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Our morning is fifty percent Bernadette plowing through the course material for the written exam—and fifty percent Noah and I locking eyes as she takes off on wild tangents and hilarious personal anecdotes.

“I learned the hard way,” she says, looking at me, “that it’s a bad idea to cry on a motorcycle. No free hands for tissues. So promise me, Lanie,” she says, wagging a finger, “that you’ll never board your bike in a sorrowful mood.”

In the afternoon, we suit up: hard-knuckled gloves, helmets, goggles. I barely recognize Noah inside all his gear, and it’s kind of a shame. We leave the trailer and walk to the far side of the lot where three customized motorcycles await.

I choose the red Honda because it’s smaller, easier to handle. Bernadette keeps her black Moto Guzzi. That leaves Noah with a sleek Suzuki street bike.

I mount the bike, grip the handlebars, and lean forward. A strange vibration passes through me. I’ve ridden hundreds of times with Ryan, but the joy of wielding a motorcycle by myself is new.

We do practice drills with the engines off. I learn how to walk the bike in neutral, how to let out the clutch smoothly, how to brake with my right hand and foot.

“Ready to fire ’em up?” Bernadette finally says.

I grin at her, at Noah.

“We’re going to ride in a smooth, straight line across the lot,” Bernadette says. “Ease the clutch out. Pick your feet up when you’ve got your balance. When you’re ready, roll that throttle.”

My engine hums. I put the bike in neutral, press the start button, and ease the clutch out, but my arms are shaking, not relaxed. I lift my feet and roll the throttle, but I roll it too fast, and the bike lunges like a mechanical bull.

My heart catches. Out of my mouth come curses I can’t decipher. I become aware that I’ve lost control, and in my panic, I grip at everything that can be gripped and slam on everything that can be slammed in hopes I’ll somehow find the brakes. I do—but too fast. My back wheel locks. The bike jerks to a stop and twists to the left. It slides out from under me and I hit the ground with the engine grinding into my left ankle. The pain is a fiery pop that spreads all the way up my leg.

A moment later, the bike lifts off me, and I see Noah’s face over mine.

“Are you all right?”

I’m so embarrassed, I’m in shock. “How do I know if I’m all right?”

He helps me up carefully, studies me from head to toe. “You shake it out, and see what hurts. Wounded pride or wounded hide.”

I’m worried about my ankle, but when I stretch it, there’s only a dull pain. My jeans are shredded and a scrape bleeds through. But he’s right, my real injury is a sprained ego.

Bernadette appears with a first aid kit. I roll up my jeans and clean the scrape.

“I panicked,” I say.

“Fear is enemy number one on a bike,” Bernadette says as Noah hands me a bottle of water. “Noah would say that’s a metaphor for something or other.” She playfully punches his arm. “You want to talk about panic, you should have seen him at sixteen.”

“No, B,” Noah says, “Lanie doesn’t need to hear about—”

“The boy didn’t know a throttle from a thyroid,” she goes on, turning her back to Noah so he can’t shut her up. “Matter of fact, he’s the reason I got my certification to teach.”

“You were that inspiring?” I say to Noah.

“Hell no!” Bernadette cackles. “I figured if I could teach him, I could teach a rock. Three days after I gave him a lesson, he took off on some used piece of crap for Colorado. His mama almost killed me, but he made it!”

I try to imagine Noah at sixteen, riding through the Rocky Mountains. Something twists inside me. “Why did you go to Colorado?”

“Why does anyone do crazy things?” Bernadette says. “For love.”

“Her name was Tanya,” Noah says, wincing at the memory. “She played volleyball and was in Colorado for a tournament. Let’s just say, neither she nor her coach was impressed when I rolled into town.”

Bernadette hoots. “He came back with his tail between his legs.” She sighs and rubs at a smudge on her windshield. “Ah, well. Loving a human is nowhere near as simple as loving a bike. That’s why Noah sticks to fiction now, and I stick to porkin’ torque.”

I bite back a laugh then turn to Noah, expecting him to do the same. But when he meets my eyes... is it two hours of riding in the sun, or is he blushing? I feel my own cheeks getting warm as Noah turns away and starts fidgeting with his motorcycle gloves like they really need his attention.

Bernadette glances at Noah, then at me. “Why don’t you two take the bikes for a spin around the neighborhood while I set up the course for your riding test? A little street practice wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Want to?” Noah says to me.