“So,” I said, trying to change the mood. “Now what?”
“Well, I would suggest climbing onto the thing first,” he said cheekily.
Emmy gave a small laugh.
“Ha, ha, guys. You both think you’re so smart cos you can ride, don’t ya?” I put my leg over the bike and slid my bum onto the uncomfortable seat. I was glad I was wearing jeans. It gave me a little more paddingthere. In that short minute I’d “successfully” managed to ride a bike the other day, I’d discovered that bike seats weren’t exactly comfortable things. In fact, to be crass, they sandpapered your vagina like crazy and I wasn’t aware that one could actually get bruisesthere!But one could, as I’d discovered the next day when I’d woken up. The discomfort was comparable to a night of wild sex—except the guy had missed and had repeatedly poked your upper thigh instead.
“Okay . . .” Ryan walked to the back of the bike and placed his hand on my seat. “I’ll hold the seat and one of the handlebars, and all you need to do is put your feet up on the pedals and practice balancing.”
“Balancing is not my strong point,” I said, trying to lift my feet off the ground and onto the pedals.
“I’ve noticed,” he said sarcastically.
“Oh my God,” I squeaked when the bike began tipping to the left. “I don’t like this one little bit. I don’t like this at all.”
At that, Emmy let out a laugh.
“What?” I shot her a playful, disapproving look.
“Nothing.” She smiled.
“Just try again,” Ryan said. “And then, when you’ve gotten your balance, start pedaling slowly.”
“You won’t let go, right?” I started to panic.
“I won’t let go,” he said.
“Promise?” I turned my head around and looked at him. His face was close to mine.
“Promise,” he repeated.
“Because I know where you sleep and I know where to get nightshade from,” I said, clinging on for dear life as the bike moved forward.
“Now, pedal slowly,” he said behind me.
I shook my head and closed my eyes.
“You have to keep your eyes open,” Emmy said loudly, in between peals of laughter.
“Pedal . . . you can do it!” he said again.
I started to pedal, slowly at first, trying to keep my balance. His hand was still on one of the handlebars, and I could feel him holding onto the seat. “I’m going to let go of you now,” he said.
“NO! Don’t.” I clutched on tightly. “You said you wouldn’t.”
“You can do it,” Emmy yelled and then gave a loud “whoop, whoop!”
And then, just like that, he let go. And, as if my body knew exactly what it was meant to do, I was pedaling. “Oh my God,” I shouted excitedly as I felt myself gliding through the air. I was graceful and agile and speedy and athletic and balanced. “I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” I gushed excitedly as I expertly took the first corner like the most coordinated person in the world. Step aside, Lance Armstrong, I was winning the Tour de France next year because I was grace and speed and agility and . . . and . . .
“SHIT!” I started to topple. “Oh, crap,” I screeched as the bike leaned to the side. It teetered there for a second and then toppled over. I landed on the soft carpeted track and lay there for a while, bike between my legs, looking up at the ceiling. A familiar pair of legs blocked my view and I rolled onto my back and looked up.
Ryan was smiling down at me.
“I don’t think I’m meant to ride a bike,” I said to him.
He held his hands out for me to take. I did. His hands were so big that when they closed, my entire hand disappeared into his. He pulled me onto my feet with such ease, bringing me to stand in front of him.
“I would say that riding a bike is not your strong point,” he said playfully.
