Page 169 of Rosetti Family New York
I nod. “Morning.”
Her hair is loose, a dark mess around her shoulders. Her eyes are red. She rubs her hands on her jeans, like she doesn’t know what to do with them. They land on the table, then jerk away.
“I, uh, didn’t mean to—” she starts. “Last night, I—”
I cut her off. I’m not good at this kind of thing. “Want some coffee?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Sure.”
I pour her a cup. Her fingers brush mine when she takes it. I expect her to flinch, to pull back, but she doesn’t. Her hands are steady. A little scar on her left one is white against her skin.
“I should go,” she says after a moment. She looks at me, and there’s grief written all over her.
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
I take another sip of my coffee. She’s not scared of me. She should be, but she isn’t.
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll take you home.”
She looks like she’s going to argue, but she doesn’t. I can see her deciding, see her shoulders relaxing. She doesn’t trust easily, but she trusts me.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”
I set my mug down and head for the stairs. I feel her eyes on my back the whole way. I change fast, shrugging on a leather jacket and grabbing my helmet.
When I get back to the kitchen, she’s at the window, watching the world go by. It’s quiet. Cold. She looks small, like she’s folding into herself. She doesn’t hear me right away, and I catch myself watching her.
She turns when I’m a few feet away.
“You ride?” she asks, looking at the helmet in my hand.
“Yeah. You ever been on a bike before?”
She shakes her head. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear? Maybe. But not of me.
“I’m sure I’ll survive.”
“Got an address for me?”
She bites her lip. I wonder if she’s going to change her mind, then she tells me: “South 4th, in Williamsburg.”
I nod. “You ready?”
She puts on a brave face. “I think so.”
“Let’s go.”
We head for the door, and I notice she’s wearing my hoodie. She must have grabbed it this morning, when she was looking for something to cover last night’s shirt. I don’t say anything. It looks good on her.
The air bites when we step outside. My bike’s parked a few feet away, looking lonely on the empty street. She stands there, eyeing it like she’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into. I hand her the helmet.
“Put this on,” I say. “And hold on tight.”
She hesitates, then slips it over her head. I get on, rev the engine, and feel her climb on behind me. Her hands are tentative on my waist.
