Page 52 of Property of Thrasher
“Steady,” Thrasher said. “Nothing on fire this week.”
“Good,” Tiny said, and his hand skimmed Lyric’s back where her dress dipped, the kind of touch that was more about him grounding himself than checking on her. I recognized the move. I felt it mirrored in the way Thrasher’s thumb traced my knuckles again.
“Shared with some, but I’ll announce to them all next church, Lyric is mine.”
Thrasher nodded. I waited with baited breath for him to share that I belonged too. Only it didn’t come. I pushed back the hurt I felt.
Lyric’s mouth trembled in that happy way it does. “I keep being scared I’m going to ruin it.”
“You can’t ruin a thing by living inside it honestly,” I said before I thought about whether it was true. It felt true. Thrasher’s hand held mine like a period at the end of the sentence.
At some point, Thrasher brought up a fall festival one town over—fried dough, terrible cover bands, a pie contest that got vicious. “Elaina used to make me go because there was a booth where you could smash old plates with a hammer for a dollar,” he said, and I heard the twist of affection under it like a ribbon.
Lyric lit up. “I love that idea! The smashing. It’s cathartic.”
Tiny gave her a sideways look. “You need to smash something, you tell me.”
“I will,” she said with a grin.
The talk bumped to plans. Maybe we’d go. Maybe we’d ride out early, park behind the firehouse where it’s easier to slip out. I tried to picture walking down a row of tents and not feeling watched. The picture didn’t hurt.
The door opened again, and two locals came in—the kind who wear work boots and look like they were born with poker faces. One of them clocked the patches, eyes flicking fast to our table, and took a table away from us instead of at the bar. It wasn’t hostile, but it was wary. I felt it. The old reflex in me tried to jump to hypervigilance.
Thrasher’s hand squeezed mine once, twice. The pressure said what he didn’t: I see it too, you’re fine. My shoulder went down half an inch. He didn’t take his hand away when the men looked again and realized we weren’t looking back. Tension wandered off like a dog that hadn’t been fed.
We ate until we were full in that easy, satisfied way that settles in your bones. The guys paid in that quiet way men like them do—no theater, just check taken, bills put down, a nod to the waitress that meant “we appreciate you.” On the way out, the waitress called Lyric “pretty girl” and told me to come back for the peach cobbler next time because “we only have it when Brenda’s in the kitchen and she’s in a mood today, honey.”
I promised I would. Being relaxed in town like this was a new feeling. Where we came from everywhere had someone watching and waiting for you to mess up.
Outside, evening had slid into the sweet spot: sky purple at the edges, air not yet sticky again. The crickets had the lot. A moth banged itself against the neon OPEN sign like it believed in it. Tiny’s truck sat two spaces over from Thrasher’s bike. His hand found Lyric’s. They looked like a picture I wanted to keep in my mind and heart forever.
“Text me later,” Lyric said, tugging me in for a fast hug. “Tell me what the wind felt like.”
“Like breathing all the way down,” I said, which made her smile and press her forehead briefly to mine in that old childhood gesture we fell back into when words were too small.
Tiny gave Thrasher a look I assumed was about logistics and men things. It looked a little like respect, a little like the gratitude of someone who had more to lose these days and liked that his friend saw it. Thrasher dipped his chin once. That was enough for both of them.
We split—truck one way, bike the other. Thrasher took my helmet and settled it on me himself, securing the strap with a slow tug. He didn’t overdo the tenderness, but he didn’t miss. When I climbed on behind him, I tucked in like I’d been born that way. My cheek found its place between his shoulders. He patted my hands where they met at his middle before he twisted the throttle.
The road home wasn’t straight. He chose turns on purpose. The first mile, my smile kept catching me off guard. It would rise without permission and sit there inside the helmet where no one could see it but me. The night air slipped under my shirt and cooled the sweat at the small of my back. I was hyperaware of his hand when he relaxed it briefly from the grip to tap the back of my fingers: you still with me? Yes. Always yes.
We swung through a stretch where the pines opened and the moon threw a soft sheet over everything. I tightened my arms—just a little—and felt him answer by shifting his weight to match mine exactly, like a partner who knew every step of a dance and still let me lead a beat when I needed to.
When we rolled into the hotel lot, it felt too soon and just right at the same time. He cut the engine, and the ordinary noises jumped back into existence—the rattle of a cart, the slam of a door, somebody laughing two buildings over. He took my helmet off and set it on the seat, then left his hand at the back of my head for a second longer than necessary. The heel of his palm warmed the spot he always warms.
“Good?” he asked.
“Really good,” I said, and the words were too small, but he caught the rest in my face. The hurt of not having him tell Tiny I was his had vanished but knowing he was going to leave me left those insecurities creeping in.
I wasn’t ready to go inside. The night felt like a page I wanted to reread. “Come up?” I asked, and felt the small leap in my chest when he didn’t hesitate.
“Not tonight, baby.”
I hid my disappointment, leaned in and gave him a soft kiss before walking away fighting back tears from falling.
Inside the building, I was holding it together until she came down the hall.
“Oh, you’re back. That’s why he text me.” Maria shared and I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Thrasher didn’t tell you. Tonight’s my night.”
