I nod emphatically as if I agree wholeheartedly with this statement and then wrangle the aging bike from the shed. Once I’ve maneuvered it to the driveway, I put the kickstand up and then head inside to grab my purse. I shove a change of clothes into the giant thing and then step back outside in the early summer heat.
My shoes aren’t exactly bike friendly, so I yank them off, shoving both the purse and the shoes into the bike basket. It takes me a second to find my balance, having not ridden a bike in ages, and then I’m off, though a bit wobbly.
As I ride away from Grandma’s house, I feel like I can breathe again. My mind reels with what all I’d seen. The chaos and dust. The missing birds. The new aviary. The handsome jerk next door.
Handsome?
Not handsome in a Denver Locke—son of a billionaire, Ken-Doll hair, face-cream-costs-more-than-my-monthly-rent—kind of way.
Sweat trickles down my back and I groan. I’m hot and bothered because this entire day has been stressful. Not because I was arguing with the manliest man I’ve ever been around.
He smelled like bold coffee and sawdust. I bet he could bottle it up and sell it for a fortune in New York. Tons of business bros would love to confuse the opposite sex with a new fragrance called Blue Collar Lumberjack Man Sweat Breeze.
I nearly topple my bike when I hit a pothole and am thankful to interrupt my manic thoughts of the mean neighbor with the nice smell.
Preen Street is busier than I remember. Luckily, they’ve built a bike lane that wasn’t here last time I visited. I zip over to it and can’t help but smile when a whiff of the salty ocean envelops me.When I’d follow Grandma to town on my bike, I’d revel in all sights and smells. Compared to Budgie Bay, New York City was stinky and crowded and oftentimes stifling. Budgie Bay always promised fresh air and freedom.
I’m the only one on the bike path which suits me just fine. That’s another thing about Budgie Bay. Even when BudgieFest is in full swing, it’s still not as crowded as the city. I hang a left onto Skyblue Shore Road that’s been freshly paved.
A motorcycle cruises past and the man driving waves at me. Everyone’s so friendly around here.Well, not everyone.
I get another flash of the rude neighbor in my mind, and it’s distracting. It makes me want to call Denver right now so I can speak with a normal, sane, logical, polite male.
My stomach grumbles and it’s not just because I’m hungry. Thoughts of my boyfriend and work haven’t been the most pleasant on this trip. There’s a sourness that churns in my gut. I think they call it resentment.
You made the decision to stay in Spain, Nora.
Did I? Or was that some version of loyalty that felt right at the time?
They call it a guilt trip, girl.
Since I don’t exactly want to dissect my relationship with Denver right now, I focus on the bike path ahead. I’m in awe as an affluent, glossy shopping strip comes into view, directly across from the Plumage Expo Center. It’s definitely new and feels high-end, and completely wrong for Budgie Bay.
This must be The Tailstream River Landing District my driver mentioned earlier. It’s impressive, and I’m curious, but there’s a cold, unfamiliar vibe that doesn’t sit well with me.
My calves start to burn as I hurry past the new development. The ride that felt like it took ages when I was a kid is much quicker as an adult. Before I know it, I’m weaving along Opaline Avenue, nearly to Wing Whirr Way.
Someone honks, loud and long, and I cry out in surprise. A truck slows down. Scraps and Things is scrawled in bright red paint on the side of the dingy, aging white vehicle. Almost immediately, I recognized the bearded man. His muscular arm sits on the edge of the open window, and he stares me down as he passes.
I wave to him.
With my middle finger.
He gasses it and zooms off, returning the gesture.
What an arrogant piece of?—
I screech to a halt in front of the old sign at one end of The Mask District. It’s ancient and dilapidated. Over the years, as businesses have changed, it’s been painted over and over. I study the sign, looking for changes.
The Budgie Café, a local legend, still remains. My mouth waters for some fried clams that’ll bring a tear of joy to your eye. I’m grateful that with all the change, it’s still around.
I scan the sign to make sure The Nest Box Inn is also still here and breathe a sigh of relief when I see it at the bottom. At least I’ll have a place to stay if I can’t get the utilities turned back on today. I’m curious about the other businesses listed, especially Preening Pages, which I hope is a bookstore. Also, Baked & Brewed sounds promising. First things first, though, is the post office.
When I’d ride to town with Grandma, it wasn’t always for fun, exciting things like ice cream or BudgieFest. Often, we’d run boring errands. She liked going in to the post office to pay her utilities even though she was pretty savvy with a computer and could have easily done it that way.
She was probably looking forhim,Grandpa Amos, and just didn’t want to tell me. It might have gotten back to Mom and Grandma would never have heard the end of it. I can’t imagine falling so deeply in love and then losing your fisherman husbandwhen his boat sank all before the birth of your first and only child.
Another trickle of sweat rolls down my back and I grimace. I should have at least changed into shorts before racing off on this chaotic journey. I ride past the sign to the corner of Wing Whirr Way and grin when I smell the famous fried clams wafting over from The Budgie Café.
