She bent over her handlebars and picked up her pace, inching past fifteen miles an hour, quads burning, breathing hard, racing to meet her riders. For once, there wasn’t a train blocking access from the street to the Schuylkill Banks. Abby coasted through the gates, bounced over the train tracks, dinged her bell, called out “On your left” to a trio of oblivious runners occupying seventh-eighths of the path, following the trail as it curved along the river, under the Walnut Street Bridge, up a gentle rise, past the skate park, then down a hill behind the Art Museum and onto Kelly Drive.
Mark had found someone new. Abby knew that he would, and honestly hoped he was happy. The last picture he’d posted on Instagram showed him and his new girlfriend, grinning and brandishing their finishers’ medals at the end of the Broad Street Run. Abby was glad he’d found a woman who could run with him, someone who wouldn’t think Mark’s food preferences felt like torture. She wished him well.
She rode on, trying to think about the day ahead—a twenty-mile loop down Forbidden Drive, onto the towpath in Manayunk, out toward Valley Forge, then back again. Their season-ending camping trip was coming up, and the girls had gotten so much better. Hannah could make it the entire way around Kelly Drive and West River Drive without stopping, or complaining, and Connie could ride in the city, in the bike lanes, without turning into a trembling, teary wreck, and Sally could climb hills without getting off to push her bike.
They’d come so far. She was so proud.
She rode past the Falls Bridge, down the sidewalk, past the SEPTA depot and through the intersection of Ridge Avenue and Main Street. The trail narrowed and rose steeply before falling again and meandering along the Wissahickon Creek, beneath a green canopy overhanging trees. Abby was pedaling uphill when she saw the sign. It was a piece of poster board, taped to a wooden stake, stuck into the grass on the side of the trail, with a single word written on it.
ABBY
Puzzled, she braked to a stop and looked both ways before executing a U-turn. She coasted downhill until she reached the sign, and confirmed that it did, indeed, say her name.
Well. There were lots of girls named Abby in the world. Maybe one of them was having a brunch or a baby shower at the restaurant in the park. She started pedaling again, riding past the sign that said ABBY until she reached one that said STERN.
“The heck?” she murmured, and kept going, riding faster, looking to see if there were more signs.
There were. The third sign read I. The fourth one said MISS. The fifth one said YOU. The sixth sign had no words. It was just a heart, a red heart on white poster board.
Abby’s own heart was in her throat as she crested the gentle slope that ended with a parking lot on the right-hand side, and the Valley Green restaurant on the left. Down by the creek, parents were helping kids toss chunks of bread to the ducks. In front of the parking lot, Abby saw her riders, in the new tee shirts they’d gotten the week before, sherbet orange with electric-blue lettering that said PHILLY GIRLS RIDE. And there, in the center of the group, was Sebastian, at the end of the path, standing in front of a bench, holding his bike in one hand.
Seeing him again made her feel like an arrow had lodged in her heart. He looked so good, his face tanned, his long-sleeved jersey tight against his chest, staring right at her; like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Like Abby Stern was his heart’s desire.
Abby let her bike coast to a stop, leaving plenty of space between them. She rested her hands on the handlebars and kept one foot on the pedal, poised for a quick getaway if it turned out one was required.
“Sebastian. What brings you to Philadelphia?” she asked, and was glad that her voice sounded steady.
Sebastian gestured in the direction of the signs. “I missed you. I wanted to see you.” The girls were watching this unfold, their eyes moving from his face to hers, intent on every word. Sebastian was just as handsome as she remembered, but he looked… not older, exactly. More mature? Less slick? His hair was styled differently, or maybe disarranged from his helmet, and his expression looked open and undefended, as the riders gathered around him, giggling.
“Your friends helped me with the signs,” he said. “I saw you guys on Instagram.”
Abby felt like her heart was a balloon, getting lighter and bigger with every breath she took. She forced herself to try to be prudent and mature, not to do the thing she most desired, which was tossing aside her bike and throwing herself into his arms.
“Lincoln sent me your story,” she said.
“What’d you think?”