A part of her felt a tingle of exhilaration with the wind on her body like this as the landscape flew by, but the other part felt like every minute she spent on this bike was a mistake.
Cassidy tightened her grip on Dutch’s sides and held on.
During the drive, her mind waxed from hyperawareness to the sensation of drifting through space. Since Costa Rica, she had not been this close to another human besides Quinn. Was this progress?
Dutch drove smoothly, keeping to the speed limit, and stopping once to let her stretch her legs. At the rest area, she looked for Izzy or signs that she had been there, like a message scratched into the bathroom stall walls. When of course she found nothing, she felt silly for looking. On the last leg of the trip, though her legs began to ache, the smell of Dutch’s leather and the open road began to feel almost welcome.
When they descended towards the city, the shiny, hazy expanse of the San Francisco Bay filled their horizon. Cassidy felt relief and a twinge of nerves flutter through her belly. While she loved this city because it was Quinn’s home and because of the sweet memories it held of Pete, it also made his accident feel closer to the surface.
Dutch followed the highway along the east edge of the bay, the gray-blue water choppy with whitecaps. Ahead, the traffic slowed, and Cassidy had to remember to hold herself back from falling against Dutch as he downshifted.
“Why is there so much traffic?” Cassidy shouted, looking around at all the cars. It was Sunday night.
“Bay Bridge toll,” he said, moving into the space between lanes and accelerating.
Cassidy was instantly on edge as Dutch cruised within inches of the idling cars at speeds that did not feel safe. What if someone suddenly opened a car door? Was this legal?
Finally, they reached the toll booth. While Dutch paid, Cassidy sat up, stretching her back then flexing each leg, rubbing the tendons along her kneecaps. She had already figured out that Dutch handled the bike differently with her on the back, as if his body could interpret her needs, and this feeling—which she interpreted as consideration—made the tension in her stiff limbs ratchet down a notch.
The Bay Bridge rose over the giant expanse of water dotted with boats of every size, the lowering sun blasting them square in the face. Cassidy hid her head behind Dutch’s, squinting through her visor at the view flashing by. They crossed Yerba Buena island, then continued to the second span of the bridge, the city skyline looming closer, the glass windows of the buildings shining like mirrors.
The freeway cut through tall buildings, the city streets below teeming with activity. They exited the freeway and curved around, descending with the flow of traffic. Cassidy recognized the names of the streets: Harrison, Folsom, Howard, until Market, where Dutch turned left, crossing the trolley tracks.
Cassidy knew exactly where they were. A wide, brick-laden promenade, dotted with leafy trees set inside square dirt planters, lined the broad street on both sides. As they accelerated up Market, Cassidy took in the busy boardwalk. She saw street performers, a pair of young men dressed almost identically in black jackets, black jeans with holes, and black high-tops and wearing thick black eyeliner and with large gauges punched in both ears, families with young children, students wearing backpacks, street vendors hawking tee-shirts, hats, sunglasses, cyclists, and what looked like an Elderhostel group following a tour guide. Covered bus stops and bike racks were spaced evenly up the road which was dominated by buses. At a trolley stop, Cassidy watched a group of middle-aged Asian couples pose for a selfie, their arms laden with shopping bags. At a V in the road, Dutch veered right and continued up a side street. They drove several blocks, passing a building under construction with the word “Tenderloin” printed across the protective sheathing in color-block print. Cassidy saw signs for a hotel, a mission, and parking. Dutch turned right on a narrow street, cruising to an open spot between a dumpster parked along the curb and a SUV.
With the engine off and the bike at rest, Cassidy climbed off, her inner thighs cramping after so many hours of holding her position. Dutch tilted the bike onto its shiny metal kickstand while she slid the helmet off.
Cassidy flexed her feet one at a time while Dutch stored the helmet in the box on the back of the bike. She checked her phone but saw no word from Quinn, who was flying home from Aspen and arriving in San Francisco late that night. Thankfully, there were no more missed calls from unknown numbers. Were they finally leaving her alone? She also had no messages or missed calls from Izzy’s number, but Cassidy hadn’t expected any.
“The club’s on the other side of that block,” Dutch said, leading the way.
Cassidy fell in next to him, sliding her phone back into her pocket. The city heat felt prickly and thick, the sky a pale blue as they walked back in the direction they had come.
Though the streets were clean, a ripe odor, though faint, mixed with exhaust from the passing cars. Bars covered the windows and entrances to the lower-level buildings lining the street. They waited for a series of cars to pass then crossed to the other side, then turned down the road they had driven to the corner. Dutch moved with purpose, his heavy boots scuffing the pavement. A middle-aged woman in a slate-blue cardigan gave them a strange look when they passed, and Cassidy realized for the first
