“Yes?” He was half-teasing, but also truly wanting to hear what she thought.
She shook her head. “You know…” she said. He wondered what she was feeling, and if she felt connected to him, drawn to him, the same way he felt connected and drawn to her.
“Tell me,” he said. His bike had gotten so close to hers that their feet were almost brushing as they pedaled.
“I will not.” Abby started riding faster. “I should go check on some of the other riders.”
Sebastian kept up.
“Tell me!” he said again, in a comic-book monster voice.
“I have to go!” she called over her shoulder. And then she was gone, cresting a hill, leaving the faintest smell of flowers behind.
Sebastian looked to his left and saw that Ted, Ed, and Sue, the Spoke’n Four’s three riders that day, had come up alongside him.
“What are you waiting for?” Ted called.
He stared at them blankly.
“You’ve been riding together for an hour and a half,” Ed told him.
“And you looked happy,” said Sue, taking her hands off her handlebars to clasp them at her heart, then to make shooing motions at Sebastian. “Go after her!”
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Sebastian felt obligated to say. The older riders were quiet for a moment.
“A boyfriend isn’t a husband!” said Ted, and Sue rode up behind him, close enough to thump him on the back of his helmet.
“We’re rooting for you!” Ed called as the three of them rode off, leaving Sebastian behind them, shaking his head, wondering if his intentions were really so obvious to strangers when they were still, for the most part, a mystery to himself.
Sebastian
Day Five: Amsterdam to Utica Sixty-one miles
The Breakaway cyclists pulled into their hotel in Utica at just after four o’clock on a postcard-perfect summer afternoon. The skies had been clear, the weather, mild, with a gentle tailwind to push them along, as the path wound through parks and forests, over bridges and past locks. Dozens of locks. All of which the Spoke’n Four seemed determined to photograph. All day long, the two women plus Ed had been getting off their bikes to marvel at the ingenuity of previous generations, to inspect the mechanisms and pose by the historical markers. Sebastian had barely noticed any of it. He let Lincoln collect their hotel keys and their luggage and take a shower while Sebastian fidgeted and tried not to look at his phone.
* * *
Dinner that night was at a Middle Eastern restaurant, where the riders were greeted by the scents of garlic and oregano and fresh pita, and a hostess, who exclaimed over them like they were long-lost family members who’d come back from the Crusades. “Breakaway riders come here every year,” Sebastian heard Abby tell Lincoln, as the owner threw her arms around Jasper and kissed him on each cheek.
“Come, come!” she said. “Your room is all ready!” She led them to a room in the back of the restaurant, with windows on all three sides, where a table was already set with platters of dips and falafel, baskets of warm pita, and pitchers full of water that the waitress couldn’t refill fast enough. Sebastian sat down between the two mother-daughter duos, intent on continuing his efforts to make Abby see him as a person, a friend, not just a former one-night stand.
It would have been easier if Abby wasn’t avoiding him. Ever since their ride together the previous day, she’d been keeping her distance, and it felt like whatever progress he’d made toward earning her trust had evaporated. Every time he opened his mouth, she leaned away from him. Every time he asked a question, she answered him in as few words as possible, addressing the space just above his left shoulder, never once looking in his eyes.
He watched as she completed her trip around the table, checking in with each rider, asking Lily how her legs and back were feeling, asking Dale if his derailleur had stopped making that weird noise. When she was finally sitting down, he came and sat beside her.
“How are your legs?” he asked.
She just stared at him.
“Is your derailleur still making that noise?”
She looked puzzled.
“You’re taking care of everyone. I just think someone should take care of you.”
He saw the way her eyes got a little wider when he said it. This close to her, he could see a handful of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the single curl that had escaped her bun to brush at the nape of her neck.
“That’s very nice of you,” she said. “But I’m fine. Really. I’m just doing my job.”