((free)): Xev Bellringer Ride

I rode your bike three hundred miles alone, and I didn’t cry once. That one feels closer to the truth.

He closes his eyes. His throat works. When he opens them again, they’re wet.

He steps out onto the walkway, shirtless, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He sees me. He freezes. xev bellringer ride

The road begins to curve—long, lazy arcs at first, then tighter switchbacks that force me to shift my weight, to press my knee into the tank, to remember his instructions. Look through the turn. Trust the bike. Don’t brake in the apex.

I should have let him go. I should have crumpled the paper, taken the dog, called my sister in Portland, and started over. I rode your bike three hundred miles alone,

He laughs, bitter and soft. “No. It just made me miss you more.”

“You left the keys.”

I should stay angry. I should get back on the bike and ride home, leave him to his ghosts and his whiskey. But my body has other plans. My body remembers the weight of his hands, the sound of his breathing, the way he used to trace the line of my collarbone when he thought I was asleep.