We Belong

by Evie Bennet

  Reed didn’t order anything alcoholic. Maybe he was the designated driver for Milo’s truck, but maybe it was something else. He kept an eye on the door like he was waiting for someone. The pool balls broke behind me, rattling and rumbling like a comforting flash of lightning and thunder in the back of my mind.

  Opening the camera app on my phone, I took a picture to mull over. Reed was so relaxed in his leather, slouched against the wooden beams of the bar. His smile wasn’t wide yet. I scrolled past the poem from three months ago about freedom stretching me thin and drafted a new one for my blog.

  Maybe you’re still waiting

  Because you don’t see me

  My fingers tracing your scratches

  Your lips ripping me at the seams

  We could tie it all together

  And just be you and me

  Silky flesh and jagged steel

  Blood and cotton

  Thunder and Lightning

  One follows the other

  Anywhere

  Anywhere

  It wasn’t my best work, but it was something. I bit my lower lip, watching him.

  He was something.

  Inspiration was like lightning (or drowning) and I should bottle that feeling. Even if it was just for that night. It really should just be tonight, unless he turns out to be a really great guy.

  From the looks of it, he was great. At the very least, he didn’t seem the type to put someone else down. The most he did was good-natured ribbing when his friends made a terrible shot or he made a great one. Even when his friends walked home and he didn’t need to drive anybody, Reed remained sober. There was the occasional light beer, but even then, he took a few sips and pushed it off on someone else.

  Control, I realized, watching him angle towards the door and noting the way the other Rattlers listened to him and challenged him. He liked to be in control.

  Analyzing him like that wasn’t doing either of us any favors. I needed to go home. I needed to stop while I still had my agency and integrity intact.

  I considered the lively group to my right, my current camouflage. No one at the bar knew my name. They thought I was just passing through. A friend of a friend. None of my clients had to know anything about my visit there.

  It was fine. I was fine.

  As soon as there was a significant enough distraction, I snuck out, the word “coward” bouncing around in the back of my head.

  The fresh air felt stifling as I headed to the secret spot I’d parked my car. As I slid into the seat, I caught a glimpse of my poor attempt at a disguise. Maybe a small part of me wanted him to notice the girl on the balcony.

  It was too late for that, now. Besides, nobody liked an attention whore. But that wasn’t me.

  I didn’t need attention. I just wanted to see Reed in a way that didn’t risk getting hurt by anybody.

  Shaking, I started the car and fitted my fingers around the wheel.

  I could drive. I just had to be careful.

  At home, I wiped off my camouflage and fluffed my hair to get back to the basics of being Betty. As I booted up my computer for something to watch while I went to bed, I wondered if I should back up the images I took at Sidewinders. Photos were a safe way to feel closer to him. Looking him up on the internet might even be better than following the real thing. It’d be a safe little fantasy.

  He did seem pretty wonderful, though. It was hard to imagine finding a version of him better than what I’d already seen.

  Reed didn’t have a social media presence, but his friend Milo did: a gallery full of friends and family at tailgates and the river. I found photos of Reed as far back as high school, large headphones on instead of his signature red bandana. Sometimes he graced the camera with a lopsided smile, one or two teeth peeking through, but more often than not he had a sullen expression as he read or studied something in the distance.

  A sensitive soul, I mused and tried not to dwell on it, nor on the beautiful bikes in the garage that needed my attention.

  Once the parts were in, it was easy to put the motorcycles together. Fixing things felt like purifying my very being. I worked hard to make sure everything ran smoothly. I lay on top of Reed’s bike, the seat warm under my thighs, and dreamed about how he would feel atop it: the motor thrumming, the fire behind him, wind whipping in his face.

  A test drive made sense to make sure it was working, to make sure it was right.

  My palms itched in their gloves. I smiled at the sweat-stretched leather binding on his helmet, tracing the intersecting diamonds crudely carved on the front of the hard material.

  Balanced, rough around the edges and beautiful: just like Reed.

  Little nettles stung my skin everywhere. I imagined it was him I was clinging to, not the bike. My nails could sink into his shoulders, our bodies molding together without any stitches necessary.

  The trembling motor succumbed to me, thrust me into the fantasy. Even the thirsty little gurgle of feeding it gas made me feel like I was taking care of him.

  I took care of the bikes. Not the men.

  That’d make a good poem, probably. I wrote a little and tried to determine if I should call Reed and tell him about the bikes being ready. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to say goodbye. Or hello. Or anything, really.

  Overly eager to be prepared for the pickup, I made sure everything was clean and spotless in the garage and even on my hands. I wore my nicest jumpsuit, which I shimmied out of last-second, when they arrived. My heart jumped just like it did when I’d called him to report he could come in to pick up his bike.

  “Hi, Reed.”

  “Betty. Thanks for getting the bikes ready so fast.” His cheeks colored, his eyes fixed on the counter as I smoothed my clothes back into place.

  “My pleasure. Do you want to take them on a ride around the block first?”

  “No, I trust that you got them in working order, and if not… we know where to find you.” His lip quirked up and my head was inclined to tilt and follow its curve.

