I got on the back and wrapped my arms around him, hoping that the cast wasn’t too uncomfortable. He took off and I was transported back to the first time I had ever ridden on a motorcycle. I was sixteen. We had finished his tutoring session and he invited me out for a hamburger, assuring me it wasn’t a date. We picked up dinner at a fast-food place and started out in miserable traffic. As soon as he hit the freeway, he merged to the left and we flew. I was petrified, but it was a sense of freedom I had never felt before. He took me into the mountains near where we lived, and we ate, staring at the horizon until the sun vanished and it was dark. We didn’t talk much. We sat close, but he didn’t do anything physical to me. I knew he hated to be touched, but even so I believed back then that he just wasn’t attracted to me.

Night was falling now, but lights emerged a few minutes after we left. The place was located in a block of small shops. He pulled the bike around to the back entrance, killed the motor, and we both hopped off. Hanging the helmets on the handlebars, he walked the bike through a rear door. A bodyguard was there to meet him.

To me, he said, “I’ll take the jacket.”

“Of course.” I gave it to him.

We went through the kitchen and came out into the restaurant. It was a typical kind of Italian restaurant—no Chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling, but checkered tablecloths and posters of Italy. It was busy with townsfolk in casual clothing: T-shirts, jeans or khakis, and flip-flops or sandals. There were several tables of knockout women. Chris nodded to them and they nodded back. He chose a table near the kitchen with visibility to the front door. He pulled a chair out for me, then he sat down. A moment later, there were two glasses of red wine, two glasses of water, a basket of bread and butter, a salad for him, and a bowl of soup for myself.

He said, “I don’t know if you’re still on medication. Are you drinking wine?”

“I can have a glass.”

“You want white instead of red?”

“No, red is fine, thank you.” He offered me some bread and I took a slice. “Thank you.”

“Soup okay? I thought it might be easier than salad.”

“It’s great, Chris, thank you.”

“Third time you’ve thanked me.”

“I was taught well.”

We ate in silence for a few moments. Then he said, “You look a little stunned.”

“I haven’t been out very much.” Silence. “It’s disorienting.”

“I’m sure it is.” More silence. He said, “Can I help?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” I put down my soup spoon. “Just a lot has happened.”