Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Motorcycle Lessons

T here are exactly twenty steps between the museum and the parking lot. I know because I counted them three times, standing in the rain, staring at my decisively dead car. The engine made a sound that would have impressed nineteenth-century plague doctors with its ominous finality, followed by an alarming amount of smoke that certainly wasn't part of any proper automotive function.

The Civil War surgical kit sat in its custom preservation case on the passenger seat, watching my breakdown with the same stoic dignity it had shown during actual battlefield operations. The brass fittings gleamed in the rain like they were mocking my predicament.

"Come on," I pleaded with my car, jiggling the key like that might magically fix whatever had just died with such theatrical flair. "The preservation specialist is coming. These bone saws have survived actual combat. They can't be late to their own evaluation."

The engine made another sound – something between a Victorian death rattle and a modern car's last gasp. More smoke poured from under the hood, this time with the kind of determination that suggested permanent retirement.

Of course, this would happen today when the preservation specialist was coming to evaluate our Civil War surgical kit for a major grant, and I had precisely thirty-seven minutes to get across town. When the collection's future literally depended on this meeting. When the only person who could possibly help was the last person I wanted to ask for anything.

I tried calling Dex first – straight to voicemail. Then the museum's maintenance staff – all out on a plumbing emergency in the Egyptian wing. Even my father's car service had a two-hour wait.

Thunder cracked overhead as I weighed my options:

Walk three miles in the rain with priceless medical artifacts

Miss the evaluation and risk losing collection funding

Call Jack

Commit historical sacrilege by exposing nineteenth-century surgical tools to precipitation

Consider a career change to something less dependent on reliable transportation

My phone felt impossibly heavy as I pulled up his contact. We hadn't spoken since the trustee event, since that note he left in the surgical catalog, since everything became simultaneously more complicated and more real than I was ready to handle.

He answered on the first ring.

"Sophie?"

Just my name, but his voice still did things to my chest that probably required medical attention. Things that violated several rules about professional distance and emotional containment.

"I need—" You. No. Focus. "A ride. The preservation specialist is coming, and my car's dead, and I have to transport the Civil War kit and—"

"I'll be there in five."

"But the artifacts need special handling and temperature control and—"

"Three minutes," he amended. "Don't let the bone saws get wet."

He was there in three, motorcycle gleaming wet in the storm because Jack Morrison could bend time when it came to rescuing damsels in distress with historical medical equipment.

His leather jacket was already off before he reached me, holding it out like a peace offering. Water dripped from his hair, making him look like some rain-soaked motorcycle deity – not that I was noticing things like how his white t-shirt clung to his shoulders or how the storm made his eyes look darker than usual.

"The artifacts need to stay dry," he said; all business like this was just another museum emergency, and we hadn't spent the past week avoiding each other since the trustee event. Like he hadn't left that note that I hadn't read fourteen times and color-coded by emotional impact.

"I can't—"

"Take the jacket, Sophie."

Something in his voice made me reach out. The leather was warm from his body, carrying that familiar cedar and ice scent that made my heart forget basic anatomical functions. I clutched it like a shield, trying not to think about how many other girls had worn this jacket, had breathed in this scent, had felt this warmth.

"The surgical kit won't fit in my backpack," he said, eyeing the carefully packed case. His eyes tracked the elegant brass latches, the custom padding, and the humidity indicators I'd insisted on installing. "Civil War era, right? The Billroth collection?"

"You'll have to hold it," he continued, professional mode fully engaged. "Which means you'll need to learn basic motorcycle positioning. For artifact preservation purposes."

Right. Artifact preservation. I'm not at all concerned about how this will require pressing against him for the entire ride. Purely professional. Completely—

"Sophie?"

"What? Yes. Artifacts. Very important."

His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "First rule of motorcycle safety—"

"You're giving me rules?" The laugh escaped before I could stop it. "That's usually my job."

"Consider it academic reciprocation." He moved closer, all athlete's grace and barely contained energy. "Put your right foot here," he guided my foot to the passenger peg, his hand warm through my rain-soaked jeans. "Swing your left leg over. Like mounting a horse, but with more horsepower."

"I've never ridden a horse either."

"Then consider this your first lesson in vehicular trust exercises." His hand stayed steady on my elbow as I awkwardly clambered onto the bike. "The important thing is maintaining your center of gravity while protecting the artifacts."

I managed to get on without dropping either the surgical kit or my dignity, which felt like a significant victory. Then Jack climbed on in front of me, and suddenly victory felt a lot like torture.

