Page 88 of Unbossly Manners

“He was pretty upset when we couldn’t find you,” Selena said out of nowhere.

Hope swirled in my chest, but I squished it.

“That’s not helpful,” I said, lifting my feet off the peddles as we glided down a hill. “He was a wreck about Kat. Not me. Don’t complicate it.”

Selena stood up on the bike as we coasted down the lane. “It is complicated but what you’re not realizing is that you’re part of the complication.”

I held my breath, wanting to believe her. Then I gasped for air because… fuck. Riding a bike for miles on end was not easy.

“Keep talking,” I said, letting the hope snake in alongside the endorphins.

“He likes you, but he’s not ready yet. And Kat’s making that difficult because she’s holding on too. I think you’re the first ray of hope Jackson’s had since he found out Kat was leaving him. Change is hard.”

I slammed my breaks and skidded to a stop on the asphalt. “I won’t wait while Jackson figures his shit out. I don’t want to be the girl in the wings. So can we please not talk about it anymore. I want to forget the agreement. I want to forget everything.”

Selena rode over to me and gathered my sweaty shoulders into a hug. My eyes watered but I blinked the tears away, not wanting to break down on the middle of this road.

Five miles later, we took a break and stuffed our faces with protein bars and energy drinks. Refueled, we powered on in silence. We had no energy to talk, even if we wanted to. We were focused on ending this damn ride.

It had been nice in the beginning until our muscles grew tired, our backs screamed in pain, and our stomachs growled for real food.

About a mile from the finish line, two officials on bikes sped down the road toward us. They slowed as they passed, and said, “Be careful up ahead, there’s been an accident. Stay to left and don’t stop, keep riding.”

I looked down the lane, but couldn’t see anything.

“Is it bad?” Selena asked.

The officials were several feet away, conveying the message to the next set of riders behind us.

The older official shouted over his shoulder, “Fatal.”

Selena and I shared a shocked look. Tingles ran along my skin and we picked up the pace, the adrenaline pushing us. We came across several more cyclists as we neared the finish line, clustered on the side of the road.

“Did you hear about the accident?” I asked, red-faced and panting.

“Yeah,” a girl in a neon yellow top said. “My friend finished an hour ago and texted. She said two cyclists collided and one of them hit the metal guard rail.”

“We heard it was fatal,” I said. “Did she say who it was? Male or female?”

“Two men. One was injured, the other, I heard… it’s not good.”

My legs pumped the peddles, the pain in my muscles forgotten. As we rounded the last bend, the inflatable arch of the finish line came into view. About thirty feet before it was the metal rail. It was crowded with vehicles—an ambulance, police cruiser, an official motorcycle.

I craned my neck, trying to see through the crowd. The first thing I saw was the shock of bright red against gray asphalt. Blood. It was splattered over the railing and there was a small puddle on the concrete.

“Oh god.” Selena’s hand flew to her mouth.

I followed her eyeline. A red bike lay crumbled like tinfoil. Jackson’s bike was red. I traced the frame and when I got to the shoes—still attached to the peddles—I shrieked. Selena held tight to my arm and I dropped my bike to the ground. The colors and noises of the world around me faded and I stumbled, first walking, then running to the collision site.

“The shoes.” Selena breathed.

Her nails dug into my skin but I didn’t feel their sharp points. Two bikes were crunched against the guard rail, their frames mangled. I whimpered, my vision tunneled on the bike that still had the shoes clipped in, disembodied from the owner.

They were pink polka-dots.

The shoes blurred out of focus, and I gasped for air, but my chest never felt full.

“Where is he?” I spun toward someone official.

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