Page 68 of Que Será, Syrah

“No, not really.” I think about it for a moment. “It wasn’t like that. We were more like rivers in the delta.”

“You were what in the what?”

“The San Francisco Bay delta system—you know, all the rivers that flow down from the mountains and funnel into the bay? Her expression remained blank, prompting me to add, “You did go to school here, didn’t you? I assumed field trips to the San Francisco Bay Model was part of the normal curriculum?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe I was out that day.”

“So how do you describe relationships?” I teased.

“Oh, that’s easy.” Her eyes lit up and she sidled closer, close enough to slide her hands over my shoulders, her fingers twisting in my hair. “I think they’re like vines.”

“Which? The relationships, or the people in them?”

“Both, actually.”

“Sounds confusing,” I murmured, vividly aware that our mouths were mere centimeters apart, willing her to close the distance.

“Mm, not really. We’re all wrapped up with one another, anyway, aren’t we? All tangled in each other’s business?”

“Sounds…uncomfortable,” I reply, though that’s not the word I was thinking.

“Doesn’t have to be,” she said, and inched even closer.

And I wanted to disagree, but then her lips were on mine, and we never did return to the subject…

* * *

It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks—but that’s all it’s been. And I know I can’t be falling for her—not this hard, not this soon. Because that’s not at all realistic. Except, “Holy shit.” I very much suspect that I am. I’m so caught up in my thoughts, still reeling from this new revelation, that I nearly miss the disaster taking place right in front of me.

An older man, one of several who I’d already had my eye on, collapses suddenly, listing slowly to the side before toppling into the street.

I slam on my brakes, bringing my vehicle to a stop and flicking on the overhead lights before exiting the truck. The tour has, predictably, come to a chaotic stop, there are multiple people milling about, huddling ’round the victim. Some even attempt to lift him from the ground—which I quickly put a stop to.

“I’ll need everyone to take a step back,” I order as, from the corner of my eye, I spy Legs, off her bike and racing towards me. “Let’s give this gentleman some room.”

“But shouldn’t we move him out of the road?” someone asks.

“No,” I tell them. “Not until I’ve assessed his condition.” And probably not even then. I’ve radioed for an ambulance. Moving him will be a determination for the EMT’s to make.

“What happened?” Legs demands when she finally reaches me. I’m kneeling beside the fallen biker, checking his pulse, mentally counting the beats. I lift a hand in an obvious request for her to give me a moment, but she continues to pepper me with questions. “Is he all right? Omigod. Did you hit him.”

“That’s what I’m trying to ascertain,” I tell her, just before the last part of her question hits home. “Did I what? Hit him? No, of course I didn’t!”

As I glance up, scowling at Legs, I notice a woman on the sidelines, aiming her phone in my direction. “Ma’am? No pictures, please.”

“Oh, I’m not taking pictures,” she replies, her eyes glued to her screen. “This is video.”

“No,” I snap. “Absolutely not. I need you to stop what you’re doing, delete that video, and then put your phone away. And keep it away.”

I turn back to Legs. “Look, we need to move all these people off the road. Bikes too. Can you handle that?”

“On it,” she says and immediately starts herding people onto the shoulder with surprising efficiency.

“And no pictures!”

After what feels like a long time, but in actuality is no more than a couple of minutes, the man on the ground begins to stir.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” I ask to no avail. Lifting my head again, I scan the crowd until I catch Allegra’s eye. “Do you know what his name is?”

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