When Kh?i’s exit approached, she turned on her right blinker, but before she could switch lanes, a silver car coming from the other direction skidded to a halt on the shoulder. Tires squealed and smoke rose off the blacktop. It looked alarmingly like Kh?i’s car, and when the door opened, a man shot out who couldn’t be anyone but Kh?i himself.
Over the roar of the motorcycle engine, she heard him shout, “Stop. Get off. Get off right now.”
Her heart jumped into her throat, and her mouth went cotton dry. Was it the police? What kind of trouble could she be in? She slowed down and pulled over next to the center divide like he’d done.
He sprinted toward her. “Get off the bike. Hurry.”
As soon as he came close enough for her to register the terror on his usually calm face, she started shaking. There had to be something wrong with the motorcycle. Was it going to explode?
She worked at the kickstand with a trembling foot, but before she’d managed to prop the bike up, Kh?i grabbed her by her upper arms and manually lifted her off the seat. The motorcycle crashed to its side, sending her things all over the rocks and scraggly grass.
His hair stood up in wild patches, and his face was a mask of fury. She’d never imagined he could be this angry. Without pausing to take breaths, he said, “Why did you take the bike why did you ride it I never said you could ride it.”
Her shaking worsened to the point where she couldn’t move. “S-sorry. I just went—”
He steered her across the grass toward his car. “Let’s go.”
“But I bought food. It fell all over. And the motorcycle. Someone will take it. I’ll bring it back—”
“Stay. Away. From. It,” he bit out.
Once she got into the car, he yanked the seat belt over her and buckled it, giving it a hard tug to make sure it was tight.
She flinched when he slammed the door shut, and after he marched around and threw himself into his seat, she cleared her throat and said, “My handbag. My money. It’s over there, and I need—”
He leapt out of the car and crossed the divide to crouch beside the motorcycle, but instead of unfastening her purse from the rack, he pressed a fist to his forehead and stayed that way for several long moments. Cars sped by. One slowed down and then accelerated off. Another driver cranked his window down and asked if help was needed.
Kh?i shook his head and called out in a terse tone, “No, thank you.” As the car drove away, he reached over, twisted the key out of the motorcycle’s ignition, and pocketed it. Then he got her purse and returned to the car.
The drive back to his place took two minutes. Esme knew because she spent the entire time watching the clock and waiting for him to speak, but he never did. The garage was empty, but he parked on the curb like usual.
She followed him to the front door, unsure what to say or what to do. When he unlocked the door, she went inside and took her shoes off, expecting him to do the same, but he turned around without a word and started walking down the street. To get the motorcycle, she realized.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.
No response. He simply continued walking, shoulders square and back straight, looking like an assassin out on his last mission.
She watched until he disappeared around the corner and then eased the door shut and sagged against it. Her heartbeat gradually slowed down, but her face remained hot with an intense mixture of embarrassment and confusion.
She shouldn’t have taken the motorcycle without asking. But he was so easy with the rest of his things she hadn’t thought it was a big deal.
Why was it a big deal? Why did he keep it in the garage without using it? There was enough room in there for both his motorcycle and his car. Why did he park outside?