The moped is around back, and I eye it, almost triple guessing my decision.

It wasn't particularly new-looking, and lacked any kind of embellishments (unlike with Beth's mode of transportation.) But it was just that: a mode of transportation. A practical one. And after a brief lapse of thought, and the adorning of Nolan's only helmet, (at his insistence) I climb onto the back of the moped. Fear of falling outweighs the worry of giving Nolan the wrong idea, so I wrap my arms around his waist, clasping my hands tightly together where they meet at his stomach.

The engine vibrates the whole frame and I'm not sure if I like it until we're really moving. He pulls at first slowly through the parking lot, (me finally realizing there's no turning back) and turns onto a busy road with a speed limit of forty, slowly speeding up until matching the speed of the car in front of him.

The sharp bite of the wind is mostly blocked by Nolan's torso, which I have my cheek pressed into. The roar of it envelopes us until I can hear nothing else. My hair whips behind me. I gradually release some of the tension in my shoulders as I realize Nolan's shoulder blades are relaxed and he drives with an assurance that can only come from experience.

He doesn't seem too concerned about driving helmet-less (albeit to my benefit) and I figure he has more reason to be careful than I do. I watch the dotted yellow lines and pavement pass beneath us and listen to the rush of air and feel it massage my scalp (and I kind of like it.)

The park he takes us to is adequately packed, which makes me think it's a good one. I relax a little more in the open space. It is a pretty good park. There's a dirt trail that wraps around a small lake, paved bridges, and lots of grass and flowers. A vendor is renting out canoes to couples and I wonder wearily if this is a date spot, and what's expected of me if it is.

Like with my other worries, the sense of expectation starts to ease as we begin to walk. I sneak a look over at him, relieved by his silence, and finally burst, as if holding it in until now, "my mom would definitely not approve of this."

He looks back over bashfully. " I think you might have mentioned that."

I feel a mischievous grin turn my lips at the corners at the thought of the forbidden-ness of the situation. His next silence leaves room for more so I extrapolate: "she's overprotective."

He seems to mull something over before asking: "is that why you're single?"

The question surprises me, but I decide to answer honestly. "I don't talk to boys very often."

"Because of your mom?" he presses.

"No, because of me."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "I don't talk very much," I say.

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

I laugh out of genuine disbelief as I study a particular couple gliding on the lake. "Seriously?"

"There's a lot more to the world than just words."

This earns him a glance in his direction. He's looking at me so I look down quickly.

"I suppose." There's an honesty behind his words that surprises me.

"So what should we do that doesn't involve words?" he asks.

"Is there much to do?"

He smiles. "Of course."

We pick a plot of grass and stare up at the sky for a good while. I enjoy it. Even more surprisingly is that he seems to enjoy it, also.

I pull out my phone to see if Beth or Izzy or Annabelle have answered my S.O.S. and get nothing but radio silence. So, I close my eyes and feel the dewy grass, prickly at the point but soft everywhere else. I sense Nolan moving beside me so I peek at his hand which is moving slowly closer to mine.

It feels like he's asking permission, so I move my hand a little closer to his.

Finally, his fingers brush mine and he keeps them there for a while. I can feel my heart thumping at just that.

The clouds move slowly across the sky, little cumulus bursts amongst the blue. It helps to have something to look at other than Nolan.

"I like you, Michigan," Nolan whispers out of the silence.

I pull my fingers away from his. "Why?" I exclaim, exasperated. People don't see me, they only hear the lack of what I say. I learned that a long time ago.

"There's more to the world than just words, Michigan," he repeats and his hand moves close again. This time he grasps my palm loosely, but the movement still surprises me. I slowly wrap my fingers around his palm in return. It's a lot bigger than mine, but the warmth of his skin is less of a bother to me than it is kind of nice. Maybe it was because he asked permission, in a way.

He pauses as if to gauge my reaction before adding, "besides, the fact that you don't have to fill the silence when we look at the clouds speaks louder than any of the meaningless conversations I've had all week."