Page 47 of Red Flag, Green Light

“She’s mentioned my bike, on the phone, in front of you, in front of us.”

“To be so frank, Mars, sometimes her voice turns into the adults in Charlie Brown, broken ever so occasionally by ‘Brian.’ It’s justwah-wah-wah-wah Brian wah-wah-wah.”

Mars pulls in a breath that flares his nostrils, then he lets it go and says, “I have a bike.”

“Crazy. Never noticed.” Maybe if you had broader shoulders,like your brother.

“I’m coming with you to the bike shop.”

“Unprecedented.” Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“I’m facilitating the refill of your rations in conjunction with your already having to leave your house due to prior agreements.”

“Fab.” Bless you, Mars. You’re an angel on earth.

“Therefore, you’re not upset with me anymore, right?”

Getting more juice before next shopping day is the kind of luxury I literally have dreams about, and it’s not like I can’t afford to go shopping more than my allotted amount, especially not with my current project bringing in a full year’s worth of income. I’d feel worse about it if I didn’t know that Rouge was making hundred-thousand dollar months and forcing me to waitdaysbetween chapters in her current WIP. I am dying for every next scrap of her story, yet she lords it over me, saying,Starve.

Anyway… Where were we? Right. Am I still upset with Mars? It’s hard to be upset after a refreshing bout of gaslighting, I think, so I say, “I rescind my fury.”

“Your benevolence is noted.” He pokes at his eggs. “We’ll go after breakfast, then?”

Considering I have nothing better to do apart from stare at a message thread and wait for Rouge to love me, I say, “Sure.” Then also: “I wonder if they have copper tubes…to match your bike.”

Which I have never seen before, in my life.

Smiling when Mars’s eye twitches, I take a bite of toast.

The guy manning this cramped, barely organized bike shop drops a whole tube—black, not copper—on the counter, and I blink at it. No box. No plastic. Just…a flat black tube, sittingthere against the raw plywood.

“Need anything else?” he asks as he plops into a chair behind the register, all but disappearing as he rings up Mars’s order.

Shaking his head, Mars lifts his card. “Not today.”

The man nods. “Six-thirty. Receipt?”

“Yes, please.”

A receipt prints for Mars to take, and I twitch as I catch sight of the cost. Six…point…three. There is no hundredths place. There is a dollar sign.

I have never seen anything more offensive in my life, and I just watched a transaction take place that has concluded with Mars stuffing a raw, open bike tube in his pocket. It’s hanging out of his leather jacket like a helpless snake.

This could have been a drug deal. You couldtellme this was a drug deal, and I’d believe you.

What is going on?

“And for the lady?” the guy asks, turning his attention on me and offering a crooked smile.

I am one misplaced judgement away from asking if I can reprogram his machine so it prints currency correctly. Thank goodness Mars is here, to provide me with a sense of confidence and keep me from rambling idiotically.

Unfortunately, Mars steps away to look at a forest green mountain bike before I collect the correct thoughts. So instead of explaining how I’m planning a bikeathon for a Flag Day festival come June 14th and would love it if Dream Cycles would sponsor it, I smile brilliantly, and…ramble idiotically. “I’ve never been in here before, and this is kind of embarrassing, but I never learned how to ride a bike…”

From beside an array of neon pedals literally bolted to the wall, Mars throws a totally subtle look my way.

Heart rate fumbling around stupidly, I push my hair back over my ear. “What bike would you recommend for someonelearning late?”

Beaming, the guy stands, and—quite honestly—friendly people will lead to my demise…

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