Page 85 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“I’m just not sure if I’ll use it again. After our ride today.”
“Why not?”
“Where would I use it? Where would I go?”
He stares at me blankly. “Wherever you go with your car. Your grandpa’s place, your house, the shops.”
“Those places are miles apart.”
“Only two or three miles, and it’s all flat here.”
“Right. Okay.” Now that he mentions it, it is flat here. Seattle is full of hills. “Maybe I will.”
“Wonderful.” He draws the word out, sounding so Southern it makes me smile. “So, this one’s yours. It’s my spare.” He unlocks a yellow bike that’s slightly smaller than his.
He wheels his own bike toward the street. I snap my helmet on and hurry to follow him. The yellow bike feels rather large and unwieldy.
He gives me a sharp look. Suddenly, he stops short.
“Do you need a lesson?”
“Um.” I examine the bike. Looks pretty standard. “I think I’m good. This is the part I sit on, right?” I point to the handlebars. He laughs, and I get a heady sense of accomplishment from the sound.
A few minutes later, we’re cruising down a paved path lined with boats docked at the edge of a canal. It was ninety degrees out today, but it’s almost dusk now, and zipping along with trees on one side and water on the other feels amazing. The warmth of the evening air and the fresh breeze in my face melt away all my worries. It’s magical.
Daniel’s riding ahead of me, and he looks back at me to give me a thumbs-up. I grin, remembering him saying—what feels like forever ago—that he would get me on a bike eventually. Like he knew I needed it, even though he barely knew me.
We’re not talking, just zipping along, Daniel in front of me, and the scenery is doing something to me. It’s the glistening water, the colorful boats—some of them are canal boats that appear to be livedin, with people lounging on deck chairs, waving as we whiz past. It’s the smell of grass and tangy, fishy water. It’s the feeling of going fast, being propelled by the strength of my own legs. It’s the man riding in front of me and the way I can’t stop looking at the back of his neck, strong and freckled and lightly sheened with sweat. All these things add up and make me think,How did I get here? How did a solitary girl from Seattle go from lonely, rainy days to all this?And I know it’s not forever, but right now that doesn’t matter. Because right now itis. Right now I’m here, doing this.
And I’m happy. So ridiculously happy.
After twenty minutes or so, Daniel takes a right turn that spits us out onto a street. I think we’re near the downtown area, but I’m not sure exactly where.
He pulls over on the side of the street and I stop next to him. “I thought we could grab a bite and something to drink before we turn around.”
I blink at him, getting emotional whiplash as I picture us sitting down at a little café together—because that would totally be a date, right? But then I see where he’s pointing. It appears to be a farmers market of some kind, rows of white tents and a covered area of picnic tables. Very cute—and definitely not a date, unless explicitly stated. Which it won’t be.
We wheel our bikes among the tents, where vendors are selling everything from pastries to antiques. The first thing I notice is how un-crowded it is here. A similar market back home would be swarming with people, but here the vibe is relaxed, just a couple dozen people milling about. Also, strangers keep saying hello to us, even going so far as to make friendly comments about our bikes or the weather. It’s bizarre.
“This place has the best pretzel dogs.” Daniel nods toward one of the tents. “And fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
“Lemonade sounds perfect.” I hesitate, scanning for a menu. “Do you know if the dogs have pork in them?” I brace myself for a confused question, prepared to give my standard answer—I’m Jewish—and hoping we won’t go into the intricacies of the different levels of kosher. But he doesn’t ask.
“I always go for the veggie dog myself. Says the other ones are one hundred percent beef, though.” He points out the menu, a laminated piece of printer paper taped to the cash register.
“Excellent.” I unzip my belt bag to pull out my wallet, but he covers my hand with his.
“My treat.”
“Thanks.” I am so not going to read into this. He’s a Southern gentleman; he can’t help it.
He orders, and as we wait for our pretzel dogs, I ask, “Are you vegetarian, then?”
He nods. “Going on fifteen years.”
“Wow. I’m surprised. You seem so…” I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Manly? Floridian?
He just laughs. “Yeah, well, I visited a slaughterhouse on a high school field trip and that was that. The trip was supposed to get us interested in agriculture and farming, but it certainly had an unintended effect on me.”
