Page 120 of The False Flat

“It’s not safe or wise,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, like he wasn’t crushing Grant’s heart in his oversize fist.

I hated Dr. Killjoy. What kind of oncologist has a name like that anyway? That was his real name. But I’d researched it. He was the best in Nashville.

“I’m not going to ride either,” I told Grant once the intelligent jerk had closed the door.

“Umm. That’s not a good idea.”

I shrugged. He was right. I would probably live to regret the promise. Riding was like breathing for me. Could I promise to stop breathing?

“I don’t care. I’m doing it.” I meant it. I’d stop breathing for him.

As darkness crept through the small hospital window and the halls quieted, Grant motioned me over to his narrow hospital bed. Hip to hip, we could almost pretend we were home, all but for the occasional interruption of the nurses, who checked his grip strength and asked him the date and who the president was—apparently concussion protocol. It made me think back to my own concussion, when I hadn’t been able to remain in the hospital for even five seconds. I wasn’t the same person, though I did have to regularly suppress the urge to ask him if he really needed to be here. I was going to attempt to live where we were, wherever that took us.

“I want to go to a dark-sky park,” Grant said.

I shifted from lying on a patch of uninjured shoulder so I could see his face.

“Then we’ll go. Isn’t there a whole community dedicated to keeping the sky dark in California?”

He smiled and nodded. “There is. We’ll go there if you prefer. I don’t care where, as long as I have you and the open sky.”

He reached over, let his finger move down the side of my face. I grabbed his hand and held it in mine.

“Some July, we’ll go to Spain. There’s a lavender festival in Brihuega every year, midmonth. One of my friends arranges his visits to his parents’ house in Spain around the festival; it’s that good.” He moved his free hand in front of us as we pictured the fragrant, budding lavender fields and the warm sun on our skin. “They celebrate the blooming of the lavender with all kinds of activities: painting exhibits, hot-air balloon rides, paragliding, tours through the fields, cooking master classes. We have to go.”

“Then we’ll go there too.”

“While we’re in Spain, we’ll visit the Puente Nuevo, New Bridge, in Ronda. I’ve always wanted to see the city separated by a gorge. From what I hear, it’s a magnificent view.” He closed one eye. “Though they’re also known for bullfighting, so we probably won’t want to stay too long.”

“That sounds wonderful. The lavender and the cooking classes. Not the bulls.”

“Not a fan of bulls?”

“Oh, I’m a huge fan of bulls, and bullfighting for that matter. I thought you wouldn’t be interested. But if you are, by all means, let’s—”

He laid his head back against the pillow. “We aren’t going to see the bulls.”

My fingertips played over his forearm. “Suit yourself.”

“But maybe we’ll go to Cappadocia, Turkey, instead. A city cut into the hills.” He paused, picturing it. “I hear they’re planning to start a new tradition of hot-air balloon rides with champagne breakfasts.”

“Mmmm. Then we must go there.”

“Then we’ll of course have to hit all the most talked-about bike routes. Maybe we’ll start three hours southwest of London. Isle of Wight, Great Britain? Huh? Huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Rolling hills beside dramatic seas and long curvy roads that’ll take us past both cliffs and lush green valleys.”

I suppressed a smile. “Were you a travel agent in your former life?”

“I’d be a good one, don’t you think?”

“Only if the next thing you were going to suggest is the Route des Vins.”

“Mmmm. I like the way you say that.” My accent was horrible, and we both knew it. “Tell me more.”

I arranged words in my head. “Vineyards grace the landscape, known not only for their luscious wine selection but for their stunning, jaw-dropping scenery as you pedal through the multimile route from France into Germany.”

He nodded, an impressed flare to his mustache. “A little over the top with the whole ‘jaw-dropping’ bit, but I definitely want to go.”

“You knew about that one before I told you, didn’t you?”