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I’m quick to comment on the display, “Why so serious, Mr. Roberts?”

Yet, my laughter bursts instantly and so his.

He puts a mixed bouquet in front of me. “Happy first anniversary.”

I grab it in my palms, loving the colorful view of it. “Thank you.” I dip my face to smell the various scents it exudes. “And to think I was just standing in this hallway, a year ago, with my boxes.”

He chuckles, “Time flies, petal.”

He never used that nickname before, but it kind of makes me giddy.

Tranquility envelops me as I take another turn and swerve my bike sideways, enjoying the freedom and the never-ending thrill while The Look by Roxette starts playing in my helmet’s speakers.

I don’t think about death when I ride. It is pointless and far from the reason I ride in the first place.

I don’t ride to die.

I ride to set myself free of all the burdens I carry.

I ride to enjoy life and celebrate it.

I ride to give other women the boost to get on a motorcycle, and show them that they can do anything they set their minds to.

I ride to prove myself I’m strong.

I ride because it makes me happy, squeezing the beast between my thighs, knowing damn well I have a death machine under me but I would still do it time and time again.

I ride because if I don’t, a part of me will die.

The loud exhaust stills as I shut down my bike in the parking lot of my building and take the elevator to the second floor.

With my helmet in hand and my swaggers walk, I smirk to myself as I exit—do other bikers feel like rockstars when they get off their bikes and walk around with their gear?

I think so. It’s a major confidence boost to many.

Crossing the hallway to my apartment, I halt when I reach my door just in time to hear the tunes escaping Theo’s apartment a few feet from me on the opposite side.

The way his fingers slide along the neck of the guitar is already plaguing my brain—in my imagination, I can see him shirtless, pressed to his guitar. And I can feel him, all the vibrations he creates, and it makes my body tingle.

I take a long inhale, close my eyes, and exhale with a sigh.

I had a moment in high school that fueled me to learn how to play drums. It was damn hard to the point I threw my drumsticks to the trash more times than I can count. But eventually, a year later I learned.

The satisfaction it delivered was worth all of the frustration.

I miss it sometimes. It used to be how I let my anger and sadness out, happiness and excitement as well.

Through high school that was my escape. Bikes were expensive and I couldn’t afford maintenance and gear.

Fast forward to my adult life, living in a building doesn’t allow that luxury, unfortunately, unless you want to piss off your neighbors or get evicted.

Instead of drums, I got a bike. Much more expensive in the long run, but more effective and doable—that’s what the twenty-year-old me told herself seven years ago.

I still stand by those words.

The notes engulf me one more time before I open my door and stride inside. Locking it behind me, I gaze at my apartment—even with all the furniture and stuff inside, it feels empty.

I was so excited when I moved in here three years ago. Being able to afford this was unimaginable at the time but I did it, all on my own.