Page 64 of Unforgettable

The thought of Oz needing me for anything sends a rush of adrenaline through me. I want to do this. I don’t want to let him down.

It doesn’t matter that the reason I never learned was because I didn’t have someone who was interested in teaching me. My father was always expecting things of me but was never the one teaching me, and after a while, I stopped waiting around for that father-son relationship to form.

Which, incidentally, meant that I missed out on something as simple as learning how to ride a bike. Eventually, I didn’t care for it and couldn’t find a reason to learn.

And as Oz stands behind me, his hands ready to catch me if I fall, I’m grateful that I don’t know, because I would’ve never experienced this with him.

His care.

His time.

His attentiveness.

I wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

Making a conscious choice not to look around, because I know I’ll lose my nerve, I hesitantly put my foot onto a pedal.

“I’m holding the seat.” Oz leans closer, his mouth to my ear. “Put both feet up. I got you.”

My skin erupts in goose bumps at those three simple words, and I want nothing more than to make him proud. I want to do this for him.

Cautiously, I raise my feet to the pedals and I feel the bike wobble underneath me, forcing me to drop a foot to the ground.

“Try again,” he encourages. “And just move your feet clockwise.”

Oz holds on tightly to both the bike and my trust. I feel so cherished in his hands as I do what he’s instructed. My fear and embarrassment slip away as my feet continue to turn.

The bike shakes and, with Oz’s words of encouragement, I stop and start, over and over again.

“Okay, I’m going to let you go now,” he announces with confidence I don’t at all feel.

“Are you sure?” I stammer, putting my feet back on the ground, already hesitant to the idea. “I think we could do a few more tries with you still behind me.”

Oz walks around the bike so he’s facing me. “While Ilovebeing behind you,” he says and smirks, “trust me on this. You can do it.”

Slowly, he begins to walk backward. “Just ride to me.”

“I feel like a kid learning to walk for the first time and his parents are waiting on the other side to scream in excitement,” I grumble. “Can’t you just stand beside me while I do it?”

“What?” He motions up and down his body. “Is this not enough motivation for you?”

I run my teeth over my bottom lip suggestively.

“What’s my prize?” I call out.

He points to himself. “Spending the day with me, obviously. Now stop stalling and ride.”

My hands tighten around the bars as I lower my head and take a few deep, calming breaths. I lift my right foot up onto the pedal and then put it back down. I repeat the motion five or six times before I notice Oz walking toward me.

Calmly, he situates himself behind me and holds on to the seat. “Don’t be scared,” he says gently. “I’m here.”

Because having him behind me does make all the difference, my feet move of their own volition, every part of me enveloped in Oz’s safety net.

With my head up, my feet move. Faster and faster, my confidence soars as the distance I cover increases. But when I notice Oz jogging beside me in my peripheral vision instead of being behind me, I falter. Losing my balance and my confidence, the bike leans in the opposite direction from Oz.

My coordination skills take a back seat as my brain screams at me to put a leg down or to press the brake. Unsuccessfully following either instruction, the bike shakes underneath me as my stiff body tries and fails to wrangle the bike into submission.

I almost surrender to letting myself fall when a large, steady hand presses into my back and the bike miraculously straightens itself.

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