  If only I knew where to find him.

  I braced myself with a smile, handing him the keys, I traced the smudges on his hands as subtly as I could while trying to ignore the violent vibrations of my heart.

  “Nice color. Were you working on something too, or…?”

  “Oh, that? No. I have a typewriter. It’s kind of old-fashioned, but… it’s fun to struggle with something literal while trying to get past a metaphorical writer’s block.”

  My eyes lit up and I felt myself drifting forward. “You write?”

  “Nothing fancy. Just non-fiction. It gets me out of the house and into a coffee shop, just so I see the light of day once in a while.”

  “I write, too! Poems.”

  “About what?”

  I bit my tongue, guarding myself because I knew how ridiculous the answer was, but his eyes were such a clear blue that I was sure he could read me anyway. “Mostly feelings.”

  “If they’re anything like your singing…”

  I tugged on my ponytail, twisting it between my fingers in embarrassment. “So, are you published?”

  He laughed, raising his eyebrows. “Not yet. The writing thing is more food for the soul. The reading part is for my brain.”

  Of course he’d read and write. He was funny and smart, a lethal combination even before his looks came into play.

  “What about your heart?”

  Pursing his lips, he shrugged at the floor. “Probably destroyed by the number of frozen meals and fast food I consume on a daily basis. I have what most people consider an infinite appetite.” The declaration fell somewhere between a brag and an apology. But I understood having a hunger. Craving something.

  Maybe he was the kind of guy who didn’t get cravings from the heart.

  He coughed, glancing at the garage and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “So, can I take her out?”

  A desperate part of me wanted him to mean me instead of the bike.

  “Oh! Yeah. Um, yes. Any ti
me. She’s oiled up and ready to go.”

  “Great.” He opened his mouth, inspiring a very excitable ‘maybe... yes’ in my brain, but his lips fluttered, unable to form anything to hold onto. Too many seconds passed before either of us spoke.

  “Reed?”

  Shaking his head, his cheek wrinkled with his lopsided smile. He smoothed his hair under that bandana of his. “Sorry. My train of thought got derailed. Um, thanks again, Betts.”

  The intimacy of the new nickname speared me through the chest like a root tightening against my ribs.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets, sighing at the image of his two friends lounging against the pickup truck outside.

  My heart raced. Desperate, I tried to think of a reason to get him to look at me instead of them. That was too needy. But I needed him.

  “You know, we’re in a club. A motorcycle club. Maybe I can set something up, like a referral program or something.”

  Hands wringing behind my back, I got up on my toes to make my ponytail swing in a way I hoped was inviting. “You haven’t tested your bike yet. How do you know you like my services?”

  He snorted, that little tooth-preview smile reminiscent of Milo’s high school photo collection. “You patched up my face and my bike. Suffice to say I think your service is pretty great.”

  “Any time. You’re… it’s a beautiful bike.”

  My fingers curled into my palms.

  I had to stop before I got lost in him.

  His thumb traced his beautiful healing mouth that I longed to break open and touch. But then he saw the tension in my hands and the dreamy look disappeared. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “No, you don’t have to–”

  “Please. You don’t want a bunch of Rattlers hanging out, cramping your style.”

  “I don’t have a style yet.” I bit my lip, hoping my eyeliner wasn’t smudged, hoping that my eyes were still big and innocent. “Maybe there’s room for a Rattler or two. This is a garage. It’s pretty spacious, especially since it’s usually just me.”

  He laughed. “You’re something else.”

  “Something good, I hope.”

  I was full of hope.

  The split in his lip threatened to break the skin. Maybe I should take another chance to touch that plush, sweet flesh. “Good things don’t happen around here too often, but you coming to town just might be one of them.”

  Practically skipping, I got the motorcycle ready.

  Reed thought I was good.

  The internal high tapered off at the realization that maybe I wasn’t. I could be, though.

  “So... maybe I’ll see you around?” he asked.

  In my haze, I barely noticed the screeching main garage door opening, nor the bell ringing at the entrance.

  “Y-yes,” I stammered, not wanting to mention that I saw him all the time in my imagination. He was the person who could pop out around any corner, the duet to my every song.

  Reed mounted his bike, readjusting himself in the seat like he was remembering how it felt, how it purred. He looked up at me, swallowing hard. “How does it look?”

  An uncomfortably hot feeling bubbled up in my gut and behind my ears. “Good. It all works.”

  Reed laughed, the loveliest sound I’d ever heard. I wondered if I could get him to do it again: to record it, to play it, to add it to the soundtrack of my life.

  Chewy’s entrance distracted me from the vision of Reed. He looked between both of us with an element of wariness.

  “Hey. Is it too early to get my bike?”

  “No,” I managed with flatter intonation than I intended as I probably blushed every shade of pink known to good girls and cotton candy. “Let me get it ready for you.”

  By the time Chewy was all set, I could barely make eye contact with any of them for fear of fainting. They all tipped a salute to me before riding off down the street with thunder in their wake.

