Free Lost in Love by Susane Colasanti Page B

gripping the bar, when I hear the instructor yell, “Let go!” I release my grasp and fly at the other bar that’s swinging toward me. My hands find the new bar and I grip it tight. Logan hoots from where he’s watching with the rest of our group.
    This is the way I hoped living in New York City would be. Exhilarating, tantalizing, and just the right amount of dangerous. Being in the Now is not hard when you’re flying through the air far above the ground. I can see formiles up here. Night is my favorite time of day, but I’ve always loved this summer evening pre-sunset time when the anticipation of night makes your pulse race and your imagination run wild. You never know what the night can do. One night can change your life forever.
    Logan’s tall lankiness does not interfere with his agility. I watch as he takes his turn. He puts power behind his swing, flipping up to bend his knees over the bar. I hoot for him even louder than he hooted for me.
    â€œYou were awesome,” Logan tells me as we’re leaving Pier 40. “You always were.”
    â€œAwesome at the flying trapeze?”
    â€œAwesome at everything.”
    We stop on the sidewalk, staring at each other. The people weaving around us are barely detectable beyond my trance. This is how it was with us back home. This is how we were.
    I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him until we become the way we were again. But I remind myself what he did. The bitter memory is enough to hold me back.
    Logan doesn’t kiss me when he puts his arm around my waist. He just walks me over to one of the cute West Village streets. Did he want to kiss me, too? Could he tell I wasn’t ready? He stops next to a shiny black motorcycle parked between two cars.
    â€œThis is us.” He unlocks a compartment at the back and takes out two helmets.
    â€œHow is this us? This isn’t your motorcycle.”
    â€œIt’s my friend’s.”
    â€œThe guy who’s letting you stay at his place?”
    â€œAnother guy.”
    â€œHow do you know so many people in New York?”
    â€œI know like three or four guys. That’s not so many people.” Logan puts his helmet on. It’s black with red flames. “Put your helmet on.”
    My helmet is red with black flames in a reverse pattern of Logan’s. I’m bummed that it will flatten the beachy tousled look my hair cooperated in achieving this morning but delighted that it matches my candy-colored oversize tank, black leggings, and cherry-red BOBS. I grin at the irony of wearing sneakers tonight compared to the stilettos I was wearing the first time Logan took me motorcycle riding. We rode down the California coast on our second date.
    â€œWait,” I say before Logan gets on. “Why are we doing the same things we did on our first and second dates?”
    â€œAre we?” Logan asks in an overly inquisitive tone.
    I wait for him to spill.
    â€œTonight is all about going back to the good times,” he reveals. “So, I don’t know . . . I thought re-creating highlights from our first three dates might be romantic.”
    My heart swells. It’s amazing that this boy can still surprise me in the most unexpected ways.
    â€œLook . . . I can tell you’re reluctant to trust me again,”he says. “I get it. I messed up big-time. I’d probably feel the same way if I were in your position. That’s why I want to show you that you can trust me. I want to remind you of what we had.”
    This is an absurd conversation to be having in motorcycle helmets. Will helmets protect us in case of an emotional crash? Nervous laughter bubbles up in my throat. I tamp it down.
    â€œDo you remember how good it was?” he asks.
    Of course I do. But I also remember him dumping me. Why did he break us apart?
    Logan gets on the motorcycle and starts the engine. I get on behind him, put my arms around his waist, and hang on tight.
    We ride way