Page 74 of Dizzy

“Follow me,” Dizzy orders, heading for his own bike. “Not the boys. They know the trails.”

“Yes, sir. Follow the boys. Gotcha.” I salute.

I expect a swat, but I get a scratchy-bearded, smooshed-up, through-the-open-visor-of-my-helmet kiss instead.

“Smart ass.” He hops on his bike—no helmet, I guess ‘cause his hair won’t fit in and he’s invincible—and we head out to the tree line.

We ride for an hour, the boys racing ahead and then circling back on side trails, showing off. Dizzy does a fair amount of showing off, too. We reach the bottom of the low mountain—a foothill, really—that looms a few miles west of the clubhouse.

There’s a stream running through a gully before the trail disappears up a sharp bank. A downed tree lies in a clearing, covered in moss and surrounded by beer bottles. Dizzy gestures for me to pull off. The boys’ bikes are already here, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Probably climbing the boulders that rise on the other side of the water.

I dismount, bend, and stretch, and Dizzy does the same beside me. Oddly enough, my ass is numb. I tug off my helmet and shake out my hair. The cool breeze soothes my hot scalp.

Dizzy rests a cold water bottle against my shoulder. “Drink.”

I grab it and guzzle it down. I’m parched.

It’s so gorgeous out here. The leaves are fluttering to the ground in slow motion like red and yellow confetti, and it’s quiet except for the occasional howl or crack or hoot in the woods.

There’s a soothing bigness to it all. An openness.

I don’t know what New York City will be like, exactly, but it won’t be like this at all. It’s a sucky thought.

“What’s that?” Dizzy runs his thumb along my frowning bottom lip. “You hurtin’?”

I shake my head and lope off to check out the stream. I don’t want to think about how this is temporary. And it is, right? I’m the house mouse. Free pussy and maid service in exchange for room and board. That’s the deal. Isn’t it?

No matter how comfortable it is, how natural it feels.

I can’t stay here. This can’t be for real. He’s a dad with a real job and a house and responsibilities. I’m—Well, I don’t have any of that. He might be into me now, but how long is that gonna last?

This isn’t a fairy tale. In real life, Cinderella is underemployed, and the prince isn’t gonna want to support her indefinitely when he’s got bills of his own.

Something inside me turns mean and grumpy. I kick some rocks in the steam, make a splash. It doesn’t make me feel much better.

There’s a crunch as Dizzy comes up behind me. He stops a few feet back. I ignore him.

He shuffles his boots.

I squat and root through pebbles for a nice flat one to skip.

He coughs.

My nails are long again now. Grit sticks under them.

“Fay-Lee.”

I can’t find a good skipping stone. They’re all round or lumpy. I grab a handful of pebbles and roll them in my palm.

“Fay-Lee.”

I squeeze and let the pebbles dribble from my clenched fist, bit by bit.

And then Dizzy’s crouching next to me. In terms of size, it’s like a silverback gorilla sidled up and popped a squat. He gives me space, but he’s still imposing as hell. Makes me feel even more ornery.

I start tracing my initials in bubble letters in the dirt.

He sighs. “The boys’ mother did this.”

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