Page 10 of Gatsby's Starlet
I called it cheerful.
By the time I’d made coffee, strong, because I needed help, and changed into a soft cream blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans that made me feel put together without feeling like a costume, the nerves had settled into something steadier.
Anticipation.
At nine on the dot, the low rumble of an engine rolled down the street outside.
The sound was deeper. Older. Not the high whine of something modern and over-tuned, but a grounded mechanical growl that vibrated faintly through the glass in the front window.
My stomach flipped.
I set the mug down too quickly, wiped my hands on my jeans, then immediately regretted that and smoothed the fabric as if I’d just undone all my effort.
When I stepped outside onto the small front porch, he was already there.
And so was the motorcycle.
It wasn’t shiny in the way new things tried to be impressive. The paint was darker, richer, the chrome worn in places that spoke of use rather than neglect. It looked maintained, not babied. Like him.
He swung a leg off the bike and pulled off his helmet in one smooth motion, blond hair settling back into place with minimal adjustment.
“You’re punctual,” I said, because apparently stating obvious facts was my chosen defense mechanism.
His mouth tilted slightly. “You don’t strike me as someone who’s late.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
“I figured.”
The ease of it, the way he said it without teasing, settled deep inside of me because he seemed so perfect.
“You want to come in?” I asked before I could second-guess myself. “Just for a minute. I, um… haven’t finished my coffee.”
That was a lie. I’d finished it, but I wasn’t ready to climb onto that motorcycle without one more breath of control.
He hesitated only long enough to glance at the house, then nodded once. “Sure.”
When he stepped inside, he didn’t comment immediately. Didn’t whistle. Didn’t look confused.
He took it in.
The rotary phone. The lace curtains. The record player. The framed botanical prints on the wall that I’d restored myself after finding them water-damaged in a thrift bin.
“You live like this on purpose,” he said finally.
I folded my arms loosely. “That sounds accusatory.”
“It’s not.”
He walked a slow half-circle through the living room, fingers brushing lightly over the polished wood of the side table I’d refinished last winter.
“It’s easy,” he added.
That, for reasons I couldn’t explain, felt like a compliment.
“I like things that last,” I said quietly.
He nodded once, like that tracked. “No TV?” he asked.
