Page 55 of A Shore Fling
“Where are we going?”
“To fix a major childhood oversight.”
Five minutes later, we pull into an empty church parking lot.
“Are we going in to light a candle and pray for me to get some coordination?”
His lips curve. “No. Not even Jesus himself can make that happen.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re mean.”
“No, I’m honest. I’m also going to teach you how to ride,” he says, getting out of the truck.
“Oh. No, thanks. I’m good,” I quickly say.
He opens my door. “Too late. Let’s do this.” He holds out his hand, and I stare at it while I debate whether I should take it or not. “Come on,” he encourages, and I slip my palm across his. Hepulls me from the truck, then moves around to the back to drop the tailgate and lift the bike out.
I cross my arms. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably. But so was trying to ride the bike to the shops when you don’t know how.”
I groan. “This is humiliating.”
“Not at all,” he says, grinning as he adjusts the seat height. “This is cute as hell.”
I stare at him. “I can’t believe the words ‘cute as hell’ just left your mouth. Are you feeling all right?”
He smiles. “I feel great, and so will you once you conquer this.”
I don’t respond. Part of me wants to run. The other part wants to see if I can do this. Can I finally learn something every six-year-old on this street probably mastered years ago?
He holds the bike steady, one hand on the seat and the other on the handlebars. “Okay, hop on. We’ll start with me guiding you.”
“I swear, if I fall again and you laugh…”
“I won’t laugh. I’ll be the supportive coach you need but never had.”
“That doesn’t sound remotely believable coming from you.”
“Humor me and try anyway.”
I take a deep breath and then swing my leg over the seat. My hands tighten around the handlebar grips, holding on for dear life.
“All right, feet on the pedals,” he instructs. “Don’t overthink. Just pedal and trust me to keep you steady.”
That last part is the hardest. Trust is earned, but I guess if anyone’s proven themself worthy of my trust, it’s Travis. So I do as he says and start pedaling. It’s slow and awkward at first. He walks beside me, gripping the bike, guiding it straight.
“Keep going and pedal a little faster.”
My hands tighten on the grips even more. “I don’t want to die in a church parking lot.”
“You won’t. You’ll just get slightly maimed.”
“Wow, that’s comforting.”
“Maybe you should try less talking, more pedaling.”
I move my legs faster. I feel the wobble in the front wheel, but somehow I’m still upright.
