Lizzie looked up from her screen. “The good news is, because you’re riding mostly on a trail, there’s no map reading. You don’t have to worry about people getting lost. And I know you can handle the mileage.”
Abby had to admit that, as far as first rides to lead went, this sounded close to ideal. But she was still nervous. “And just to confirm, I’m the only leader?”
Lizzie nodded. “Jasper will be on the road, you’ll be on the trail.” Lizzie leaned over her laptop again. “Here’s who’s signed up. A family of four—mom, dad, two teenage boys. Then there’s a mother and a teenage daughter, four senior citizens, a husband and wife and two single guys.”
Abby ran through the roster in her mind. Moms and senior citizens were encouraging. Single guys, less so. “Do you really think I can do this?”
Lizzie closed her computer and gave Abby a look that combined fondness and exasperation. Her iron-gray hair was cut short on the sides, left long enough to brush at her earlobes on top. She wore oversize horn-rimmed glasses, a black tee shirt advertising WXPN, Philadelphia’s alternative radio station, cropped linen pants, and her usual assortment of silver rings on all five fingers plus her thumb, along with bracelets and ear cuffs. “Yes. You really, one hundred percent, can do this.” She leaned across the couch and put her hand on Abby’s shoulder, looking deeply into Abby’s eyes. “I believe in you.”
“What if someone’s bike falls apart?”
“You call Jasper and wait on the side of the road until he comes and makes it all better.”
“What if someone dies in their tent?” Once, Lizzie led a bikepacking trip where that very thing had happened.
“No tents, remember? But if someone expires in their hotel room, you call the authorities, get the rest of the group on the road, and tell Marj. You don’t even have to notify the next of kin.” Lizzie patted Abby’s knee. “See? Easy!”
Abby licked her lips. “What if nobody listens to me?” She let the quiet part stay quiet: What if they don’t listen to me because they don’t think I know what I’m doing? What if they assume that I’m out of shape and can’t actually help them because I’ll spend the whole time huffing and puffing? Which, of course, was followed by an even worse thought—What if I do spend the whole time huffing and puffing?—even though Abby knew it was unlikely. Fifty or sixty or even seventy miles a day wasn’t nothing, but it was doable. By her, at her current size and level of fitness.
“They’ll listen. Abby, you can do this. You’re ready. I know you’re nervous, but I think you’re going to surprise yourself.” Lizzie said it firmly, with conviction. Like she believed it. Abby was still dubious about the idea of leading a trip but, somehow, she was even more unsettled when she thought about giving up her apartment, of taking such a large and permanent step toward a future with Mark. Which made no sense—she loved Mark! She did!—but, somehow, there it was.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“You will? Oh my God, you’re the best.” Lizzie looked at Abby, who hoped her face hadn’t betrayed what she was thinking. Except it must have betrayed something, because Lizzie asked, gently, “What’s going on?”
“What is wrong with me?” Abby asked. She dropped her head into her hands. Her voice came out slightly muffled by her palms. “Mark was talking about moving in together when my lease is up. And I panicked.”
“Okay,” Lizzie said.
“And I don’t understand why. Mark is the guy that every heroine in a Hallmark movie wants to meet when she comes home for Christmas.”
“Except he’s Jewish,” Lizzie pointed out.
Abby waved her hand, dismissing Lizzie’s complaint （remembering, too, that Hallmark had recently debuted a Chanukah movie）。 “He’s smart, he’s kind, he’s employed, he’s generous. He makes me laugh. He loves me.” She paused. “And it’s not like there’s hundreds of other guys waiting in the wings.”
“Mark is a sweetheart,” Lizzie concurred. She pushed herself off the couch and padded toward the kitchen. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other men out there who would like you. I like you,” Lizzie said, filling the kettle, taking a box of shortbread cookies out of the cupboard and shaking a handful of them onto a plate.
“I’m not your type,” Abby said.
“For which we both should be grateful.” Lizzie carried the plate to the living room, pausing to light a pair of candles. “You know, straight girls used to totally be my thing.”