We could get two bikes, she’d said, smiling.
I’m not really interested in riding a donorcycle, he’d replied. What was the deductible on their health insurance? If she wrecked, they’d be several thousand dollars out of pocket before the insurance even kicked in to cover any length of hospital stay, not to mention lost time from work. Short-term disability didn’t cover her full salary.
Jason. I haven’t even registered for the beginner rider course, and you’ve got me brain dead and on life support.
We can save for the trip to Europe you’ve always wanted to take, or we can get a motorcycle. We can’t do both.
She caught her thumb worrying at the joint between her left ring finger and her palm, the spot where her wedding ring, a classic, practical plain gold band, used to sit. In hindsight, that was the exact moment she knew her marriage was over, the day he took two of her dreams and played them against each other to get what he wanted, which was neither.
“You’re being unfair,” she whispered to herself. “He did want to go to Europe. Eventually. He just didn’t want you to get a motorcycle. Which is reasonable.”
But her gaze lingered on the Suzuki. Then she skimmed down to the Harley-Davidsons. The Sportster caught her eye, as did the SuperLow. But even as she read the reviews, Jason’s voice slid into the back of her mind like an ice pick. It’s an expensive hobby. You get a starter bike, then you need a different bike, and the accessories.
“You’ll probably like the Harley better.”
She startled, automatically reaching for the monitor to turn it away from the man now standing in front of the research desk. Turns out Slumped Sleeping Snoring Boy was no longer slumped, sleeping, snoring, or sitting in a chair.
Nor was he a boy.
He’d removed the cap, doubled the brim to stuff it into his back pocket, revealing dark brown hair falling across his forehead. Stubble bristled on the lower half of his face, and his eyes were blue; she could see that much in the light on the research desk. He wasn’t tall. She got the sense that the jeans and river driver shirt under the jacket hid muscles, not flab. He looked like a fighter, not a college student. Even the athletes at Lancaster College had the gawky awkwardness and enthusiasm of long-limbed, half-grown domesticated animals.
There was nothing domestic about this … individual, who was politely standing behind the yellow line of tape on the floor a frustrated research librarian had laid down after she was reprimanded for snapping “Have you all forgotten how to form and stand in a line?” at a group of terrified first year students during finals week.
“I’m still deciding,” she said as she minimized the window. “How can I help you?”
With one stride he crossed the twenty-four inches between the yellow line and the desk to set a notebook on it. “I’m in Professor Trask’s psychology class.”
“Which means you have a final paper due in a few weeks,” she said. “What’s your topic?”
He flipped open the notebook. “Whether the current methods of treating PTSD are effective.”
“Interesting,” she said, and turned back to the screen. She opened a browser tab to the EBSCO research database. “It might be a little broad for a ten-page paper. Where have you started?”
“I haven’t,” he said, and flashed her a smile, all white teeth and cocky grin.
She looked at him again. Now that he was closer she could tell two things: he smelled like sin itself, like earth and rain and some kind of subtly scented soap, and despite a nap, he looked exhausted. Dark shadows clung to the skin under his eyes, adding to his brooding aura. During the day, light streamed through the library windows. After the sun went down, the rooms were spot-lit by the reading lamps and dimmed overheads. Erin had always loved the intimate feel of the library after dark, the way the night seemed to reduce the energy to the pure quest for knowledge. Only the truly bookish came to the library for that kind of high, and Erin respected that. One of the first things she’d given up when she and Jason got serious was working the late shift at the library. It was one of the first things she’d reclaimed when she moved out.
But normally the undergraduates looked younger and younger as she aged. This one, however, didn’t look twenty-five, much less eighteen.
This will go nowhere fast, so don’t even ask. She held a position of power at the college and had to respect that.
“You’ve got some ground to make up,” she said, turning the monitor so he could see the databases she was using. A few minutes and one battle with the printer later she’d printed out a list of recent articles in peer-reviewed journals and a list of slightly less current books to give him an overview of the research. “You can access these from your laptop,” she said, ticking off the magazine articles with her highlighter.