Page 55 of One Small Spark
She frowns at the kiddie bike her dad’s showing her. “I like green.”
Palmer and I share a look behind the front counter. We’ve seen this scenario play out dozens of times before. Sometimes it’s about girl/boy color preferences. Sometimes it’s about a parent who wants their kid to off-road when they justwant to ride around town on a cruiser bike. At its core, it’s always about an adult trying to push what they think is best onto a kid who’s just trying to have fun.
I try not to insert myself into conversations like this. Itry. I generally fail.
The bell over the door chimes, and I momentarily forget the man ignoring his daughter’s interests. Wren walks in, scanning the shop as if it’s all new to her. The purple of her apron might be my favorite color, second to the blue of her eyes. When her gaze lands on me, a hook lodges behind my ribs, reeling me closer.
I cross the room to meet her, even though I usually stay behind the front counter when she comes in. Then again, she usually looks at me like I might need the buffer of a few extra feet between us.
Today, her mouth twists, fighting a smile. I’d rather she lay me out flat with the real thing, but I’ll take the progress.
“Hey.” I leave more space between us than I want to, but I’m trying to be both a gentleman and a good business owner. I can’t very well crush her to me and hope to maintain either description.
“Do you have bike bells?”
Not where I thought this was going, but I can adapt. “Sure, we’ve got a few. They’re over here.”
I lead her to the display rack. We’ve usually got a mix of plain, practical models and ones with fun patterns. To be clear, our bells are neither gendered nor age-specific. I’ve seen burly guys get the rainbow-printed ones with the chiming bells, and petite, older women opt for the air horns.
She looks over the selection, but then side-eyes me. “Also, hi.”
“Hi.” That afterthought greeting shouldn’t give me the hope that it does. “Is the bell for you?”
I would never try to force her into biking if she had no interest, but the image of us on a ride together is appealing. Maybe because I’m still stuck on that “making out in fresh air” thing she mentioned the other day.
“Ha. No way. It’s for August. I’ll feel better when people have warning that he’s coming.”
“If I know little kids with bells, he’ll ring it full time.”
The glimpse of her smile kills me. “A noisy child is a safe child.”
Another adage for her shirts.
“Any of these will fit on his bike. It just depends on the style you want to get him.”
Her eyes light up, and she grabs a box off its hook. “‘The loudest bike horn in the world.’ Tess would never forgive me.”
“It’s usually meant for commuters riding through traffic and competing with car horns, just as an FYI.”
Doesn’t seem to be a deterrent for Wren.
She clutches the box to her chest. “How bad is it I’m tempted to get this for him?”
“It would make you a very good aunt but a terrible sister.”
“That’s all I ever aim for.”
The dad and daughter’s conversation carries to us from the other side of the room.
“I like this one, Daddy.” The little girl’s voice breaks. “I don’t like pink.”
“That’s a boys’ bike, honey. Let’s get you a cute one that’s meant for little girls.”
The man’s patronizing tone grates even at this distance.
Wren shoots mental fireballs at the guy. “Did he just?—?”
“Yup. Excuse me for a minute.” I slip past her, needlessly brushing one hand across her lower back as I go.
