The next morning, after rounds, she found a fax on her desk. An amazing job opportunity at a small hospital outside of Seattle. It would be an incredible position for a doctor her age, first years out of her residency. Margaret had stuck a Post-It note to it that was simply exclamation marks, a smiley face, and a "see me" in her neat script. Tara folded it and folded it before putting it in her bag, an abstract origami shape that symbolized hope and despair simultaneously. Was a new life the answer to all of her ruined questions?
On the way home, she stopped at the mall. Just walking through the doors had her stepping back in time a decade or so. High school weekends and slumming the suburban mall, the food court, the arcade. Had she ever been so young and full of sass? How had she gotten so old and filled with fear? She knew what she was after and she made a beeline. The young salesgirl was complimentary about her figure, brought her outfit after outfit until she felt she had the right combination. She was determined to have rhinestones on her ass, and a ballet-style black top that showed off her collarbones. The suggestion of black pumps was something she would not have considered, she had wanted boots, but with the skinny jeans, the pumps were elegant, just this side of nasty, and very European. She slid her credit card across the counter, refusing to question her intentions, and the heavy bag felt satisfyingly substantial as she made her way back outside.
At the bank she withdrew several crisp hundred dollar bills. She turned them over in her hands, studying the bold design. Money as an exchange. But in this case, more of a bet. For reasons she couldn't really quantify, she believed she was wagering on happiness.
She looked at her hands, the slender fingers, the strength of the tendons running over her knuckles, around the bracelet of bone in her wrists. Her hands were everything, her livelihood, her skill, her craft.
It was time to own her life again, reach for and grab something she could hold onto.
She texted him. "I have your money. THANK YOU."
And then she waited. All afternoon. The evening. Into the night. At one in the morning, the cell rang and she reached for it with a wildly beating heart. His name on the screen.
"Hello," she said quietly, swallowing around the pounding pulse in her throat.
"Tara."
No one had ever said her name the way he did. It heated and slowed the blood in her veins.
"Filip." She answered.
"So, you wanta pay me, aye?"
"Yes."
"And kick me in the yockers, too, for good measure?" He was laughing.
"I said I was sorry. I acted badly."
"Always apologizing. Says she's sorry, says she's got silver, hear that?"
"Who are you talking to?" Unwelcome images flashed through her mind. "Where are you?"
"Aw, talking to an old tom cat skulking around here. I call him Tom. Where am I? I'm outside."
"Outside?" she asked, stupidly. For an explosive moment she thought he meant he was outside her house, but of course he wasn't.
"Aye, not inside. Ya know?"
"I see. Are you drunk?" His vernacular was deep and broad.
"Probably. You?"
"No."
"Nooooooooooooo." He laughed again, pulling the word out in a dramatic girly voice.
"What's funny?" She turned onto her back, holding the phone against her ear, feeling a warmth spread through her body, so forgotten that it was unfamiliar.
"You are, girl. You make me laugh."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's bleedin' deadly. Not too many things make me laugh these days."
She hummed into the phone. "Me neither."
"You like to ride, aye?"
"I do."
"Sweet, tha's sweet. Makes the both of us."
"You're really good."
"Damn straight I am. At what?"
"Riding. Driving."
He laughed again. It was a sound she thought she could listen to all night.
"You're good at holding on," he said.
"I want to go for a ride."
"Wot, now?"
"Maybe."
"Naw. You're all tucked into bed."
"How do you know that?" she teased.
"Are you?" he asked, suddenly quiet and intent.
Her body responded immediately to his low-pitched voice, the change in timbre, the slide of his accent. She squirmed. "I think we should talk."
"What are we doing now, luv?"
"Talking. But I mean, about some serious things."
"Sounds dull."
"Really?"
"Aye." He paused and she could hear a flame to cigarette. Then he was exhaling. "You want to go for a ride tomorrow? Pack a lunch or something like?"
She smiled wide to herself, closing her eyes, nodding. "Yes," she whispered. "I do."
"Mmmm. A'right then. Sweet dreams, sweet Tara."
"Same to you, Filip."
