“He almost rode right at me!” yelled the driver. “Wasn’t even looking! Didn’t even slow down!”
Abby ignored the driver as she crouched down next to Sebastian. One hand rested lightly on his shoulder as she looked into his eyes, then at his helmet. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Sebastian finally managed to wrench one of his feet out of its shoe, wriggle out from underneath his bike, and get to his feet. “Sorry, man,” he called to the truck driver. “Totally my fault. I should have been looking. I’m sorry.” The driver grumbled a few more uncomplimentary observations before rolling up his window and departing. Sebastian could feel adrenaline spiking his bloodstream, could hear his pulse thudding in his ears. He knew that he’d been distracted; that he’d been the one at fault. Just one more asshole cyclist, clad in entitlement and spandex, giving everyone who rode a bike a bad name. The realization only made him angry at himself all over again.
“Did you hit your head?” Abby asked.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. Abby’s eyes widened. She stepped backward, away from him. That made him feel even worse.
“Let me see your helmet,” she said, holding out her hand.
Sebastian unclipped his helmet and handed it over, watching as she ran her fingers along its panels, inspecting it for cracks.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“What happened?” asked Lincoln, who’d finally arrived.
“Nothing,” said Sebastian, aware that his entire right side was scraped and dirty, that his jersey was torn, and that he was still only wearing one shoe.
“I want Jasper to take a look at your bike before you ride it,” said Abby.
“It’s fine,” Sebastian said. He actually had no idea whether the bike was okay or not, but in his current frame of mind, he didn’t want Abby fussing over him. Or noticing him at all. Meanwhile, the rest of the group had arrived, and all of them were staring, some more obviously than others.
“What happened?” bawled the tall, hard-of-hearing guy.
“He fell,” his wife shouted into his ear.
“I know, but why?” the man yelled back.
Because he’s an idiot, Sebastian thought.
Abby clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone. Show’s over. Time for lunch!” She led them to a playground a few hundred yards up the trail. Sebastian wheeled his bike behind her, and Lincoln walked beside him.
“What happened?” Lincoln asked him.
“Ah, I was just distracted.”
Lincoln looked concerned. “And you’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” He could hear how pissed he still sounded, and knew that he wasn’t angry at Abby, who’d only been doing her job, or even at the truck driver, who hadn’t been at fault. He was angry at Alyssa. At TikTok. At social media in general. At every woman who’d posted about him, or liked Alyssa’s video, or stitched it or dueted it or shared it. It seemed so unfair, because, really, what were the odds of so many women he’d slept with being friends? （If you sleep with five different women a week, they’re not too slim, a voice that sounded a lot like Lincoln informed him.） He was angry at fate, at Karma, at God, who, if She existed, was undoubtedly having Herself a good chuckle. He was angry at himself, most of all because, if he’d just been a little more temperate in his habits, he’d be a lot more appealing to Abby. Who had a boyfriend, he reminded himself, again. Whose friend he was trying to be.
No cure for it, he thought, wheeling his bike over to Jasper, who was leaning against the side of the sag wagon with a scrupulously blank expression on his face. He’d just have to keep going. Let some time pass, let some miles go by, and the sting would fade, the Internet would move on, and, at some point in the future, Abby would forgive him… if, he thought, she ever found out about his disgrace at all. He’d been so lucky, for so long. Maybe there was still a chance that she’d never find out; that they’d become friends on the trip, and more than friends when it was over; and that all of this could work out the way he wanted.
Morgan
Can you keep a secret?
Morgan had said the words a thousand times in her head since the trip began. She’d imagined saying them to Abby, the leader. Or Andy Presser, who she’d seen looking at her when he didn’t think she’d notice. She’d pictured herself saying it to one of the old ladies, or even Andy’s mom, with her ponytail and her friendly smile. She imagined asking everyone but her own mother. Can you keep a secret? Can I tell you why I’m really here? Will you help me?