“It is. The cars are going much slower. Sometimes my neighbor and I sit in the driveway while the kids are playing and watch people slam on their brakes. It’s highly entertaining.”
He starts laughing. “Oh, I have no doubt.”
“Elisa brings out a pad of paper and pretends to take down license plates.”
“Maybe you should just start issuing tickets,” he says. “Have a little fun.”
“Maybe we should,” I say.
The conversation lifts my mood and I’m trying to think of something to say so Daniel won’t hang up, when he asks, “Where are you?”
“Nowhere. Just driving.” I expect him to give me a hard time for talking on my cell phone while I’m behind the wheel, but he doesn’t.
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Any plans?”
“No.”
“Do you want to go for a motorcycle ride?”
The invitation catches me off guard. But instead of wondering why Daniel is asking another man’s wife to take a ride on his motorcycle, I say sure and pull over so I can program his address into my GPS.
He lives near the edge of town, beyond our subdivision where the houses are farther apart and about twenty years older. It takes fifteen minutes to get there and when I pull up he’s sitting on the front steps of a small ranch-style home. The landscape has a rural feel to it, and Daniel’s house is bordered on one side by vibrant yellow prairie grass. I park and turn off my SUV, wondering what the hell I’m doing as I open the door and get out of the car. He stands as I approach, and when he smiles at me his whole face lights up. It looks as if he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and the dark stubble that covers his face, and the worn jeans and long-sleeved gray T-shirt he’s wearing are a radical change from the clean-shaven, uniformed police officer I’m used to; he’s absolutely smoldering.
“Hi, Claire. Hold on a second.” He goes into the house, screen door slamming behind him, and when he returns he hands me a sweatshirt. I’m wearing jeans but he points to my short-sleeved shirt and says, “You might be a little warm, but you should have something covering your arms.” I pull the sweatshirt over my head and inhale a hint of cologne and a musky, male scent that makes me think he’s worn it recently.
I follow Daniel to the garage. He pushes the bike, a Honda, out onto the driveway and shuts the door. It’s a sport bike, the kind of motorcycle where the rider has to lean forward to reach the handlebars.
“Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle before?” he asks.
“No. What do I need to do?”
“Hold on tight. Keep your feet on the pegs. Stay centered over the seat.”
He hands me a helmet and after I put it on he reaches out and buckles it, pulling it tight. It has a visor that comes all the way down and covers my face. I take the ponytail holder I’m wearing on my wrist and twist my hair into a low knot.
Daniel swings one leg over the seat, and I follow his lead. He puts his helmet on and looks over his shoulder. “Put your arms around me,” he says, and then slides his own visor down with a snap. I place my hands on his waist, feeling a ridge of muscle under his shirt. He starts the engine and grips the handlebars; his sleeves are pushed up a little and his forearms look strong, lightly tanned and corded with veins.
When we pull out onto the road he opens up the throttle and the wind slams into me. “Put your head down,” he shouts, and I do, curving my body around him, breasts pressing into his back. I hardly know him, and there’s something so intimate about holding on to him this tightly.
The winding roads lend a hypnotic feel to the ride. The trees blur as we pass by; it feels like flying. The highway narrows and becomes two lanes. Very few cars share the road with us as dusk approaches, and the hum of the motorcycle’s engine, like white noise, relaxes me. For the first time in a long time I don’t think about Chris, or the kids, or any of my myriad worries and concerns. I exist solely in the moment. Fifteen minutes later Daniel turns around, and we head back the way we came.
The sun has almost set when we pull into his driveway. He parks in front of the garage and turns off the motorcycle. My feet touch the ground, and I put my weight on one leg and swing the other off of the bike. I unbuckle the helmet and lift it off, pulling the ponytail holder out of my hair and sliding it back onto my wrist.
Daniel puts the kickstand down, takes his helmet off, and runs a hand through his hair. “Did you like that?” he asks, grinning.
I smile back at him and say, “That was great.”
He gets off the bike and I hand him my helmet. We walk toward the front steps of his house. “Do you want a beer?” he asks.
“No thanks. I don’t drink alcohol very often.”
“What do you normally drink?”
“Anything diet.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Wow, I am zero for two. How about a bottle of water?”
“Perfect,” I say.
He sets the helmets down, goes inside, and returns with the drinks. The smell of cut grass lingers in the air and fireflies light up his yard on this sultry September evening. The stars are out and it’s a perfect night for being outside. I sit down next to Daniel and take a drink of my water.
He looks over at me and smiles. “Where are the kids?”
“They’re spending the night with my parents. They took them to the circus.”
“What about your husband?” He doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead, takes a drink of his beer, and waits for my reply.
“He’s at home. Sleeping.” I take another drink of my water. Daniel doesn’t comment. He nods and sets his beer bottle down. The fact that I’m here, sitting next to him, probably says a little about the state of my marriage. I don’t want to talk about my marriage though, so I change the subject. “Do you ride a lot?” I gesture toward the motorcycle.
“Yes, when the weather cooperates. Some of the other guys down at the station ride. We go out as a group sometimes.”
“I’m surprised by how much I liked it. It was so relaxing.”
He nods. “That’s what I like about it, too.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“About a year.”
I wonder where he lived before this house. And who lived with him. “It’s nice. Quiet.”
“I like it.”
“Do you have to work tomorrow?”
“Yes. I had yesterday and today off.”
I put the cap back on my water bottle. “I should probably go,” I say. Chris could be awake by now and I’ve been gone long enough that he might actually ask where I’ve been. I have no idea what I’ll tell him.
“Okay,” he says.
He watches as I pull his sweatshirt over my head and hand it back. We walk to my car and I punch in the code for the keyless entry. It’s suddenly too quiet, and I turn toward Daniel, wanting to fill the awkward silence with words. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Drive safe.”
I get in the car. Daniel closes my door and I pull out of his driveway and head back to my neighborhood.
The house is dark when I get home, so maybe Chris isn’t that concerned about where I’ve been after all. When I climb into bed he’s still stretched out on top of the covers, wearing only the towel.
The guilt creeps in like a slow-moving fog as I lie next to my husband, and it works its way into the tiny cracks in my conscience. It’s not as if Daniel and I had some clandestine meeting set up. I didn’t drive across town to join him for a secret rendezvous. But how would I feel if Chris had spent the evening with another woman, no matter how platonically? And tomorrow morning, when he apologizes for sleeping through our dinner and the first evening we’ve had to ourselves in a long time, I’m certainly not going to tell him what I did instead.
I roll over and try to get comfortable, but it takes me a long time before I’m able to fall asleep.