Page 37 of Head Over Wheels

She wanted to stop and look at the view, but I tugged her up to the old brass portal of the church, swallowing an idiotic comment about how the door looked like Han Solo frozen in carbonite – even though it totally did. We’d never made it to episode five.

Once inside the cavernous nave, I located our destination quickly from the clutch of tourists ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the railing in front of a grand marble side-chapel.

‘Do I have to pray for an explanation?’ Lori asked. I glancedat her and that pang returned, the pleasant ache that had throbbed to life in my room when I’d been privileged enough to see her cry.

I suspected it might never go away again.

She wasn’t happy to have had a witness and I wouldn’t bring up the subject to save my life, knowing she could push me away just as easily as she could come along on this harebrained pilgrimage to the relics of a saint. Perhaps this had been a crappy idea. How would lighting a candle in front of a sliver of a discoloured fingernail actually help? I hoped the relic wasn’t actually a fingernail. My stomach was still a little sensitive.

But we were here now and she’d asked for an explanation. We had to try something – other than sleeping together again, which I was pretty sure would only make things worse. ‘This church holds the relics of Saint Catherine.’

Lori didn’t immediately react, despite my dramatic tone. ‘I know I’m Irish and Italian, but I’m mostly Australian and… saints aren’t really my special subject.’

‘Saint Catherine is the patron saint ofwheels. It’s a great coincidence. You can light a candle here, make a gesture and reset your thinking.’

‘Isn’t the patron saint of cycling the Madonna del Ghisallo, that chapel in northern Italy? Dad took us there a few years ago.’

‘I know the one, but that’s too far away, so I figured wheels might do.’

‘I suppose it can’t hurt,’ she said glumly.

I didn’t really believe the saint would grant Lori good luck for her next race. Although I wasn’t very religious, I did understand that saints weren’t genies. But there could be meaning for her in the gesture, even if I couldn’t describe what – at least not sufficiently for Lori to unfold her sceptical frown.

As we waited our turn to peer at the relics, she rummaged in the front pocket of my hoodie, which only reminded me how good she looked in it, how watching her pull on my clothing made me feel like the possessive jock who got the cheerleader – except for the fact that Lori was a more famous athlete than I was and not a cheerleader. I just wished I had something with my name on it for her to slip into.

‘Damn it, I left my phone in your room,’ she muttered. ‘Can I have yours?’

I handed it over without questioning her. ‘The code is 6920. It’s the postcode of my family’s place.’

She eyed me as though I’d given her my PIN number, although to be honest, I probably would have done that if she’d asked to borrow my card.

‘What? You’re not going to turn up and murder us all in our sleep,’ I said defensively.

‘I thought you’d be more worried about me going through your camera roll and posting everything on Instagram, but if you’re concerned you’re hanging out with a murderer, you don’t need to be.’

‘Ehhhh, maybe don’t look at my—’

‘Don’t worry!’ she said, giving me a pat on the cheek that should have felt teasing but still shivered through me. ‘I’mjust looking up Saint Catherine. I know every cyclist has photos of their shaved, muscly legs on their phones. I won’t even risk seeing that.’

I had a few weird selfies I’d sent to my sister and her kids in my gallery, but what really worried me was Lori finding the couple of photos ofherI’d saved off the internet.

‘And nobody wants to see me on Instagram, least of all me! I haven’t posted on there in years and I haven’t missed anything.’

‘Just put up your team portrait and you’ll get a few followers,’ she said without looking at me, which was helpful because heat spread right up my throat to my cheeks.

She tapped at the phone screen, then scrolled slowly, reading and humphing every few moments. It seemed she really was just reading about Saint Catherine.

‘It’s pretty awful that she’s the patron saint of wheels and wheelwrights because they tried to kill her with one,’ she commented eventually.

‘They did? Ouch.’ Further suspicions that this had been a bad idea rippled through me as we shuffled forward in the queue.

‘Wait a second,’ she said, her frown deepening. ‘It said she was born in Egypt. What’s the connection with Siena?’

‘To be honest? No idea. I’m not a very good Catholic either, but don’t tell my grandma.’

‘I won’t tell her if you agree to ask her to knit me a pair of leg warmers,’ she said with a twitching smile as she peered at the screen.

‘They’re really not that fash—’

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