  2

  Words

  He wouldn’t have told me he liked to write in a coffee shop if he didn’t want me to find it, right? After two whole days of grinding my teeth to nothing at every passing motor, I shucked on my ‘normal girl’ clothes and headed into town. According to other patrons, there were only a few coffee shops in town and the best one was Al’s, although it was really more of a diner.

  I slid onto one of the vinyl seats at the counter and was greeted by an old man with eyebrows as white as his apron and a dark, round face. “Why, hello there. It’s rare we get a new face in here.”

  “Really?” I blushed, looking over my shoulder. Still no Reed. I worried my lip, wondering how forward I could be with this man.

  “I’m the current Al. My family’s run this diner for generations, a lot of milkshakes and memories for the whole town. It’s a pleasure to have you with us.”

  “Hi. I’m Betty,” I said slowly, deciding to loosen the tension in my shoulders. “I’m actually wondering if you’ve seen a guy in a red bandana around here?”

  Al’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, you mean Reed?”

  Hearing his name off of someone else’s lips made my heart race. “You know him?”

  “Since he was a kid! Boy can eat a burger.” Al said that like it was an impressive feat. Maybe it was. I wiggled in my seat.

  “Is he normally here in the mornings?”

  “Reed? No, he comes in about every other day for dinner. Sits in that booth right there,” he gestured.

  I smiled, trying to refrain from moving to the spot to try and feel his energy.

  “You a friend of his?”

  “Maybe.” I bit my lip. “I’m new in town, so I don’t have too many friends at the moment.”

  “Consider yourself one friend richer. First milkshake is on the house,” Al said with a smile, offering me a pink strawberry concoction.

  With eager anticipation, I sucked from the straw, my senses flooded with rich cream. Al knew Reed since he was a kid. Maybe he had a good story or at least an idea of where he could be.

  I leaned forward, absorbed in tales of a boy who furiously tried to solve every puzzle and make his own. He was so committed to writing that he duct taped and hotwired his laptop when the screen snapped off.

  Resourceful. Smart. Passionate.

  The strawberry concoction stirred in my gut, sweetness coating the tip of my tongue.

  Two stops later and I found the place I was looking for in the nearby township of Vernon Hills. The woman behind the counter seemed elated I’d taken an interest in their resident writer, but she couldn’t tell me anything other than his coffee order and his usual table.

  I camped out with a hot chocolate and book at a corner table, not sure if I should make an effort to hide or not. Was it too much of a coincidence to be at his spot? Should I pretend not to see him, let him discover me?

  I got so wrapped up in the semantics that I hid when the door chime rang. The book I’d chosen trembled in my hands.

  He didn’t see me, I noted forlornly, but watching him from behind wasn’t so bad. For some reason, he didn’t like to have his Rattler leathers on when he was writing. Maybe he didn’t want to have that attached to him when he was creating something. I knew enough about merging realities to understand that certain tokens could weigh the mind in one direction over another. He took his coffee black and his muffins large and sat down at the other end of the shop, mostly facing away from me.

  The woman behind the counter gestured that he’d arrived, but I blushed and shook my head to dissuade her from announcing my presence. I felt like a teenager again, like when I used to wait for…

  No. I wasn’t going to go there. Reed practically invited me here. It was fine. I could have hot chocolate and read a book. Not everything was about a man. I needed somewhere to read. The woman behind the counter and Al seemed nice enough to be friends. It was okay to make friends. It was okay to talk about mutual acquaintances. It was all okay. I would be fine.

  I spent the rest of the hour agitated, sub
tly taking pictures and trying to read. Eventually, I was able to organize my thoughts enough to write some poetry.

  Am I hot against your tongue?

  The way you’re blazing against my brain?

  A fever I can’t sweat out

  A panic I can’t abate?

  You’re a line I keep rereading

  Distracted by your curves

  By everything you’re not saying

  All I crave to drip from your lips

  Puncture me with your punctuation

  Worship me with words

  Until my nails sink into your skin instead of mine

  Our subtle signature seduction

  It was terrible. But it was something. I would work on it.

  He twisted/cracked his neck to the side, brow furrowed as he brought a hand to his lips. Was he uncomfortable? Did he need a massage? More coffee? Existence in his periphery was almost as anxiety-inducing as actually interacting with him. Maybe I should say something.

  I wanted to smooth his brow, kiss his knuckles and suck his fingers free of muffin crumbs until he felt good again. Obviously, I needed a better opening than “Fancy seeing you here!” after he’d told me he liked writing in cafés and I had been sitting for a while. Maybe I could get up for a something at the counter and pretend to notice him for the first time? We could eat together. Smile, laugh, just be and belong together.

  Of course, I was getting ahead of myself. He might not even like me that much.

  As I worried through various scenarios, he got up to use the washroom. From the angle of how he’d have to return, he might see me. Panicking, I left my seat and slid into his chair. The girl behind the counter didn’t see. Good. What to do? I took a picture of his words. And actually… if I wanted a peek later, just to see how things were going, I had to take it a step further.

  I took a picture of his computer’s information and typed a message.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  Was that cute or creepy?

  The hiss of the coffee machine made me jump out of my skin. Men only took a minute in the bathroom so there wasn’t any time to craft something more clever.