Chapter 24: The Back of the Bike

I painted Hank's helmet in the back room on a Thursday night.

I did it in one sitting, because I already knew how it should look.

He sat on a stool across the bench with a mug of coffee.

I had told him he wasn't allowed to see it until it was done.

"It's my head," he said.

"It's my helmet."

"I'm the one wearing it."

"Then you can have an opinion about the chin strap."

His daughter's marker note was pinned to the corkboard above my brushes.

*Dad's helmet needs a bee.*

I started with the base coat, a deep forest green that went nearly black in the shop light.

Then I painted the ring of stars around the visor, small and gold, the same as on mine.

When I got to the back of the helmet, low down near the neck, I slowed down.

I had painted that bee once before, over nine nights, for a man who gave the helmet away.

He had put it on a woman who was not me, because he could not bear to look at it.

This time I did not hide.

I painted it big, as big as my thumb, with striped wings and a round, stubborn little body.

Hank watched me do it.

"It's a better bee," he said.

"It's the same bee."

"It looks happier."

"It's drawn by someone who isn't hiding it in a back room at midnight," I said.

He put down his mug.

"Bree."

"Mm?"

"Are you going to wear the gloves?"

I looked up.

He was holding them, the black leather pair with the gold stitching, which had lived in my jacket pocket for two weeks.