"You'll need to hold on," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "One arm around my waist, the other securing the artifacts. Keep the case vertical – these old instruments are sensitive to positional stress."

This is fine. This is normal. This is just a professional courtesy between colleagues who may or may not have almost kissed during a power outage last week.

"Sophie?"

"Hm?"

"You're not holding on."

"Right. Yes. Holding. For artifact safety."

I wrapped my arm around his waist, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance. The first turn eliminated that possibility entirely. Survival instinct kicked in, and suddenly, I was pressed against him like a Victorian lady with a case of the vapors.

"Lean with me through the turns," he called over his shoulder. "Like dancing. You follow my lead and anticipate the movement. The bike responds better when we work together."

Like dancing. That’s not an emotionally loaded comparison at all.

"The surgical kit—"

"Is perfectly stabilized against your arm. Trust your instincts, Sophie. You're good at protecting things that matter."

The way he said it – like he meant more than just artifacts – made my chest tight.

The rain made everything more intense – the need to stay close, the warmth of his body against the cold, the way his muscles moved as he guided the motorcycle through city streets. Each turn required perfect synchronization, a physical trust I wasn't ready to examine too closely.

"You're a natural," he said during a stop light, his hand briefly covering mine where it rested on his waist. "Most first-time riders fight the lean."

"Maybe I'm just good at following rules."

"Maybe you're better at trusting than you think."

Before I could process that, the light changed, and we were moving again. The rain intensified, and sheets of water made visibility a theoretical concept.

We were halfway across town when the sky totally opened up. Lightning split the sky, followed by thunder that made the bike vibrate. Jack pulled into a covered garage, cutting the engine.

"We need to wait it out," he said, not moving to dismount. Not asking me to let go. "The artifacts can't handle this much exposure. These old brass fittings are especially susceptible to rapid temperature changes."

"Right. The artifacts."

We sat there in rain-scented silence, my arm still around his waist, his heart beating steady under my palm. The surgical kit rested safely in my other arm, its brass fittings catching dim light like stars.

"Check the humidity indicator," he said softly. "Make sure the case seal is holding."

I shifted slightly to see the dial, bringing us impossibly closer. "It's within preservation parameters."

"Good." His hand found mine again, thumb tracing patterns that had nothing to do with professional distance. "We're good at preserving things. Maybe too good sometimes."

"The first time I rode a motorcycle," Jack said suddenly, his voice barely audible over the rain, "I was terrified. Everyone thought I was naturally good at it, naturally confident. The bad boy who was born to break rules and ride bikes. But I was only playing a role. Being what people expected."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because." He shifted slightly, his hand still covering mine on his waist. "Sometimes the scariest part isn't learning something new. It's letting people see you learning. Letting them see you vulnerable. Like admitting you know the exact preservation requirements for Civil War surgical tools because you actually care about medical history, not because you're trying to impress someone."

The rain drummed on the garage roof, creating a strange bubble of intimacy. In the dim light, with the storm surrounding us, everything felt both more real and less certain.

"I did research," he said quietly. "After you... after everything. Found Sarah's senior recital program. The date she claimed I was helping her? I was actually in Boston for a game. We have photos from the team bus, timestamps on social media, about fifty witnesses including the coach and my grandmother, who was apparently documenting my 'athletic phase' for her scrapbook."

My heart stuttered. "Jack—"

"I'm not telling you this to defend myself. I'm telling you because sometimes what looks like a pattern is really just everyone trying to make things fit their expectations. Sarah wanted the sensitive musician. Emma wanted the artistic soul. Kendra wanted the cultured intellectual."

"And what did you want?"

"Someone who saw me. Not the roles, the expectations, or the carefully constructed image. Just... me." His thumb traced patterns on my hand, sending electricity through my skin. "Someone who color-codes dental tools and gets excited about Victorian medical practices and hits people with historical artifacts."

Despite everything, I laughed. "That was one time."

"Best concussion of my life."

"You're ridiculous."

"Says the girl who installed humidity indicators in a surgical kit case."

"These instruments survived actual battlefield conditions! They deserve proper preservation protocols."

"See?" He turned slightly enough that I could see his profile in the dim light. "That passion right there? That's real. That's you. Not trying to impress anyone, not playing a role. Just purely, authentically caring about something."

"Like someone who memorizes preservation requirements just because they matter to someone else?"

"Like someone who learns about Victorian medical practices because watching you talk about them makes everything else fade away."