She had tuna fish and artisan bread. Apples and cheese. She was making herself crazy with a bottle of wine, on the counter, in the bag, back on the counter. The new jeans, a tank top, her leather. Stacked heel engineer boots. And her long hair in a braid.
She had been pacing and then she heard the bike. She shrugged into her jacket, stuffed the wine back into the bag, and was out the front door.
He was still on the bike when she had the door closed and locked behind her. He raised an eyebrow at this, but backed the heavy bike up and glided it back down into the street. She followed him. He was fishing the other helmet out of the saddle bags and she stood beside him, her back pack on the ground between her feet. He handed her the helmet then hefted her bag experimentally before nodding and setting it back down.
"Do we have a destination?" she asked.
"Lunch."
She gave him a wry smile, settled the helmet and fastened it, then slung the back pack on, watching him.
"We'll know the place when we see it, right." He held his hand out to her and when she put hers inside, he didn't let go, pulling her arm around his body after she was tight against his back.
Out of Charming, through fields of sunflowers, then shady orchards, and into the small foothills. She was nearly delirious with the solidness, the reality, of him in her arms. With casual purpose, she had her hands on his hips, then around his waist, up into his shirt, fingers ghosting his flesh, then relaxed on his thighs, the long muscles thick and hard beneath her sweating palms. During one straight stretch of abandoned highway she could no longer help herself and she brushed her hands up beneath his t-shirt, seeking out the sharp edges of his ribcage. She could feel him pull his breath into his body and hold it, her fingers tracing the short rib from which woman had been formed.
A pioneer cemetery. He pointed down the road to it and she nodded into his back. It was fenced and gated and towering weeping willows stood grieving throughout the small acreage. He idled the bike in front of the iron gates and she jumped off, shouldering one open and he pulled through and she followed, walking. Up over a small rise, and a line of mausoleums formed the rear boundary and a patch of weathered grass marked the far corner of the graveyard. He pulled ahead of her and parked the bike there. She missed the feel of his body, the trembling of the Harley.
He met her and unfastened her helmet and hung it on the handlebars. He urged the back pack off her shoulders, and helped her out of her leather.
"This is the place?" she asked, teasing him slightly.
He nodded, looking around. "I don't like people."
She laughed. "There are a lot of people here."
"Aye, but they keep to themselves, right. They're quiet, see."
With no warning he reached for her and pulled her into his arms, hard and fast and tight against his body. She slid her arms around him and pressed herself into his embrace. She felt all hesitation fall away from her. There was an electric current arcing between them and she had not imagined it. His hands were warm and strong on her back, she could feel his breath across the side of her neck. Her teeth were hungry for him.
"Oh, god," he groaned and pulled her even tighter to him. She went up on tiptoe to feel the long length of his body, the strength in spine as she gave some of her weight over to his hands. Slowly he rocked them back into a state of relaxation, then his hands dropped to her hips and he pushed her back to her feet, steadying her, and he stepped back.
"Tara, Tara," he said, shaking his head at her, pushing the shock of grey black hair out of his face, watching her from his dark eyes.
She knew he was waiting for her to move towards him, for her to leap, and she could feel the pull of the beckoning abyss. They were teetering on the edge of something, but it was too big, too far a fall, and she smiled at him, then turned and scooped up her pack and sauntered underneath the shade of the willows. She pulled a blanket out of the bag and snapped it out cleanly. Then she sat down and toed off her boots, peeled off her socks and tucked them inside. She leaned back on her hands, looking over to where he was standing.
"Didn't take you for a hippie," he called over.
"My feet are hot."
"More than just you're feet, darlin'." He joined her on the blanket, taking off the cut, then the short sleeve mechanic's shirt he wore over his tee, and lay on his back, hands behind his head.
She began setting up their picnic. He sat up and took the wine from her and opened it, drinking deeply. He handed it to her and lay back down. She lifted it to her lips, watching him down the length of the bottle, a long swallow and he smiled, intent and serious. She licked the red droplets from her lips. He reached up and caught her braid, pulling the elastic out of it and finger brushing it loose. He brought his fingers to the side of her face, the corner of her lips, the edge of her jaw, and then raised himself slightly on his elbow. With his hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her down to him.
Their gazes were locked as they fell.
