Motorcycle Babe

Night Ride

Raven

The wind tore at me as I pushed the bike harder, the speedometer climbing past reason. Ninety. A hundred. A hundred and five. I leaned into the road like I was daring it to throw me off, like maybe if I went fast enough, the past wouldn’t be able to catch me.

The engine screamed beneath me, rattling my ribs, vibrating straight through my bones. At this speed, my thoughts couldn’t keep up.

That was the point.

The faster I went, the quieter everything else got. No faces. No voices. No nights I promised myself I wouldn’t remember. Just asphalt, darkness, and streetlights blurring together until they stopped feeling real.

I didn’t slow until the neighborhood appeared out of nowhere, houses dark and asleep, unaware of how close I’d come to disappearing entirely. I cut the engine in the driveway sometime after two. Maybe closer to three. Time stopped meaning much once the roads emptied out.

Practice earlier had wrecked me — drills, hits, running until my lungs burned — but that kind of pain made sense. It stayed where it belonged. It didn’t follow me home.

What followed me was the thought I’d been dodging all night.

Tomorrow.

Senior year was supposed to be the year people talked about later. Late nights. Bad decisions. Memories that sound better once the damage fades. I wasn’t into the stupid stuff anymore. No pointless chaos. No harmless fun. I liked things sharp now. Controlled.

People don’t mess with me, and I like it that way. Fear is easier than being looked at like you’re broken.

Most girls seem to like that too. The edge. The recklessness. The way I don’t stay long enough for it to matter.

When the pressure builds and my chest feels too tight, I let someone else distract me. Warm hands. Heavy breaths. Bodies tangled together just long enough to quiet my head. It’s not about love. It’s not even about wanting them.

It’s about not thinking.

They never stay the night. I never ask them to. I don’t learn details that could make it real. The moment it starts to feel like something more, I’m already pulling away.

Because there’s only one person I ever wanted in a way that scared me.

I don’t say her name anymore. I don’t let myself picture her face or the way her laugh used to sneak up on me when I wasn’t paying attention. But she still shows up — in the silence after the engine cuts out, in the space between heartbeats, in the moments right before sleep when my guard slips.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow she’d be back.

First day. Back in the halls. Back in my orbit whether either of us wanted that or not. I didn’t know how she’d look, or if she’d look at me at all — but the thought sat heavy in my chest like a warning.

I parked the bike in the garage and shut it off, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears. I pulled off my helmet and set it beside Dad’s old toolbox, right next to the photo of him — smiling like the world hadn’t already decided to take him from us.

My chest tightened. I didn’t let myself breathe too deeply.

It’s been just the three of us for a while now. Mom keeps everything together by pretending she doesn’t see the cracks. My little sister’s got her own life forming — grades, friends, a boyfriend I don’t trust even if Mom does. She still believes things work out if you’re careful.

I used to believe that too.

Mom doesn’t ask questions anymore. As long as I don’t come home bleeding or arrested, she lets me disappear into myself.

Inside, the house was dark and silent. I moved through it like a ghost, boots quiet against the floor. In my room, I dropped my jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall longer than I meant to.

I told myself I didn’t care.

I told myself whatever existed between us was over.

I told myself tomorrow was just another day.

But my body has never listened to the lies my mouth tells.

Because no matter how fast I ride, no matter who I let touch me, no matter how hard I try to forget—

Tomorrow was going to remind me.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

“This year’s gonna be different.”

It had to be.

Because if she looked at me the way she used to, if the past found its way back in—

I still love her.