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She swings a leg over the back of the bike in a move that looks like it came from a ballet. “I have a scooter back in LA. I call him Arnie.” She gives the name her best Schwarzenegger pronunciation.
“You just made that up, didn’t you?”
“No, I really have a scooter.”
“But does it have a cool nickname?”
“Are nicknames for vehicles really cool?” She winks at me in the mirror, then pulls her visor down. Settling on the seat, she grips my belt on either side. “Ready.”
I lower my own visor and start the bike. The engine rumbles against my legs, and I turn us toward the road. We pull onto the street, then stop at the highway. At a break in the steady traffic, I roll onto the road and twist the throttle. When we hit the edge of town, where the speed limit changes to fifty-five, I lean forward. Nica leans with me, her body against my leather-clad back, her helmet brushing my shoulders, and we blast off.
A few miles out of town, we turn down a dusty Forest Service Road. This is one of my favorite rides in the local area, so I know it well. I slalom around the potholes in the gravel, keeping the bike at a safe pace. Nica resettles her grip on my belt and sits back. I miss the pressure of her body against mine.
We roar along, cutting through the slashes of shadow and sunlight. Dust billows up in our wake, but we’re moving fast enough to evade it. We crest a rise, leaving the trees behind. As I slow to a stop, Nica gasps behind me. “What a view!”
We stand on a road cut across the shoulder of the mountainside. A few trees grow on the slope below, clinging to the steep land, but they’re new growth, so they don’t block the view. The valley stretches out before us, with Rotheberg tiny in the distance. A small plane takes off from the airstrip on the east end of town. Cars inch down the main road, stopping for pedestrians at almost every corner. A giant purple tube man flutters and blows beside the gas station, barely big enough to pick out.
Beyond town, the land flattens into the high desert that stretches to the Ochoco Mountains beyond Prineville. Behind us, the hills rise steeply, eventually becoming the Three Sisters Mountains. We can’t see the peaks from here, but it’s cooler than in town, and the fresh air brings the scent of resin, vanilla, and the pleasant mustiness of decaying foliage.
Nica climbs off the bike. I instinctively reach out to grab her arm as she approaches the abrupt edge of the road, but she stops before leaving the gravel surface. Taking a deep breath, she turns slowly. “This is magnificent.”
I just nod in response.
After a few minutes, she pulls out her phone and snaps a few pictures. “You don’t mind if I do a quick vid, do you?”
“That’s why we came out here, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. But wow. Next time I’m coming just because—” She makes a helpless gesture at the town. “It really puts you in your place, doesn’t it? I mean—look how small we are compared with all this! And how important we think we are.”
“You probably don’t want to say that on your video.”
She giggles. “Maybe not. My feed is not really about deep meaning.” A shadow crosses her face, then disappears. She glances at me, then looks away. “This is really stupid for an actress, but would you mind riding on ahead? I feel so self-conscious…”
My heart drops a little. Does she not trust me? “I guess I understand that. I couldn’t make videos with anyone watching. I don’t have a problem with the musical—that’s someone else’s script. But putting my own ideas out there? Yikes.”
“No, it’s not that. I film in front of people all the time.” She turns a delightful shade of pink. “For some reason, I can’t do it in front of you.”
Do I make her nervous? Only me? Surely that’s a good sign? Pulling off my helmet, I climb off the bike. “I’ll push it, so you don’t get a cloud of dust. Gimme your helmet.” I hang mine from the handlebar and reach for hers.
“No, I need it for the shot.” She waves her fingers in a “get on with it” motion. Then she tucks the helmet under one arm and starts swiping on her phone.
As I roll the bike away, I hear her muttering. I’m not quite out of earshot when she starts talking about where she is. I glance over my shoulder. She stands with her back to the view. One hand holds the camera at a high angle, the other cradles the helmet. She starts to turn, so I resume pushing the bike away, not wanting her to catch me watching.
Ahead, the hillside flattens, and trees grow up around the road again. I stop in the shade of the first pine and kick the stand down. Unzipping my jacket, I settle against the bike to watch Nica. Her voice carries to me on the breeze, but I can only pick out a word or two. She turns back and forth, pausing in front of the valley again, then rotating so the hills behind come into view. As she works, she moves a little closer to the steep drop off.
“Watch the edge!” I run toward her, hands outstretched, jacket flapping.
She turns at my yell, her shoe slipping in the gravel. She looks at her foot and leaps back in alarm before I reach her. Then she turns the camera on me.
I slow to a stop.
“No, keep running!” She circles one hand while holding the other at arm’s length with the phone pointing at me.
I close my eyes for a second, but when I open them, she’s making a “come on” gesture with her empty hand. Shaking my head a bit, I jog toward her.
“No—look alarmed!” She takes a half-step closer to the edge of the road. “Like I’m going to fall to my doom.”
At the words, I imagine her tumbling down the hillside. Ice water surges down my spine, and my feet pick up speed. I must make an acceptably alarmed face because she stops filming before I reach her.
