She figured she was about to find out.
There was a moment where she grappled with her options, determining whether to lean first （and therefore subject herself, tits up, to instant intimacy） or to feel around the space preemptively, exploring the range of their combined edges before they met. She opted for the latter, placing her palms flat on his waist, first, and then permitting her arms to circle him. Finding that she was too far away to secure herself properly, Regan slid her hips forward on the bike, her legs cradling the outer edges of his thighs. He twisted around, glancing at her again.
“Ready?” he asked.
Only a logistical question, she reminded herself.
“Yes,” she said.
He smelled like leather, she confirmed, and also something low and vaguely musky, plus a hint of sea breeze-adjacent laundry detergent. She took him in sense by sense: he felt certain, smelled permanent, sounded firm. The back of his neck was a travesty of wayward curls; someone needed to cut it. Wrapped around him like this, there was no mistaking the sharp breath he took as she locked her arms in place, waiting.
He wasn’t an unsafe driver. He drove like he moved, like he thought, with evidence of calculation. For someone who paid attention to so little of his surroundings, he was extraordinarily careful on a bike, glancing around for obstacles with near paranoia. For Regan’s part, once she’d dismissed her concerns about her hair, she could see why he preferred it. The lack of four doors and a steel frame around her altered her perception of her environment, freeing a new-old restlessness the further they and she began to blend. Regan felt some second self slip out from the cavity of her chest to revel in it, a pair of alternate arms tightening around Aldo’s waist to whisper: Faster, faster, faster.
He didn’t take her far, stopping at a diner somewhere in the southernmost portion of the Loop. The motions from there—her handing him the backpack, him holding the door for her to enter—were silent and vaguely awkward. Her feet hit the pavement with disappointment, bemoaning the indignity of being made to walk.
“What’s good here?” she asked him.
“Everything,” he said, “depending on your mood.”
A logistical question, she reminded herself.
“Sweet?” she said.
“Cake,” he suggested, gesturing to the glass displays of chocolate and red velvet. She laughed, for propriety’s sake.
“Isn’t it a little early for cake? Or late?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s 4:30,” he said. “Kind of between meals, isn’t it?”
When the waitress came around, seeming to recognize him, Aldo gestured to Regan.
“The red velvet cake, please,” she said.
“The usual for you?” the waitress asked Aldo, who nodded.
“Yes, please.”
The waitress gave him a motherly wink and disappeared.
Regan shifted, seeking out a comfortable position in the booth, and Aldo looked up at her from his glass of water.
“You could have just called,” he noted. “Or texted.”
“I thought it was fairer this way,” she said. “Since you watched me work.”
He seemed to find that an acceptable answer.
（Unrelatedly, the way he was looking at her made her throat itch. Like she needed to cough something up from the depths of it.） “I’m not sure how to talk to you without it being, you know. A conversation,” she said.
“We don’t have to talk.” He shrugged, leaning back in the booth. “Silence is fine with me.”
“Okay.” She supposed that was a relief, in some way. She’d done a lot of talking that day, and almost none of it had been helpful.
（“Much as I love being spared a weekend with your parents,” Marc had said to her that morning, “do I need to worry about you with this Aldo guy?”
Part of her had resented that he wasn’t already worried.
“Of course not,” she’d said. “He’s my friend. Plus come on, you’ve met him—it’ll be hilarious.”
“Ah, I see.” It was that easy; Marc had chuckled, shaking his head, not needing to question her further. “There she is. Queen of chaos.”
Chaos for chaos’ sake. Regan’s staple, and what made her such a fucking laugh.
“So you don’t mind?” she’d confirmed, and Marc had shrugged.
“We both know you’re happiest when you’re causing a scene,” he said, turning back to the French press and letting that be that. It wasn’t conflicted, and it certainly wasn’t dramatic; he’d already seen every shade of Regan’s highs and lows. Sometimes she was a marvel, brilliant, creative, witty; sometimes merely predictable, spoiled, manic, vain. It was never particularly cruel, but it was always honest. She loved Marc for his honesty. She was grateful, she reminded herself, for his candor.） The cake arrived, a pile of whipped cream dousing the plate beside layers of cream cheese frosting. Regan lathered the fork in both, embracing the absurdity of excess （was anything more needlessly palatial than a diner?） and sliding it gluttonously into her mouth. It was rich, as velvety as its name suggested. The act of choosing it felt luxurious, needlessly extravagant in a reassuring way, and Regan slid down in the booth with satisfaction, her knee bumping into Aldo’s.