“Okay,” Olivia said. “And I’m here if you need me.”
Morgan ended the call and went back to the room, thinking that she had no idea how to make good on her promise; no idea who, in this group of strangers, she could trust with her secret.
The hotel room wasn’t fancy, but it was clean. It had two beds, a flat-screen TV, a bathroom with a toilet and a tub. The sink, with a coffeemaker, and their empty water bottles beside it, was outside the bathroom door. Her mother was standing in front of the sink, wrapped in a towel, blow-drying her hair. She smiled at Morgan in the mirror. “Ready for another day of riding?” she asked, and Morgan felt so wretched, so dishonest and deceitful and low that, for a minute, she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her up. She felt herself wobbling and put one hand on the desk to steady herself.
“Yeah,” she said, and made herself smile. “Can’t wait.”
* * *
Be her friend Lincoln had told him. Sebastian was going to do his best… but it wasn’t easy.
“How can I get her to be my friend when she thinks I slept with every woman in Brooklyn?” he’d asked Lincoln that morning. Lincoln had put down his coffee cup, given Sebastian a long, level look, and said, “Maybe you should have thought about that before you slept with every woman in Brooklyn.”
“Not helping,” Sebastian had muttered.
“Okay,” Lincoln had said. “Ask her about herself. Get to know her. Find out what she likes to do.” He squeezed sunscreen out of a tube and rubbed it onto his cheeks and his forehead. “Lana and I were friends before we started dating. Sometimes, it’s nice to genuinely like someone, and spend time getting to know them before you sleep with them.”
“Point taken,” said Sebastian.
“And stop looking at the Internet,” Lincoln said. “You’re making yourself crazy.”
Sebastian knew his friend was right, that he was just torturing himself. He knew, too, that the story would die down, especially if he didn’t do anything that would add fuel to the fire. But he couldn’t stop poking at the wound, or pressing on the bruise, or pushing his tongue into the place where a tooth had once been. Choose your metaphor. He was no longer trending on Twitter, which was good, but the story had jumped to more of the big gossip websites, which was bad. And also meant that the story might have traveled to a place his sister or his parents could conceivably see it. Ignore it, he told himself. Sure, there were people out there laughing at him, but they weren’t people he’d ever meet, so what did he care? Other people’s opinion of you are none of your business. One of the Scoop’s freelancers had told him that, explaining how she never, ever looked at comments on her stories. His sister was a social-media Luddite, who used Facebook to keep up with her high school friends and never ventured onto other platforms. And as for his parents, they were usually too wrapped up in their own drama to pay attention to his.
That morning, Sebastian rode slowly, letting the rest of the riders pass him, until he spotted Abby’s white helmet, with her ponytail threaded through the back. She wore a pale-blue jersey that left the tops of her arms and her freckled shoulders bare. He felt his pulse speed up, and gave his body a stern scolding, reminding himself of the mission: be her friend.
“Hi, Abby.”
She didn’t meet his eyes as she asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine. I just thought I’d ride with you for a little while. If that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Her tone was not, in Sebastian’s opinion, especially inviting. He decided to behave like he’d been invited anyhow.
“So. Have you lived in Philadelphia all your life?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Again, Sebastian reminded himself not to ask questions that could be answered in a single word.
“What are the best things about it?”
“There are lots of good things.”
“Such as?”
“Good restaurants. Lots of places to ride your bike.”
“What’s your favorite restaurant?”
“Oh, I can’t pick just one favorite. Like, there’s the place with the best sushi, and the place with the best Turkish food, and the best fried chicken, and the best Szechuan and the best Cantonese and the best Vietnamese and the best Thai.”
“Okay. Yum. Point taken.” He took a swig from his water bottle and asked, “Is Doctor Mark a big foodie?”
“He…” Abby appeared to be considering her answer. “He’s more of a ‘food is fuel’ guy.”