Page 56 of The Words We Lost

“I think so, too. Although I can’t take credit for it.”

And just by the way he says it, it’s not hard to conclude where such marketing brilliance might have come from.

“Madison?” I guess.

He confirms with a nod.

“Then shouldn’t she be the one to do the test ride with you?” Seems only fair of me to ask, not that I suddenly believe in the idea of fair. Or that I suddenly like the idea of Madison alone on a beach with Joel. Then again, perhaps people who live outside of a nine-hundred-mile radius shouldn’t get an opinion on such matters.

“Madison owns one,” he concludes easily, though now I’m left to wonder just how many sunset rides the two of them have shared together.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. The muscles in his biceps flex and release, and I notice the contrast of sun-kissed skin against the lightweight aqua tee he’s wearing. I divert my gaze from the ink that spirals up his right forearm. “I thought you could use a better way to get around town.” He smiles. “Consider this yours for however long you’re here.”

I’ve never understood how kindness can sometimes feel like a fresh cut, how the sting intensifies the longer it remains in open air, how even after the wound is cleaned and covered, the tenderness can linger for days.

But as I look from Joel to the bike, I feel the raw, warring sensation anew. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

My cheeks prickle at the warmth of his voice, and I smooth my hand over the bike seat. “Chip has an electric bike, too, although this is a different style than his.”

“Ah, Chip,” Joel says in a tone that definitely doesn’t scream friendliness. “Is this the same Chip that called you during our brunch?”

I tilt my head and squint to see his face despite the blinding sun behind his head. “I only know one.”

“And he’s ...?”

“A super great guy,” I fill in, letting the assumption dangle a few seconds too long—but honestly, if I have to imagine sunset bike rides with Madison the Model, then is it really so wrong of me to let Joelwonder for all of three seconds that someone out there might still find me desirable?

I clear my throat. “He’s also my assistant, one I trained when he was a college intern.” This feels like an important detail to mention, as does, “He has a crippling phobia of seaweed, leads a gamer squadron with the IT guys at the office called the Nerd Herd, and named his bike Eugenia.” There, in case there was any doubt who Chip is to me, all confusion should be cleared up now.

Joel quirks an eyebrow. “Your assistant named his bike?”

“Is that really the quirk you find the weirdest out of that list?”

He laughs. “Why seaweed?”

“Trust me, you really don’t want to know.” I pull on the helmet he gives me and fiddle with the adjustments on the straps, missing the buckle connection multiple times over. Despite what Joel may think, I’m far from a biking expert. A Peloton rider I might be, but I haven’t ridden an actual bike in many, many years.

“I should confess, I haven’t done this for a while.”

I anticipate a round of jokes about my stationary bike, but Joel simply steps towards me, slips his fingers under my chin, and connects the two parts in a single try. “You’ll remember.” He grips the handle of my bike and releases the kickstand, holding it upright for me. “Let the bike do the work for you until you’re comfortable. It’s easy to make adjustments along the way.” He sets a spare water bottle in my basket and then wakes the display screen mounted between my handlebars. The numbers and arrows are bright and clear—speed, mileage, weather, battery strength. “The throttle is here, and the handbrakes work the same as on a regular bike.” He climbs onto his seat and inclines his head for me to take the lead. “I’ll stay close until we get off the main road.”

And with that, I pedal and slowly engage the throttle to exit the driveway. Joel’s right, the muscle memory is there. Right where I left it.

We’re halfway up the hill and moving too quickly for me to interpret Joel’s expression, but I file it away with so many other detailsabout this afternoon—the cotton-white clouds, the hint of salt in the air, and the lack of car horns, smog, and crowds.

I pause my pedaling for a few rotations and hold my face to the sun.

“You approve?” Joel asks.

“Not sure I’ll be able to ride in my office ever again.”

I hear him chuckle. “That’s good enough for me.”

I hunker down, tap the up arrow until it reaches max speed, and leave Joel in my dust. I pedal until my lungs burn as if my menial efforts might push the limits of a bike that is likely more advanced than my laptop. My sneaky head start serves to keep Joel in my periphery for approximately sixty seconds. But even still, the rush that comes from gaining ground, even if only in a bike race, is one I haven’t felt in some time. I’ve been playing catch-up in life for too long.

“Brake, Indy!Brake!” Joel hollers as we approach a four-way stop that wasn’t there five years ago. I react immediately, not prepared for how quickly the brakes respond to my touch.

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