturday. I thought we’d see some pumpkins and have a quick planning talk. Instead, I met a woman running a fog machine who looked at me as if what I said really mattered.

I park my bike outside my small house and shut off the engine. The quiet settles in fast—most nights, I enjoy it. But tonight, I hear wagon wheels and Kate’s laughter, and I remember I promised to return. I tell people I’m just being careful. Sometimes that’s true, but other times it’s easier than admitting I’m lonely. My house is cozy, and the shop keeps me busy, but some nights I still cook for two and have leftovers for days. I don’t expect Kate to fix what I couldn’t fix myself. I like my life. But I can’t help wondering if I’m ready for more.

For years, I’ve kept life simple—working at the motorcycle shop, riding with the club, and eating dinner at home. I’m good with engines because if you pay attention, they show you what’s wrong. People are harder to understand. But Kate asked me to sit with her, and I did. Maybe listening helps with people, too.

I pull out my phone, but I don’t have her number. I could ask one of the guys for the event contact at Patch Perfect, but that feels like moving too fast before she’s ready. So I put my phone away. Instead, I tell myself I can wait until Saturday to see Kate again at the children’s event. But I only make it to Thursday before I end up back at Patch Perfect.

When Thursday morning rolls around, I think about Kate and the wagon ride from last Thursday night. Will another customer have her attention tonight the way I did last week? Will she sit next to them and tell them about Michelangelo? Is the smoke machine still cooperating?

The thoughts keep coming all day until I find myself in the shower, putting on my best button-up shirt under my leather jacket, then hopping on my bike and heading to Patch Perfect for the adults-only night.

I park by the fence and take off my helmet. A couple walks along the lanterns toward the tasting station. Nearby, a tractor idles. I see Kate at the ticket booth, turning a paper sign toward the path. My heart races. She looks up, as if she can feel me watching.

She’s not smiling yet, but I walk over anyway. My chest tightens as I remember leaving without her number. The club taught me to show up when I say I will. Kate has no reason to trust me, and that makes this walk across the lot feel more important than any long ride I’ve ever led. And for the first time in my life, I feel like staying rather than running away.

three

Kate

As Roan walks toward my booth, I forget what my sign says. All week, I’ve replayed how quickly I left him at the bonfire. The four guys in Iron Saints jackets didn’t do anything wrong. I was just embarrassed by how much I wanted Roan to stay. I told myself I wouldn’t look for him tonight. But when I heard his motorcycle in the lot, I knew it was him before I even turned around.

“Your fog machine survived,” he says, stopping on the opposite side of the booth.

“It misses its favorite mechanic.” I set the sign down. The joke helps steady me. Now that he’s here, I can stop rehearsing everything I wanted to say last week.

“I wanted to ask you out before I left,” he says, touching the edge of his ticket. “Would you ride with me tonight?”

I show him the ticket I bought for myself. “I hoped you’d come back.” Relief crosses his face, and it hurts a little to realize he might have spent the week doubting me, too. I promise myself to be more honest with him from now on. I don’t add that I arranged with Tom, the tractor driver, that there would be only two passengers on the first wagon ride of the night—just in case Roan showed up.

“I kept thinking about Michelangelo,” he says.

“The goat had that effect on people.” I laugh, remembering how he listened to every silly detail on our first ride. Roan holds out his palm, waiting. This time, I reach out and take his hand. His fingers close around mine as a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. I tell myself it’s the dry autumn air that caused the reaction, but my heart knows better.