Francesca clamped her eyelids shut as misery settled upon her like a weight.
* * *
Three days later, she sat in the Department of Motor Vehicles office in Deerfield, Illinois, studying the motorcycle “Rules of the Road” on Ian’s tablet. Yes, she still planned never to see Ian again on any sexual basis, and no, he’d definitely believed what she’d told him on that sunny Friday morning, because he hadn’t tried to contact her since he’d left. She kept trying to tell herself she was glad he wasn’t calling her, but somehow, her self-convincing didn’t feel all that persuasive.
What was that expression that had shadowed his face when she’d told him not to call her? Why is it that both in that situation three days ago and also on that occasion when he’d freaked out upon finding she was a virgin that he’d been the one who looked abandoned, not the other way around? The thoughts made it feel as if her heart were being squeezed by a giant invisible hand.
No, she wouldn’t dwell on such things. It was impossible to pierce the dark, complex inner workings of Ian’s soul. It was folly to even try.
It surprised her a little that she’d continued with her driving lessons with Jacob, given her and Ian’s break. But she’d become strangely fixated on the idea of getting her license. Maybe part of her believed what Ian had told her. It was an important milestone of development that she’d passed up because of her emotional issues as a child and teenager. Her compulsion to drive somehow related to her wanting to take full control of her life for the first time. School was going well. Her painting for Ian would soon be finished.
For the first time in her life, she really did feel like she was starting to gain control . . . not just fumbling along, surviving from day to day. She wanted to be in the driver’s seat of Francesca Arno’s life, just like Ian had suggested. If it was destined to be a train wreck, well . . . at least she could say who was responsible.
Her eyes burned from all her studying on the tablet. She’d already passed the regular driver’s test, but the motorcycle test remained.
“Feeling confident?” Jacob asked from where he sat next to her, reading a newspaper. The DMV was packed. They’d been waiting for almost two hours now to be called so that Francesca could take her test.
“For the written part, anyway,” she said. “Maybe we should have practiced for more than one day on Ian’s motorcycle?”
“You’ll do fine,” Jacob assured. “You’re actually more of a natural on a motorcycle than you are behind the wheel of a car, and you passed that test with flying colors.”
She gave him a wry glance. “I barely passed the driver’s portion. The first thing I did when I pulled onto the road was cut off another driver.”
“But that was the only mistake,” Jacob reminded her. Sweet man.
Someone called her name.
“Wish me luck,” she said anxiously to Jacob as she stood.
“Luck isn’t necessary. You can do this,” he said with far more confidence than was warranted, in her opinion.
She took the driving portion of the motorcycle test on Ian’s motorcycle: a sleek, badass European bike. Jacob had told her over the past few days that Ian had a long-term love of motorcycles.
“I think he told me he used to fix motorcycles when he was a kid. He’s got a scary natural talent for it. Guess it all goes with that math, computer brain he’s got. All I know is, he can fix a car in twice the time I can, and I’m nearly twice his age,” Jacob had told her a few days ago, a hint of pride in his tone.
She also learned from Jacob that Ian was part owner in an increasingly popular, innovative French company that made superexpensive high-tech bikes and scooters.
The only reason she’d agreed to Jacob’s motorcycle training is that she suspected Ian recalled what she’d said about those motor scooters in Paris. And in truth, one of those scooters fit with her limited budget, her transportation and parking needs in a busy city, not to mention her burgeoning sense of independence and desire to better run her life. Her plan was to buy an inexpensive scooter after she got her license, and screw it if she’d taken advantage of what Ian offered after he’d abandoned her.
She’d accept the hundred thousand dollars she’d earned on the commission. She’d take everything he’d offered and walk away from him, just as he’d walked away from her.
That’s what she told herself, anyway. It comforted her to imagine she was as callous about Ian as he’d been about her.
Bloody bastard. Up and leaving town after she’d bared herself to him . . . after he’d seemingly done so to her.
“Well?” Jacob asked, standing when she approached him in the waiting room after taking her motorcycle test, her expression somber. He studied her face anxiously, his eyes springing wide. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it again as soon as you’ve practiced more.”
Francesca grinned. “I was ribbing you. I passed. With true flying colors this time.”
He gave her a quick hug and congratulations, Francesca laughing, ebullient with relief. She’d done it! Better late than never.
Jacob excused himself to secure Ian’s motorcycle in the back of the limo—she’d been shocked at how much room was in the cab of the luxurious car once Jacob broke down and stored the table between the couch seats. Francesca sat in the waiting room, held up again until she was called to get her photo for her license. The DMV was synonymous with waiting. After a few minutes of growing impatient and bored, she opened up Ian’s tablet, glad to be able to look at whatever she wanted to pass the time instead of having to study the rules of the road. She clicked for a search and several items came up on the drop-down menu . . . obviously sites Ian visited regularly. Feeling a little guilty, she studied the history. Where did Ian surf on the Internet? Most of the topics made sense—businesses and people he was doing background searches on.