“It’s not—it isn’t…” She swallowed. “Mark. Let’s go inside and talk.”
Mark didn’t answer. Instead, he marched up to Sebastian. “Is this you?” he asked, and showed Sebastian his phone.
Sebastian felt a swooping sensation, a kind of preemptive motion sickness, the way you’d feel after you’d been buckled into a roller coaster but before the ride began. He made himself look. BROOKLYN F-BOI STRIKES AGAIN! The headline looked like it was on someone’s Tumblr and not, thank God, Page Six again. Underneath the headline was a picture of him, at a table in a restaurant, bent toward a woman who was unquestionably Abby. He realized that photograph had been taken back at Sackett’s Table in Seneca Falls, and it had been cropped to remove the rest of the Breakaway crew, making it look like it was just the two of them, having a romantic dinner by candlelight.
“You’re that guy from TikTok,” said Mark. It wasn’t a question.
Sebastian lifted his hands. “Hey, man,” he said. “I can explain.”
“No need,” Mark said tightly. “I think Abby can speak for herself.”
In rapid succession, Sebastian had a number of realizations. The first was that he’d fallen in love with Abby. Not just a crush, not just infatuation, but love, for the first time in his life. What would happen if she didn’t choose to end things with Mark and be with him? And could he blame her, if that was her decision? He was, he acknowledged, not exactly the best bet. Not precisely a sure thing. Not compared to someone like Mark.
The other riders were arriving, one by one, pulling up on the sidewalk or into the driveway to watch the show. “What’s going on?” Ted asked, craning his wattled neck toward Mark, face screwed up in an effort to hear.
“I think that’s her boyfriend,” said Sue.
“Isn’t Sebastian her boyfriend?” asked Ed.
Then the three of them turned toward Sebastian. He gave them a wordless shrug, his eyes on Abby.
“Just give me a minute,” she was saying to Mark. “Let me make sure the group’s okay, and we can go talk.” She turned toward the assembled audience, which now included every person on the trip except Lou, who was driving the Spoke’n Four’s Winnebago. Abby’s mother, Sebastian saw, was standing over her bike, hands folded on her handlebars, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. He couldn’t do anything but watch as Abby rolled her bike up the driveway and left it there, leading Mark toward the house without even a look in his direction.
Abby
Abby tried to stay calm, breathing deeply as she consulted her phone for instructions on how to unlock the door. Mark was right behind her, and she could feel how angry he was. She punched the code on the door’s lock, pushed it open, and led Mark into the bed-and-breakfast’s living room. It had high ceilings and uncomfortable-looking reproductions of antique furniture: a couch upholstered in red-and-gold-striped silk, two wing chairs, a demilune table against the wall. There was a bowl of potpourri on the coffee table, and a cutesy chalkboard sign propped on top of a minifridge, advising guests that bottled water, Gatorade, and PowerBars could be purchased for three dollars apiece. Abby sat down on the couch. Mark stood.
“So?” he said, his tone unpleasantly accusatory. “What’s going on?”
Just do it, she told herself. She felt sick with guilt and shame, furious at herself, and at whoever had taken and posted that picture, and at whoever had given Mark the news in a way that cast her in the worst possible light. She knew how much it was going to hurt, but she knew what she had to do. Rip off the Band-Aid. Get through it. And then at least it will be over.
“You never even told me this guy was on your trip.” He glared at her, eyebrows raised high. “I guess there was a reason for that.”
“For most of the trip I didn’t even see him. He was so far ahead of the group, it was like he was on his own trip.” Which was true. Or, at least, it had been true at the start.
“Clearly you saw him at meals. At the hotels, too, right?”
Abby gulped.
“Tell me nothing happened,” Mark said.
She bent her head. “Mark…”
“Tell me,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. And Abby knew she couldn’t lie.
Very softly, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God,” he said, and sounded disgusted, like Abby was something nasty on the sole of his shoe. Which, she supposed, was what she deserved. Her behavior had not exactly been honorable. Not even close. “That guy, Abby? Really? You cheated on me with that guy? The guy who’s a fucking Internet punch line?”