Bathroom break, Cole said without elaborating. You planned this, Evelyn said slowly. I hoped for it, Cole corrected. Planning would have assumed I knew how it went. I didn't.
Evelyn studied him for a moment. There was something about that distinction between planning and hoping that she turned over carefully in her mind. It was the distinction of a man who understood the difference between control and faith. "Well," she said. "Here I am."
Here you are, Diane agreed warmly and took her other arm with the easy naturalness of someone who has helped people stand up from harder places than a diner parking lot. There were 11 of them in total. 11 people who had been eating breakfast at the truck stop across the highway and had redirected themselves at a text from Cole that said, "Apparently, three words need the crew." That was it. Three words and they had paid their checks and ridden over.
Evelyn would find this out later, and when she did, she would have to excuse herself to the bathroom for a few minutes for reasons she didn't explain to anyone. But that was later. Right now, she was still processing the immediate reality of 11 strangers looking at her with expressions that contained not a single molecule of pity. That was the other thing she noticed. No pity.
Pity she could have identified immediately. She had become fluent in it. This was something different. This was the particular look of people who have survived their own difficult things and recognized the signs of survival in others without making it smaller than it is. A man with a long gray beard and forearms like bridge cables, shook her hand and introduced himself as Bear, which she assumed was a nickname and didn't ask about.
A younger woman, 30-something maybe, with a sleeve of tattoos and enormous dark eyes, said her name was Priya, and squeezed Evelyn's hand in both of hers and said simply, "We've got you." A quiet man named Dutch, who appeared to communicate primarily through nods, gave her the most affirming nod she had ever received. A wiry red-headed man named Patch made a joke she didn't quite catch, but laughed at his own punchline so genuinely that she found herself almost laughing, too, which surprised her. She had not expected to be anywhere near laughing. Cole was watching her navigate all of this with the same settled attention he'd shown in the diner.
Not hovering, not managing, just present. I don't know how to ride a motorcycle, Evelyn said suddenly. She wasn't sure why she said it. It felt like the most immediately true thing about her situation. I know, Cole said.
I've never been on one. That's all right. What if I fall? You won't. You can't know that.
I know how to drive, so you won't, he said patiently. There's a difference. She looked at the line of motorcycles. They were large and loud looking, even standing still, vibrating with a kind of latent energy that made the air around them feel different. This is a very strange day, she said.
Yeah. Cole agreed. It is. I called my neighbor Ruth. Evelyn said, "She's waiting for me.
She'll be worried if Call her, Cole said immediately. Tell her you're okay. Tell her where you're going. Give her my number if you want. He pulled out his phone and held it toward her with the number visible on the screen.
I'm not asking you to trust me blindly. I'm just asking you to trust enough to take the next step. Evelyn looked at the number. Then she took out her own phone, a smartphone her grandson had spent 45 minutes teaching her to use the previous Christmas, and she called Ruth. Ruth picked up on the first ring.
Evelyn, I've been sitting here watching the door. What's happening? Should I come in? No, no, don't come in. Evelyn turned slightly away from the group.
Something happened. I'm I'm going with someone. Some people. A pause. What kind of people?
Bikers. A longer pause. Evelyn Marie Harper. I know. You're telling me you walked out of that diner and you're now leaving with a biker.
Bikers plural. There are 11 of them. That's supposed to be more reassuring. Despite herself, despite everything, Evelyn laughed. It was a short sound, almost startled out of her, but it was real.
His name is Cole Ryder. I'm going to read you his number. Write it down, Ruth. She read the number. She could hear Ruth writing the scratch of pen on the notepad she kept by her kitchen chair.
And Michael, Ruth said after a moment. The question landed differently than Ruth probably intended. It was a simple question. What about Michael? But it contained everything.
The drive there, the iron blouse, the earring, the apology, the hand she had extended across the table that had not been taken. Michael is still in the diner, Evelyn said. Another pause longer this time. Okay, Ruth said quietly. Okay, sweetheart.
You go. But you call me tonight. You call me tonight or I swear I will drive every highway in Montana. I'll call you tonight. I love you, Evelyn.