I grabbed my backpack and soccer bag before heading out the door. As I walked toward my car, a black motorcycle came into view. I stood by my car as the bike pulled into the driveway and coasted to a stop beside me.
The rider had on a black t-shirt and jeans with a pair of black leather boots. His head was covered with a helmet reminiscent of a combat helmet―not much protection if you asked me. The mirrored glasses covering his eyes reflected the image of my dumbfounded stare. Then he smiled, and the creases around his mouth rocked me back slightly.
"Jonathan?"
"Good morning," he replied after shutting off the engine. "How are you?"
"Uh, fine," I answered, flustered. "What are you doing here? I thought we weren't talking to each other; that we decided it was the best thing to do."
"Not really," he countered, taking off his glasses. "Rachel decided we shouldn't talk, and she's not here right now. I don't think it's the best thing at all, do you?"
I was stunned by his defiance and continued to stare at him, not knowing what to think, forget about what to say.
"Let's do something," Jonathan demanded boldly, not at all a request.
I laughed. "I have to go to school, and shouldn't you be at work?"
"This is not the kind of day where you should be at school. And no, I should be right here," he rebutted. "Come on, Emma. You're already accepted into Stanford. One skipped day of school isn't going to change that."
"I don't know," I hesitated, inspecting the shiny black Harley with chrome detailing―determining if I was willing to even get on the bike, forget about ditch school.
"You agreed we would do something, so let's do it. Stop thinking so much and get on the bike, Emma." His directive was bold; he wasn't willing to hear another excuse. He slid on his glasses and jumped on the starter, revving the motorcycle to life. The deep guttural engine roared, calling for the road with a twist of his wrist.
I took a deep breath... and stopped thinking. I opened my car door and tossed my bags inside, grabbing my sunglasses and sliding on my sweatshirt. When I turned around, Jonathan was holding out a black helmet with a crooked smile.
I fastened the straps under my chin, then slid my sunglasses in place. He kicked up the stand, and I flipped my leg over the back. The leather seat slid us close together, the front of my thighs pressed against the back of his. I grabbed a hold of his waist and closed my eyes in anticipation.
My brain might have been turned off, but my heart raced with adrenaline. I knew it would've been overloaded with panic if I'd taken a moment to think about the many ways this was not a good idea―particularly the gruesome death that was a possibility if he took one wrong turn. Maybe there was a benefit to not thinking.
Jonathan slowly backed the motorcycle up and then walked it forward to turn us around before accelerating down the driveway and out of the neighborhood. That's when the thoughts broke through, and I wondered what the hell I was doing. Skipping school to hop on the back of a motorcycle with my mother's ex-boyfriend and taking off to who knows where definitely was not a good idea. But before I could allow the voice of reason to penetrate too deep, I shut it off again. Instead I watched Weslyn slip away and closed my eyes to feel the wind whip against my face as the engine roared between my legs. I let the adrenaline rush through me and decided just to go with it, regardless of the consequences.
I had no idea where Jonathan was taking us. I never even considered what his something could be before the impulsivity had hijacked me. We ended up on the highway at some point and continued west, deeper into Connecticut, until we entered New York.
We exited the highway and followed winding roads lined with woods. The houses were set deep within forested driveways, each marked with a mailbox on the road. We slowed enough that I attempted to talk, or holler, "Where are we going?"
"There's something I want to share with you," he turned his head to the side to yell in return.
A few more twisting roads later, we slowed practically to a crawl. Jonathan veered down a road that barely resembled one. The tire worn dirt tracks were filled in with weeds and splotches of grass. He weaved along the drive and pulled up in front of the skeletal remains of a house.
I took in the plot curiously, unfastening the helmet as Jonathan shut off the engine and kicked the stand into place. I dismounted, and my legs shook slightly from the long ride.
A fire had devoured the entire structure, leaving only remnants behind. A tall stone chimney remained erect amongst leaning beams and ash. On the far side of the house, a section of crossbeams stood defiantly, despite its black, scarred outer skin. It connected to what appeared to have been a porch. The stone foundation outlined the modest home, but the interior was unidentifiable since it was completely incinerated.