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“You’re not. Were you. Is that where we’re going?”
“Yep. If you’re ready, that is.”
“Nick, you shit-head. Really?”
“If you’re ready. If you’re not, tell me now so I can get the fuck out of here before either of them see me.”
“I’m wearing shorts, Chuck’s and a shitty shirt,” she complained.
“You look cute,” I assured her. “Yes, or no?”
“I mean, I want to, but--”
“Yes, or no?”
“I would love to, but I look like--”
I pulled in the clutch, shifted into gear, and released it. As the bike got even with the drive, she slapped my shoulder.
“Yes.”
I got on the brakes, but it was too late. I rolled past and had to turn around in the middle of the street to get into the drive.
We parked, and I shut off the bike. “Ready?”
“Oh boy.” She took off her helmet, brushed the wrinkles from her shirt, and adjusted her ponytail. “Okay.”
I hung my helmet on the bars. “Let’s do it.”
Together we nervously walked up the walk. After stepping on the porch, I rapped my knuckles against the door three times.
“Enter!”
And I opened the door.