The rain was easing now, but neither of us moved. His hand stayed over mine, warm and steady and more intimate than any almost-kiss.

"I don't know how to trust this," I whispered.

"I know." He squeezed my hand gently. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe we start with something simple. Like learning to lean into turns. Like trusting that some things – like Civil War surgical kits and complicated feelings – are worth protecting."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but it felt less threatening now. More like background music to whatever was happening in this strange, rain-soaked moment.

"The artifacts should be safe to transport now," he said, but didn't start the bike.

"Probably."

"We should go."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"I missed you. Not just... this." He gestured vaguely at the motorcycle, at our current position. "But late nights in the museum. Discussing medical history. Watching you organize things by date and significance and color-coding. The way you handle old medical tools like they're precious. The way you light up when you find a new detail in the archives."

Don't cry. Don't let him see how much that matters. Don't think about how specific these details are, how he notices things no one else does, how he makes everything harder by being so—

"I color-coded your note," I admitted. "The one you left in the surgical catalog. Purple for apologies. Blue for medical references. Green for..."

"For?"

"For the parts that made me wish I was brave enough to believe you. The parts that sounded so real it hurt."

His breath caught. Slowly, carefully, like handling rare artifacts, he brought my hand to his chest. His heart raced under my palm, a rhythm as unsteady as mine.

"Still think I'm pretending?"

The preservation specialist called before I could answer, their number flashing across my phone like a lifeline. Reality crashed back in with all the subtlety of a Victorian amputation.

The ride to the specialist's office was different – less tense, more something else. I leaned into turns without hesitation, following Jack's movements like we'd been doing this for years. Like trust was something you could learn, love was something you could practice, and some things were worth the risk of being wrong.

He took the corners with extra care, mindful of the precious cargo we carried – both the surgical kit and whatever fragile thing was rebuilding between us.

"The preservation requirements," he said at a stoplight, "for Civil War-era surgical tools. The humidity has to stay between 45-55%, the temperature stable at 70 degrees, and minimal vibration exposure."

"You memorized the preservation protocols?"

"I memorized everything you care about."

The rest of the ride passed in a silence heavy with things we weren't quite ready to say.

"Thank you," I said when we arrived, reluctantly handing back his jacket. "For the ride. And the lessons."

"Anytime." He smiled – that real smile that had nothing to do with bad boy images or careful performances. "I mean it. Anytime you need anything."

I nodded, clutching the surgical kit like a shield. But before I could turn away, he caught my hand.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"Green's my favorite color too."

He was gone before I could respond, the motorcycle's roar fading like thunder. I stood there, holding a Civil War surgical kit and what felt dangerously like hope, watching him disappear into traffic.

Later, I found a note tucked into my museum locker:

***

"Some lessons can't be taught through rules.

Some trust has to be earned in rain.

Some hearts learn to beat in synchronization

Through turns and trials and trying again.

The surgical kit taught me something today – How some things survive impossible conditions,

How preservation isn't just about protocols,

How protection sometimes means taking risks.

Meet me at midnight? The Victorian medical section needs reorganizing.

I brought coffee and color-coded sticky notes.

And maybe some trust worth preserving.

Just in case you're brave enough to believe.”

J

***

I filed it under green.

For the parts that made me want to be brave. For the parts that felt real. For the parts that made me think some risks were worth taking. For the way he remembered preservation protocols and humidity levels and everything that mattered to me.

Even if they involved motorcycles, bad boys, and hearts that didn't follow proper preservation procedures.

Because maybe love, like riding motorcycles, wasn't about being naturally good at it.

Maybe it was about learning to lean into turns or trusting someone enough to hold on. Or maybe it was about being brave enough to believe that some things – like coffee at midnight, color-coded notes, and boys who knew your heart better than your organizational system – were worth the risk of falling.

Even if it meant breaking all the rules about professional distance. Even if it meant admitting that some forms of preservation had nothing to do with artifacts. Even if it meant learning that the scariest part wasn't the riding.

It was the believing.

And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to believe that some things – like trust and love and boys who memorized preservation protocols – were worth preserving.

Even if they didn't come with proper handling instructions. Even if they required learning to lean into uncertainty. Even if they meant risking everything for the chance at something real.

Something worth protecting. Something worth preserving. Something worth believing in.

Like a boy who knew the exact humidity requirements for Civil War surgical tools. Like a heart learning to trust again or love found between motorcycle lessons and medical history.