Page 96 of The False Flat

I’d asked him the same question more than once, but hearing Deanna ask it and seeing the look on Grant’s face made me determined to stop badgering him.

“The real question is . . . ,” he started, bending toward Deanna. “Are you going to be able to handle it? This ain’t your color ride.”

Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “I do Pilates!”

He looked unconvinced, but instead of replying, he turned and started jogging toward the automatic Walmart doors. He called over his shoulder, “I hope those muffins don’t slow you all down! One brief stop, and then I’m going to ride!” Finger in the air, he attempted a halfway successful midair heel kick.

I watched him until the doors slid open and closed again.

Before joining a cycling group, I’d thought people riding on the side of the road in their spandex looked ridiculous. But watching Grant now, I understood. He was pulling off the cycling suit, which made me want to pull it off him.

I pictured his face flushed, his mustache waving in a gentle breeze, like Fabio’s hair, as he dripped sweat after riding twenty miles. With his natural outdoor scent concentrated on his hot skin, he’d stand close, whisper something breathless in my ear, teasing me. The no-sex thing made everything erotic, and while I wanted it to end, I had to admit I was kind of enjoying the excruciating weeks-long bout of foreplay.

Pass the salt, a normally innocent table request, turned into prolonged hand touching as the saltshaker changed users. I love salt, I’d say, pushing out my chest like a salt vixen. It’s the saltiest, he’d reply, letting the words rumble in his chest as he eyed me suggestively. I’d dash a little on the back of my hand and slowly lick it off, and he’d watch me, swallowing hard and then flicking his tongue over his lips. And then I’d—

Deanna snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You in there?”

My cheeks went hot when I realized the three of us were still standing in the Walmart parking lot, nine inches away from a used piece of bubble gum.

“I’m worried about him.” Her hands were on her hips as she stared at the Walmart doors. “Something’s off.”

“Grant? He had a stomach bug. He’s recovering, but he’s fine.” Hadn’t she seen him run into Walmart? He was healthier than I was. He was—

“It’s just that—”

“Are we going to the bathroom or what, ladies?” William interrupted, rubbing his hands together. “I’m ready to ride.”

The three of us consolidated our trash and followed Grant as I shook off Deanna’s unsettling words. I soothed myself by remembering that she was his sister. She was worried about her brother, and that was sweet, normal even. I was reading too much into everything, I decided.

In the bathroom, I pulled out my phone again and saw Hannah’s text reply. I would likely lose service when we started riding. I was glad she’d replied so quickly, and then I felt horrible because I’d texted her on the weekend, when she was supposed to be taking a break from psychos like me.

Hannah: The surest way to set yourself up for personal failure is to compare yourself to someone else. We all progress at different rates. Instead, compare your past self to your present self. Are you improving? (We both know the answer is yes.) Enjoy your unique journey. Let Erin enjoy hers. You’ve been through a lot. I’d worry if you were ready to marry Grant tomorrow. You aren’t there yet, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you won’t get there when your time is right.

I inhaled her words, then sent a final text.

Me: I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend. Thank you.

Hannah: Anytime, Pen. See you next week.

Back in the parking lot, we were packed and ready to go.

As we put feet to pedals, I didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 37

TWENTY-FOUR SERVINGS OF SEX IN THE WOODS

A few minutes later, we turned left onto Asbury Road, a short stretch with uninspiring houses on one side and May Prairie on the other. I spouted my memorized trivia like a proper travel guide: 492 acres, mixed swamp, tall grass, short grass, three hundred plant species, et cetera, et cetera.

Grant smiled. I’d done my homework, and the professor was proud.

From there, we rode into the little town of Viola, where the light-blue face of the tiny town hall greeted us.

Grant stopped as the sun struck a waterfall rushing from the rock of one of the hills. I watched him watch it. Colors echoed back with the sound of the water as they disappeared into a white froth and then were carried away to a depth the sun hadn’t reached yet. The surrounding trees stood like a chorus ready to sing, dressed in vibrant fall garb.

This was why we’d come . . . untouched nature. It was part of our relationship. Nature was always herself, never pretending to be something she wasn’t and never apologizing for the various moods she found herself in. I took a deep breath, hungry for a reset, until the ride made us all hungry for lunch.

We stopped at a place called Mountain Goat Market, a large brick and painted-cement building featuring a mural with mountain goats atop bicycles.