Because it’s not a car. It’s a motorcycle. He informs me he doesn’t own a car. Item number four thousand seven hundred eighty-two on the list of things normal people own that A.J. Edwards doesn’t. “I can’t ride on that!” I stare at the ginormous black Harley parked in the back lot. It glitters with chrome and menace. Under the flickering fluorescent lamplight of the parking lot, it seems to leer at me. One saving grace, at least: it’s stopped raining. “Of course you can.” A.J. opens one of the leather side bags strapped to the back of the bike, produces a helmet that looks as if half of it is missing, and hands it to me. “Put this on.” He mounts the bike and starts it with a brisk kick of his leg. It roars to life, exhaling fumes. I cough and fan a hand back and forth in front of my face. “I’ll die on that thing!” I shout over the racket. “Forget it! I’ll call a cab!” He shoves the hoodie off his head, pulls his hair out of the elastic that’s been holding it in the messy man bun at the nape of his neck, and straps on a helmet, all while gazing calmly at me.
