insults from all around us followed; the driver yelled back, giving as good as he got. My pulse was racing triple-time, even as I righted myself on the seat and told myself that it was fine, that I was safe. But the problem with holding on to the bar behind me was that it threw my weight backward—so that I was already partway to losing my balance whenever the bike swerved or stopped suddenly. And after that close call, I didn’t want to hold on to the bar anymore. All of which meant I was going to have to hold on to Cary.
Any reservations I might have had about this—because it was significantly more than just flirting with someone in a bodega—went away when compared with the fact that I’d just come pretty close to falling into New York traffic. So as Cary slowed for the stoplight turning yellow at Forty-Ninth Street, I took one hand off the back bar and grabbed onto the fabric of his brown leather jacket. I was trying not to hold on to him—even though he’d said it was fine—but figured that holding on to his coat was a good compromise. I reached around with my other hand to grab his coat on the other side—just as the light turned green and the scooter jolted forward. I instinctively stopped holding the fabric of his coat and gripped onto him, holding either side of his waist.
And I didn’t even have time to worry if this was okay or get embarrassed, because it was clear after just a few minutes how much better it was. I was able to lean forward slightly and move with Cary when he leaned to the side when taking a turn, finding the rhythm of moving with him.
It let me relax a little bit—and then I was able to actually enjoy it, and take it all in. The cold air rushed around us, and the lights blurred as Cary sped down the city streets. I turned my head and looked at it all—New York—flying past me. People hurrying down the street bundled up, yellow taxis in front and behind and all around us, doormen in long coats huddled under awnings, stomping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands together. I was breathing in exhaust, yes, but also wafts of scents from the shawarma and pretzel carts on the corners, and the bite in the November air that had always meant snow.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the wind on my face as we flew down the street. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d gotten here—how this was what my Friday night had turned into, riding on a scooter driven by a cute boy, in New York City, wearing my favorite dress. But for the moment, with the honk of the horns and the rush of the wind, the pretzel scent in the air and with Cary to hold on to, I wasn’t thinking about anything except right now.
All too soon, though, Cary was starting to slow the scooter down, and a moment later was steering it into a makeshift spot between two cars. When the bike had stopped, I got off carefully, making sure to avoid the tailpipe.
I looked around. We were on East Fifty-Seventh Street, halfway down the block.
“Take that from you?” Cary asked, and I handed him my helmet, trying my best to fluff up my hair, but do it subtly. “How’d you do? Not too bad, right?”
I laughed. “It was fun! I mean, a tiny bit scary. I only confronted my mortality like three times. But mostly fun.”
“Good.” The jazzy guitar sounded again, and he pulled out the phone. “Maybe that’s my uncle,” he said, then looked at the screen and groaned. “Nope. Paradise Cruises.”
“Where are they calling from this time?”
“Kauai.” He declined the call and put his phone back into his pocket, then twirled his keys around his finger—but they went rogue, and spun away, landing near my feet.
I reached down to grab them for him, but instead of bending my knees, I did what I always did when I had to pick something up—I bent forward from the waist, so that my nose almost hit my shin, then straightened up again. All dancers did this—it was like a little bonus stretch.
Cary just stared at me as I dropped the keys into his palm. “Impressive.”
I shrugged. “Former dancer.”
“Former?” I nodded, not wanting to go into it. “And now you act.”