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“Ryan,” I say, turning toward him.

“I mean, yeah, I noticed you’ve been distant all week. I guess I should have said something sooner,” he says, speaking quickly. “But work’s been crazy. Maybe I’ve been distracted. It happens. We just need to reconnect.” He signals to the bartender for another round.

It used to be easy for us to connect. Now, even the couple of days a week when Ryan and I are together, it feels like we’re pretty far apart.

I know he’s trying to help, and that he can’t really do that without knowing the specifics of my problem. A romantic reconnection is probably what we need. Then I could open up to him about Noah.

I turn to him, our knees overlapping under the bar. I touch my forehead to his, aware of how uncomplicatedly romantic we probably look to the table of thirtysomething ladies behind us. I’m often aware of that kind of thing with Ryan, probably because women check him out all the time.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “What about that motorcycle ride through the Appalachians we’ve always wanted to take?”

It’s a trip that doesn’t need advance planning, no airplane tickets or hard-to-get hotel reservations. We could go on a whim as soon as Noah gets an idea and retreats into his writing cave. A long springtime weekend on the bike with Ryan, stopping at B and Bs along the way, would be the perfect thing to distract me from wondering what’s happening with Noah’s word count.

“Or we could rent a camper van?” Ryan says, “Sleep under the stars. It’d be good practice for future family vacations.”

“A motorcycle would be amazing,” I push. “And it’s so us.”

He squints. “What do you mean, ‘so us’?”

“It’s how we met? On your bike? Last summer we went for a joyride every weekend we were in D.C.?” I feel like knocking on his skull to see if he’s actually in there.

“You know, just because we met on a motorcycle and rode it a lot last summer doesn’t mean we’re bound to travel that way exclusively for the rest of our lives.”

“I didn’t say we’re bound to anything—”

“What about our luggage? What if it rains? What if I want to have a few glasses of wine with dinner? Honestly, Lanie, it sounds like more of a headache than it’s worth.”

“Backpacks instead of roller bags. A couple of those raincoats that fold into little pouches,” I say, taking out his catalog of complaints one by one. “And if you want to drink, then I can drive.” I nuzzle into his neck. “Think you’re man enough to hold on?”

“Since when do you drive a motorcycle?” he asks. “You let your regular driver’s license expire when you moved to New York.”

“I could learn,” I say. “I can get my license in time for a trip. That way you don’t have to do all the driving. I could practice on your bike. You could teach me—”

“Actually,” Ryan says and clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Why not?”

There’s a long pause, where I hear the background noise of the restaurant like the roar of a Roman coliseum.

“I was going to tell you,” Ryan finally says. He puts a hand on my thigh in a way that makes me nervous. “I sold my bike, Lanie.”

“Youwhat?” I gasp. “But you loved that bike...Iloved that bike.Weloved that bike. Why would you ever sell it?”

“Baby,” he says, rubbing my leg. “This friend of a friend offered me twice what the bike is worth. I was thinking about you, and how, when you move in with me, we’ll need that garage space for a second car. Maybe a Volvo. Plus, once we have kids, our priorities are going to change. It won’t be long before I’m running for office, and a motorcycle is just a liability. I don’t want to be ‘that biker dude’ in the attack ads.”

Attack ads? Priorities? I reach for my champagne and guzzle it.

“That bike was the beginning of our story.”

“Everything’s a story with you,” he says.

What about the feeling of freedom each time we hopped on the bike together? What about the wind on our skin? Or the front-row seat to the sights and smells of a city, how everything changes with the seasons? What about those few wonderful weeks each spring when the cherry blossoms bloom?

What about the way the motorcycle drove his mother crazy?

Oh my god.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Did your mother make you do it?”