“Conversation number six?” he asked bracingly.
She shook her head. “Believe me,” she said, “I learned absolutely nothing from that.”
He smiled.
“Hungry?” he asked her.
“Yes and no,” she replied, rising to her feet. “Well, yes,” she corrected herself, “but I need to tell you first that this can’t be one of the conversations.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s primarily about logistics,” she said, directing him toward the door. “I’ve decided I want you to come with me to my parents’ anniversary party.”
He froze for a second, the way he did when something wasn’t computing properly. She gestured to the handle, wordlessly suggesting he open it, and he complied with a halted motion, stepping aside to let her pass before joining her in the corridor.
“When is it?” he managed upon recovery.
She stifled a laugh. “You’re not going to ask me why I want you to go?”
“I’m focusing on logistics,” he said. “I don’t want this to be a conversation.”
“Right,” she said. An excellent point. “Well, it’s on Saturday. And you’d probably have to stay the night.”
He seemed to be struggling with something he didn’t want to ask aloud.
“You’re wondering if I’ve broken up with Marc?” she guessed, and he vigorously shook his head.
“Don’t tell me,” he said.
“Well, I’m going to talk to myself, then,” she suggested.
That earned her a nod. “Okay,” he said, and held the door again, gesturing her outside.
“Well,” Regan exhaled, “the thing is, my parents don’t like Marc, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture. I don’t want to go alone because it’s going to be horrible, but I also don’t want them questioning me about, you know, real things. My future. My plans. I thought if I brought a—” She glanced at him. “Well, not a friend. But someone. They probably won’t ask questions—so anyway, I’m just, again, thinking this out loud to myself,” she mused, tightening her coat around her as he directed her to the left, “but if I were to bring someone, they’d have to be available early Saturday morning. It’s about an hour’s drive to Naperville, and—”
“You can say that part to me,” he said. “It’s logistical.”
“Oh. Right.” She paused, noticing she’d inadvertently permitted him to walk them to the motorcycle she had yet to see in real life. “Uh. What’s this?”
“A 1969 Ducati Scrambler,” he said. “You said you were hungry.”
“They don’t have food here on campus?”
“They do,” he said, “but I don’t want it.” He handed her his helmet. “You can say no.”
She let her eyes narrow, accepting the helmet. “You know I won’t, though, don’t you?”
His smile broadened. “Can neither confirm nor deny,” he said, swinging a leg over the bike, “as that’s not a logistic.”
She climbed on after him with some degree of reluctance, though not as much as she’d expected. It wasn’t the first time a boy on a motorcycle had offered her a ride, but it was certainly the first time she’d accepted. Implicitly trusting Aldo Damiani seemed to be a matter of personal curiosity that Regan consistently lacked the energy to deny.
“Careful,” she warned him, strapping the helmet on. “Precious cargo.”
He angled his head over his shoulder. “Hold on,” he advised, and she moved to slide her arms around his ribs before stopping, noting an obstacle.
“You’re wearing a backpack.”
“Yes, and…？”
“It’s—” It’ll come between us. “It’s not comfortable.”
He rolled his shoulders back, letting the straps fall and then sliding it over to one side, offering it to her. “You want to wear it?”
It wasn’t like there was another option. “Sure.”
There was something vintage-ly charming about this, she thought. Very retro-chivalrous, and in reverse, too—her carrying his books—so it was even better. She slid his backpack on, tightening the straps to accommodate the textbook dragging her shoulders backwards, and then contemplated the slope of Aldo’s spine as he bent expectantly over his handlebars.
She wondered if he’d smell like leather.