He was angry, and confused, and he knew the best thing for it was to move, to get on his bike and pedal far enough and fast enough for his brain to quiet down.
He’d almost made it to the front door when Abby grabbed his arm. “We’re not riding today,” she told him.
“Maybe you’re not,” said Sebastian. “I am.”
For a moment, Abby glared at him, as thunder boomed overhead. Sebastian wondered if he should have apologized for going at her so hard the night before. Then he remembered how hard she’d gone at him, and he felt angry and frustrated, itchy and desperate to move, all over again.
“I’ll be fine,” Sebastian said impatiently. “Bikes have rubber tires. The rubber’s grounding.”
“Actually, that isn’t true,” said Abby. “A bicycle’s tires don’t have enough surface area to diffuse a lightning strike. Even if it is just heavy rain, that’s going to reduce your visibility and traction,” she said. “And fifteen miles of the route today would be going on roads. With cars.”
“I really need to get some exercise.” Sebastian’s shoulders were stiff, his voice toneless. “And I’m allowed to go, right? It’s not against the rules.”
“You’re allowed to ride if you want to.” Abby started to say more, then shut her mouth. Sebastian wondered if she was going to apologize to him, or if her plan was to keep trying to talk him out of it. “Come back inside,” she finally said. “Eat breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then drink some coffee.”
“I’m not—”
“Then stand in a corner and count sheep,” Abby said, her voice turning sharp. “I’ve got something else to figure out. Then we’ll go.”
Sebastian stared at her. “Who’s this ‘we’？”
“You and me. If you insist on doing this.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t need an escort.”
“Company rules,” said Abby. “No riders go without a leader on the road.”
“I don’t need help,” he snapped.
“Unless you get another flat,” Abby said.
Sebastian’s legs were twitching with a desire to move, to go, to be anywhere but here. Even though he knew Abby was right. He could barely change a flat on his own in optimal conditions. If he got one on a rainy day, he’d be screwed. “Look,” he said, “I really would prefer to be alone.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” said Abby. Her voice was clipped. “I’ll ride ten bike lengths behind you. I won’t talk to you. I won’t make any eye contact. But I can’t let you go by yourself.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood on the porch, Abby in her pajama bottoms （pink flannel, with a pattern of red and white hearts）， Sebastian holding his bike as the rain poured down outside.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Fine.” He wheeled his bike back against the wall, then poured himself a cup of coffee and stood in the dining room corner. Abby didn’t even bother to look at him as she walked out of the room and up the stairs.
Abby
9:03 a.m.
Abby trotted back up to her room to pull biking clothes out of her bag, thinking that she shouldn’t have been surprised. There’s always one, Lizzie had told her, when she’d briefed Abby about what she could expect. There was always one troublemaker, someone who’d insist on riding, no matter what, and it was almost always a man.
Lizzie had told her about the last trip she’d led, a ride from New York City to Washington, DC. One of the riders was signed up for a Strava challenge where he had to ride a certain number of days consecutively. This guy had refused to get on the sag wagon even when there was a severe thunderstorm warning. He’d ended up with a broken arm after a bolt of lightning sent a tree toppling into the road and he hadn’t been able to stop fast enough to avoid it. That wasn’t even the worst case of Tough Guy–itis that Lizzie had seen. In Ireland, she’d told Abby, there’d been one bozo who’d insisted on pedaling through a hailstorm. “I didn’t come here to sit in a van, I came here to ride my bike!” he’d yelled at the leaders. （Lizzie had told her how the guy had also asked for a refund because he’d failed to hit his personal four-hundred-mile-a-week goal or his target heart rate on two days of the weeklong ride.）
Abby had stuffed her pajamas and toiletries into her bag and was pulling on her socks, muttering to herself about stupid, selfish assholes who just had to get their miles in, when Kayla Presser knocked on her door. Her eyes widened when she saw Abby’s attire.