Page 57 of Fun at Parties
Nate flies back into his seat. My head snaps to the right, past his shoulder. The KU crew is filing through in a line, off to the show, I guess.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.” It comes out sharp. The last thing I want is for him to be sorry, unless the only thing he’s sorry about is that we got interrupted.
I wish Nate and I could seize this little window of timewe have. I’ve already replayed our night in Denver together so many times it’s going to be on my Spotify Wrapped.
But Nate didn’t like the idea of being my rebound from Caleb, and he’s obviously not sold on the idea of a fling. He’s either being cautious with his heart, or he doesn’t want it as badly as I do. I said enough yesterday, and I’m not going to push it any further.
Rain peppers the sunroof like drops of liquid moonlight, falling more steadily than the sporadic drizzle we’ve gotten for the past couple hours. “Should we go soon?” I ask. Dread kicks in my chest at the prospect of what lies ahead tonight. Long bathroom lines and music without a hook and trying to work our way through big crowds of too many people rolling on various substances.
“Not yet,” he says. “Let’s wait until this lets up again.”
But it doesn’t let up at all.
Chapter 19
An hour later, the rainis a torrent. Inside the Hyundai, the white-noise sound of the deluge is like a weighted blanket.
I blink away the sleepiness dragging down my eyelids. “We need to rally.”
“Do we, though? I have no energy left.” Nate lifts his hand as if to grab the door handle, then lets it flop back down.
“You should do one of my rides,” I joke. “Energizing is part of my niche.”
“Okay, show me.”
My face goes hot at the idea of him watching me work. Thinking it’s stupid, like he does about everything I do on social media. “You’re missing one little thing. A bike. And it’s not really your style, anyway.”
He sits up on his elbows. “I’m curious. I’vebeencurious. I want to know what it’s like.”
“You could’ve bought a one-month subscription and seen for yourself at any time.”
“Paying $10.99 to spy on you doing your job? That wouldn’t have been creepy at all.”
It dawns on me, from how ready his response was and his knowledge of the cost, that he may have considered it at some point. I don’t know whether it was during this trip or before, and I won’t ask. A thrill curls in my belly like a beckoning finger at the idea of him visiting the CycleLove website and debating whether to type in his credit card information just to see me.
I pull up the app and scroll through my rides. I have to go back a few months to reach a time when I was truly on top of my game.
Here’s a good one: space buns, silver glitter eyeliner, and girl groups. Spice Girls, Fifth Harmony, Little Mix. I hand him the phone and tip my head the other way, pressing my palm to the cold windowpane and staring at the shadowy shapes of vehicles and people through the condensation on the glass. My mind travels unhelpfully to the scene inTitanicwhere they bang in a car and Rose slides her hand down the steamed-up window in the throes of passion.
When I hear my voice, I cave in, leaning over his shoulder to watch myself instead.
This was one of my last classes with in-studio riders. Even though they’re barely visible at the edges of the frame, it’s clear from my face and voice alone. When there are other people in the studio, everything feels effortless.
It’s a twenty-minute ride, with two climbs and a set of high-cadence intervals. I try to turn it off after the first song, but Nate shoots me a stern look and moves the phone out of my reach. The version of me on the screen is encouraging without being patronizing. Spirited but not annoying. My anecdote about the first concert I attended,a Cheetah Girls show at the local performing arts center, is funny. And it transitions smoothly into a motivational speech about how we should embrace the little things that give us a boost of confidence. “Whether it’s finishing this ride or wearing your favorite outfit—say, a skirt over a pair of jeans with a skinny scarf from Limited Too—to see your idols in the flesh,” the Quinn on the screen says, “do it. You’re a star, and you deserve to feel like one.”
I try to get a read on Nate as the Pussycat Dolls play us out. Until this moment, I’ve never been so aware of theearnestnessof it all.
“I know it’s not your kind of thing,” I say quickly. “And it gets a little cheesy near the end, but it’s supposed to be that way. People like it.” Am I really trying the whole acknowledge-my-own-flaws-so-you-can’t-hold-them-against-me thing? It’s one hundred percent effective…at making me feel shittier about the thing I’m trying to preemptively defend against. “The stuff at the end was overkill, probably. But Tracy likes it when we throw in some life wisdom.”
“The life wisdom that also validates the person’s decision to do CycleLove,” he observes. His tone doesn’t give anything away.
“I’ve never thought about it that way.” I guess he’s right. But it’s not some conspiracy. It’s natural to tie in whatever lesson fits with the theme to cycling itself. “Michelle calls that part of the ride ‘the sermon.’ ”
His mouth twists as he contemplates this. On the phone, the video is paused on a close-up of my face, the signs of exertion barely visible through my makeup andthe lighting. Just a faint pink stain on my cheeks and the lightest glow of sweat at my temples.
“You’re good at it,” he finally says.
