“You started it.”
They sat.
Ferry horn.
Gulls.
Salt wind.
The same sounds.
The biker asked:
“Did I ever tell you your dad called me an idiot?”
“Many times.”
“Wanted to make sure.”
“You both had that in common.”
The biker laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I was afraid meeting you would turn into me trying to make up for him.”
The girl tilted her head.
“What do you mean?”
“Like I owed your father a life.”
“So I’d interfere.”
“Buy things.”
“Fix things.”
“Pretend helping you was repayment.”
The girl smiled.
“You were terrible at fixing things.”
“Exactly.”
He continued:
“Somewhere along the way, you stopped being his daughter.”
The girl frowned jokingly.
“That sounds bad.”
“You know what I mean.”
She did.
He said:
“You became you.”
The girl reached for his hand.
Found it.
“Same.”
“What?”
“You stopped being the guy who saved Dad.”
The biker looked toward her.
“What am I?”
She thought deliberately too long.
“Annoying.”
He laughed.
Then she answered properly.
“Family.”
He looked away.
She heard his breathing change.
“Are you crying?”
“Allergies.”
“Salt air?”
“Very strong.”
She smiled.
The biker lived another four years.
Longer than doctors first expected.
He attended the girl’s wedding.
Used a cane.
Complained that canes were badly designed compared with motorcycles.
She reminded him hers had worked fine for decades.
He replied hers was operated by someone competent.
During the ceremony, the girl wore the silver lighthouse pendant.
The biker noticed.
Afterward, he hugged her.
Carefully.
Still broad.
Smaller somehow.
“Your dad would've…”
He stopped.
The girl waited.
The biker tried again.
“He’d be proud.”
She smiled.
“So are you.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
The biker died in early autumn.
Quietly.
At home.
The club organized a memorial ride along the Maine coast.
Dozens of motorcycles.
The girl did not ride with them.
She stood at Old Harbor Ferry Landing beside her Mother.
Her Husband held her free hand.
The motorcycles arrived one by one.
Engines went silent.
A club member approached.
He carried a small envelope.
Inside was the battered lighthouse pendant.
The biker had left instructions.
Give this back to her when I'm done borrowing it.
The girl laughed and cried simultaneously.
The Mother touched her shoulder.
The girl now held both pendants.
One smooth from her father.
One battered from the biker.
She rubbed them together gently.
Same shape.
Different wear.