Page 62 of Forty

I count thirty-two cars before he finally makes a move and stands. Reflexively, I look up.

His face is grim. Shuttered. His jaw is tight. Every muscle in his neck is standing out.

He holds his hand out to me, palm up. And he leaves it there.

I search his face. I can’t read it at all.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home now.”

I stare at his calloused hand. It’s huge. I shouldn’t take it. I can’t trust it.

I never really tried, though, did I?

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Nevaeh. Not ever again.” He’s not pleading. He’s promising.

If I was a different woman, if I was wise or tough like Shirlene, I’d walk away and keep walking. But I’m Nevaeh Ellis. For good or ill, I can’t be anyone else.

I take his hand. It’s rough, and he squeezes too tight.

It feels good. Leaping without looking. Hope placing a wild bet against experience. It feels crazy and risky and dangerous.

It feels right.

* * *

I don’t askwhere he’s taking me. We head out of town, up toward the bluffs. I hold on around his waist, but unlike this morning, he covers one of my arms with his, twining his fingers in mine and pressing my hand to his hard belly. This is how we used to ride when we were kids.

The sun beats down on my helmet, and my scalp is itching from the sweat. I think I’m getting a sunburn. I feel wrung out and nervous, and my stomach’s growling.

I need a break. If we pull up to another social club or package goods, I’m quitting. There are no businesses up this way, though. Only renovated farmhouses and a lone rancher here and there as the elevation rises. We’ve hit the Petty’s Mills equivalent of the ‘burbs.

And then there’s a fake stone wall with a sign that readsGracy’s Corner. What are we doing where the rich folks live?

Forty lowers his speed to the posted twenty-five, and he waves at the man in the gatehouse. The gate rises before we get to it. I guess they know him.

I’ve been to Gracy’s Corner a few times in high school. The rich kids always like to party with the delinquents. We had weed. It was always clear, though, that when Daddy got home or the cops showed up, they didn’t know us.

We circle the roundabout with the pretty gazebo in the middle and head uphill. The street names are super cutesy. Ever After Court. Riverwatch Lane. Rocking Horse Circle.

Who does he know that lives here?

Finally, he turns down a cul-de-sac—Loewen Tree Terrace—and drives up to the house at the very end. It’s enormous. There’s another McMansion on one side and an empty lot on the other. There’s a view of the wooded valley that the Luckahannock runs through.

Double garage. Brick. Huge windows. Wraparound front porch. The lawn is so green and thick and perfectly cut it looks like AstroTurf. This place must be over half a million, easy.

He cuts off the engine and helps me off the bike.

“Who lives here?”

“I do.”

“Bullshit.” There’s properly mulched landscaping filled with lush green shrubs, hot pink peonies, and rhododendrons about to blossom. “Those are your flowers?”

He shrugs as he unbuckles my helmet. I swat his hand away and do it myself.

“The HOA has a guy. He’s got a company. I pay him.”

“You have an HOA?”

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