Page 38 of The Fix-Up

“Whose motorcycle is in the carport?” I asked in way of greeting.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” he said. “So many stars. You don’t see this many in the city.”

“Rule number five: no motorcycles. I don’t want Oliver around them.”

He gave me a sharp look, made a little ghoulish in the flickering light from the campfire. Over his long-sleeved, navy t-shirt, he had a fleece vest. Practical, sturdy hiking books and jeans rounded out the outfit. He looked like the cover model for a magazine probably calledCamping Attire Monthly.

“What’s wrong with a motorcycle?”

“They’re dangerous.”

He scoffed. “They’re perfectly safe.”

“Is that thing even yours? There’s no way you ride a motorcycle.”

“Yes, it’s mine and what does that mean?” He sounded more than a little annoyed.

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type am I, then?” He sat in a camping chair, stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles.

“The kind who remembers to change the batteries on your fire alarms every year whether they need it or not. I bet you get your car oil changed every three months to the day. You never remove the tags from your pillows.”

“Yes, yes, and sometimes I do, if I’m feeling rebellious.”

“You know what I mean,” I said.

“I wear a helmet when I ride and follow all the traffic rules.” He pointed at the empty camping chair. “You can sit.”

I looked down my nose at him. “No, thank you. I didn’t come for a visit. I just wanted to know if I’m going to get a call they had to scrape you off the highway one day soon.”

“Should I be concerned how many ways you’ve imagined my death?” he said and rested his folded hands across his stomach. “I know how to ride. Survived every time I’ve done it.”

“Oh, okay.” I rolled my eyes. “That makes it totally safe then.”

His head tilted to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re not going to be satisfied with any answer I give you?”

“I don’t know. A moment of self-awareness. A realization that your heart might not be as dead as you think it is?”

“Who said my heart was dead? My heart is fine.”

I crossed my arms. “Sure.”

Both of us went silent. In the quiet of the moment, punctuated only by the sound of the crackling campfire, our eyes met. My skin prickled, and not from the cold. I resisted the urge to fidget. For one suspended moment, I wanted to know everything going on behind those eyes. What was he thinking about?

“The motorcycle is—was—my stepdad’s,” Gill said, quiet and low, breaking the silence. “A friend had a trailer and dropped it off for me. I’m selling it.”

“Oh.” I blinked, losing some of my bluster. “Was? Did your stepdad…?”

“He passed in November.”

That was just three months ago. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”

Gil’s smile was small and sad. It slid into my heart like a warm knife in butter. “Yeah, we were close.”

His gaze fixed on the flickering fire in front of us, staring off into memories I couldn’t see. For a minute, I think he forgot where he was completely. Or that I was right next to him.

It gave me time to study him in the firelight. The dark hair not quite as neat and tidy at the end of the day, the merest hint of a five o’clock shadow, the way his mouth naturally turned down in the corners and gave him a resting frown face.

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