Page 45 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“Oh. Okay. Should I keep—” He brushes past me, nearly knocking me over.
Yeesh. And I thought I was in a bad mood.
While Julian’s gone, I do what I can to practice, but give up after I nearly decapitate myself trying to kick off. He’s gone longer than I would’ve thought. There’s no sign of him in the immediate vicinity, but I respect his privacy. That changes when ten minutes turns into twenty. I can only twiddle my thumbs on a bench for so long.
At first I don’t even realize that Julian’s returned. He’s now beside me, pushing the bike into my hands without a word. Whatever kept him busy wasn’t good news. The harsh, deeply etched frown, the locked shoulders, the clenched fists—it’s written all over him.
“You okay?” I ask, following behind as he walks toward a patch of grass. “If this is because of what I said about your dad, then I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Let’s keep going.” His voice is firm, sharp. Not at all what I’ve grown used to.
I nod slowly, swallowing hard around the apology he’d cut off. It’s jarring, falling into an old, but not unfamiliar rhythm.The stakes feel much higher when I mount the bike again. As if the only thing standing between us and catastrophe is my ability to stay on a bike for more than five minutes.
The added pressure doesn’t do me any favors. I still don’t understand how to “balance my weight” or “kick off with force.” Unsurprisingly, I spend more time on the ground than I do on the bike.
“Brace yourself! Lean to the right!” Julian shouts into myear.
“I am leaning!” I yell, throwing all my weight to the right, which sends me straight to the ground. “You said lean.”
“You leaned too far.” Julian lifts the bike off me and offers his hand.
The urge to sling petty insults like we used to is strong. I’m pissed off and I know Julian is, too, but for once it’s not frustration with each other.
I take his hand.
“Again,” I say once I’ve dusted off my shorts, reaching for the bike.
Biting my tongue quickly becomes a necessity. I’ve only marginally improved after another hour of practice. My body feels like it’s one fall away from snapping like a twig. Kids and their families start to come along once the morning chill settles, and I go from shouting profanities to muffling them with my sleeve. I nearly slip after Julian accidentally runs the bike over my foot, shouting “FUDGE!” at the last second instead.
The light at the end of the tunnel starts fading after I mount the bike for the seventy-third time. At this rate, the only thing I’m going home with is a broken ankle. ButI try again, because Devin Armando Báez isn’t scared of anything—except death, spiders, and mice—but certainly not a bike and a couple of bruises.
My body, on the other hand, doesn’t have the same determination. I lose the last dregs of my strength seconds after I kick off and can feel myself falling over before my feet are even on the pedals. I know instantly that I’ve lost the battle and prepare for the wet smack of the unforgiving ground for the seventy-third time. And I do hit the ground, but not the way I thought I would.
I’m knocked over in the opposite direction by what feels like a battering ram. There’s a weight on my chest, heavier than the bike, and hefty enough to push all the wind out of me. Tears stream down my cheeks as I cough and gasp for breath.
When I open my eyes, I half expect to find a bear straddling my chest. Idefinitelydon’t expect to see Julian, eyes wide and lips parted, the rapidbadum badum badumof his heart burning against my chest like a countdown to disaster. We’re both at a loss for words, breathing hard and fast, faces inches from one another. The kind of intimacy that sets my already frayed nerve endings on fire. The too-hot press of his body against mine should feel wrong, but it just feels terrifying.
“You were about to fall on top of a puppy,” Julian chokes out, his breath warm against my dry, chapped lips.
I lift my head to look over his shoulder. A miniature golden retriever curls up on the grass beside our abandoned bike, tail wagging happily, completely oblivious to the chaos it caused.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper as I turn to face Julian.
“That’s what fake boyfriends are for,” he replies with a hint of a smile where everything between us is okay.
I laugh quietly, afraid to part my lips any more than I have to.
“I can’t breathe.”
I can breathe fine. Julian may be all hard lines and taut muscle but he’s surprisingly light, slotting easily into the curves of my body. It’s just the first excuse I can think of to get him off me.
“Right, sorry,” he mumbles before rolling off.
Julian’s disgruntled attitude doesn’t do much to help us with the task at hand. We’re losing steam with each stumble, and as the sun starts to set and the shops begin to shutter for the afternoon, we realize we’re fighting a losing battle.
“I can’t believe I’m still alive,” I mutter after I screech to a halt seconds before clipping a fire hydrant. My body has become a mess of blood, bruises, and mosquito bites. I sag over the handlebars, sucking in air while I can. I’ve developed a bad habit of holding my breath while riding. It softens the blow when I fall.
“You don’t have to come tomorrow,” Julian says so quietly I assume the dehydration has finally gotten to me and I must be seeing a mirage.
