special, that’s sacred, so I wanted you to know.” I smile again. I know how he feels about these things. “Wait till you see where I’m taking you.”
He turns the key in the ignition, stomps once, twice, three times, on the starter thing, and jerks us forward out into the sunlight.
And we’re in motion.
This is Max and I trust him, I tell myself, trying to stop my arms, wrapped around his waist, from quaking.
I trust him.
Otherwise, I won’t be able to keep my grip and hold on.
I trust him.
As he zips down the side streets and onto Main, weaving in and out of cars and buses, as I cling to him for dear life. Petrified that, despite the small comfort of the helmet, I’m going to fly off the back at 60 miles per hour and break every bone in my body.
I trust Max, who hangs a left at the end of the road and flies past the Hay & Feed.
I trust Max, who signals at the exit ramp and turns onto the freaking turnpike.
I trust Max, who thankfully veers us off at the New Waverly exit, and aims us in the direction of the abandoned New Waverly Mall, a site suspended mid-construction going on two years.
The stores are in various stages of half completion, some sections merely framed, others nearly finished, the main billboard at the turnpike exit that used to announce: “Waverly Mall, Where All Your Shopping Dreams Come True!” changed by some vandal to announce: “Waverly Hell, Where All Your Shopping Dreams Come to Die!” Under that, they’ve added: “Shoppers Repent! In the Name of the Father, the Son, and Abercrombie & Fitch!”
The rear of the construction site is a notorious hangout for derelicts and bikers and homeless people, so I hope to God that’s not where we’re going.
“Max!” I yell, tugging his shoulder as he slows off the highway, and eases us into the cracked and overgrown parking lot. He calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. We’re not staying here. Promise!”
“I trust Max,” I whisper, as he heads beyond the south side of the site where a “Macy’s Coming Soon” sign still clings to the blacked-out windows.
When we reach the back, he says, “You ready? This is the part where you really need to hang on,” and he takes off flying, my head jerking back, barely giving me enough time.
He shows off like a little kid, making wide circles, zigzagging the bike around the raised bumps intended to slow traffic down. “You’d better hold tighter than that!” he yells, heading us beyond the lot, toward the acres of undeveloped land.
I close my eyes and clutch to him as hard as I can, whispering, “I trust Max,” for the tenth time, even as I’m having a hard time knowing if I do. Even as the back of his leather jacket proves nearly too stiff and slippery to hold on to.
He doesn’t slow down and turn to check on me until we’ve reached the edge of a badly overgrown field. “Okay, here we go,” he says, and he moves the bike forward on the soft dirt, the stalks of green growing taller, grazing at my ankles, the sides of my bare legs.
Halfway out, he stops. “And now, the magic!” he yells over the bike’s engine. “Watch how everything changes!” He plows forward, slowly, till the green starts popping with color: reds and blues and yellows and purples, as far as the eye can see. We’re in the middle of a vast wildflower meadow, right on the cusp of the woods. He cuts the engine altogether, and I scan the width of the field, taking in daisies and buttercups, violets, and dandelions. “The blue ones are called Bachelor’s Buttons,” he says, “I did an image search on my phone.”
“And these?” I extend my flip-flopped toes toward a patch of fuchsia flowers with jagged edges.
“No idea.” He laughs.
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“You like?” he says, turning back to me.
I nod. “I do, Max. It’s breathtaking. How did you know this was here?”
“Happened upon it,” he answers, which makes no sense since we’re off in the middle of nowhere. “I figured it was a good place. I wanted to thank you. And ask you something.”
My heart ramps up. Something about the way he asks. Maybe he wants me to sleep with him now. And maybe I want to. Maybe I will.
“Take your helmet off,” he says. He lifts his off and straps them both over the handle.
I run my hands through my hair,