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“Only if it’s okay with your momma.”
“Can I see it, Momma? Please?”
His face is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and I know that I’m a goner already. The kid has mastered the art of being cute.
At Cora’s nod, Harrison squeals, kicking his legs until Cora puts him down. He reaches for my hand, his tiny one fitting into mine with room to spare, then he’s tugging me toward the door.
“Let’s go!”
I laugh, allowing this little boy to think he’s dragging me outside under his own power. Pushing open the screen door, he gasps.
“Momma! It’s the bird bike! Is that yours?”
“Yes, it is.”
Letting him take the lead, I almost laugh out loud when I see his mouth hanging open and his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the pipe running along the bottom.
“That’s the exhaust pipe.”
“And that?”
“The gas tank.”
“My momma has a bird on her arm just like that,” he tells me. “And that?” He points toward the back of the bike.
I’m staring at Cora when I tell him, “The fender.”
I had noticed her tattoos, and though I’ve had her naked, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of exploring her body, finding every freckle and tracing every tattoo on it. Does she really have a phoenix on her arm? Is her reason the same as mine?
Harrison is testing the word I’ve said, giggling when he says it. “Fen-der. That’s a funny word.”
“It sure is.”
He peers over his shoulder at his mom, and then back at me. “Can you take me for a ride?”
“Harrison, honey,” Cora interjects. “You’re too little to go for a ride.”
“But Momma, I’m not too little. Please, Mr. Jonas.”
“Harrison, I…” Sighing, I go down on one knee, putting us at eye level. “It’s up to your mom.”
Cora crouches down next to him, and he presses his little body against her knees. He takes her face into his little hands and pleads, “Please, Momma. I won’t ask for anything else ever again. I just want to take a ride with Mr. Jonas.”
I see the worry in her eyes. Worry I now know the cause of. As much as she wants to keep him away from bikers and motorcycles, his keen interest in both is apparent to even me.
“Can he even ride safely with you?” she asks.
“He can,” I say slowly. “I don’t have a helmet that’ll fit him, but I can take it slow.”
She considers this.
“It’s entirely up to you. I don’t mind.”
“Pleeease, Momma,” he begs.
After a moment, she relents. “Fine. But only around the block, and no speeding.” The second part is aimed at me.
