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“How would you know that?”
“Because things like this are much more obvious to the bystanders.”
Her smile calms me and makes me wanna talk more. I bite my lip, trying to suppress the emotions that rise like high tide.
“Maddy,” I say quietly, not looking at her, as I am about to say the scariest thing that ever left my mouth. I can’t explain the feelings simmering inside me, except now they are boiling, and I don’t know how to keep them from spilling over for everyone to see. I finally raise my eyes to her again. “Have you ever been in love?”
11
ARCHER
For once,it’s sunny outside. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to ride a motorcycle. I need to get out and clear my head, and I need a partner in crime.
I call Droga.
He’s been with me through the best and the worst of it. We talked several times while I was on the mainland. But I still feel anxious as my thumb hovers over the “call” button on my phone screen right under his name.
“Wanna go for a ride and share a bottle?” I ask him right away when he picks up.
It’s an invitation. Those were the code words for when we wanted to fuck off from the usual Deene crowd to some strange locations no one knew us, drink, and talk about life.
“I’m in,” he says so easily like it’s a usual weekend at Deene.
It’s afternoon when Droga rings the bell, the only person besides Doc to do so. Surfer’s tank, shorts, sneakers, and tattoos that cover his skin, painting it black and all colors of the universe. It’ll take me a while to get used to the sight.
I don’t invite him in. Instead, I lead him around the villa and open the garage doors.
“Fuck…” Droga’s eyes dart around the wide space and three sports bikes that stand there.
“Wanna remember the good old times?” I offer.
I haven’t raced with anyone on this island. These bikes haven’t been ridden by anyone but me.
“Where? On the small Ayana roads?” He walks over to one bike and inspects it, hiding his amazement, then walks over to the next one.
“Nah. The dirt road along the south coast. C’mon, Droga. It’ll be fun.”
My heart starts beating faster as I watch him walk over to the third bike, the Ducati Panigale V4 R, his favorite. I always wanted that bike back at Deene. It was Droga’s dream, but he couldn’t afford it, so I never got it not to rub it into his face. I did get it after the Change though, hoping that there would come a day like this.
“Fucker,” Droga murmurs, sending me a fake glare, then grins, swinging his leg over the seat and clutching the handlebars, measuring up to it.
“You take the Ducati. I’ll take my Streetfighter,” I say, passing him the helmet. “Go slow the first half a mile past Ayana’s southern gate. After that, when you pass the parking lot, you can take it up to a hundred. I did more than that a couple of times, but I was stupid. Just follow me.”
We drive carefully through Ayana, heads turning to look at us, the two sports bike engines making a racket, and I feel a lot of things at once. Riding side by side with Droga is like riding into the past, the memories of how many things I fucked up, the ones I got back, ups and down, the fucking roller coaster that life is, losing loved ones, gaining new friends, death, life, and everything in between.
When we leave the southern gate, we pick up speed.
I know we won’t do this often. I know every meeting with Droga will be like Christmas in July, a waterfall of emotions, a flood of memories, until, hopefully, it becomes the new normal again.
An hour later, we sit on the beach and drink whiskey straight out of the bottle. It feels like back in Mexico on our cross-country trip years ago. A time when life seemed easy and we thought we could be reckless and start all over again any day.
“Callie is not worried I’m gonna take you out and do something awful to you?” I joke.
Droga snorts loudly. “Dude, when you’re sober, you don’t have a chance. I hate to break your heart, but I’d take you down any time.”
“Maybe.” I nod, grinning.
We are getting drunk, discussing Ty and everyone else.
