“And the sandwich? Or… sandwich-like-thing?”
“It’s a chicken salad lettuce wrap. I used Greek yogurt and sriracha. I promise it’s good.”
He also had orange slices—because this was Vann after all. Oranges were obviously his favorite. And a salad with stone fruit and nuts on it.
He went to a lot of work to get this all together. I was truly impressed. “This looks amazing. Seriously.”
He smiled and I could see him visibly relax. “Uh… the cycling? I started working in a bike shop when I was in high school. The guy I worked for was obsessed with bikes. I mean, he was also this gruff asshole. But he taught me how to respect the ride and take care of my equipment. He showed me how it could be an escape. And a therapist. And a friend.”
I liked the way he talked about bikes. It was exactly how I felt about food. An escape and a therapist and a friend. It was there to take me away from my thoughts and life and the humdrum reality I’d boxed myself into. And it also listened to all my problems, let me pour into it my frustration and fear and the thousand other emotions I felt on a daily basis. And it was definitely a friend. The constant listener in my life. The always understanding, never judgmental, unconditional love I wanted so desperately.
“I get that,” I told him, real emotion lowering my tone. “You just knew you wanted to own a shop then? Like from that moment?”
He shook his head. “Not quite. I thought about college for a bit. Took some business classes and what not. But I don’t know, it just wasn’t for me. I’m not a… traditional learner. I hate school. I hate tests. I hate homework. I wanted to do something that I could see results in immediately. Opening my own business eventually became that thing. As I got more and more responsibility at the bike shop, I saw that it could be profitable if it was managed right. I decided to open something and be the successful owner I wanted to be.”
“That’s so cool.”
He smiled around a bite of his chicken salad lettuce wrap. “Cool. Also, hard. It’s been a long road to get where I am today.”
“You mean, doing well?”
“I mean, climbing out of the red.” His gaze grew distant, thoughtful. “It’s taken a minute to get where I’m at. I didn’t always know what I was doing.”
I hummed in agreement. “Being a grown-up is hard.”
He looked at me, a plate of food on his lap, completely clad in spandex, his cheeks a little red from the exertion of riding and sun and wind. He was all testosterone and chiseled masculinity. There was nothing struggling about him now. He had it all figured out.
He was all that was man.
And looking at me now, the way he was, made me feel completely, one-hundred-percent, female.
I wiggled a little at his open assessment, shoving my mouth full of kale chips and following it with a long chug of water. “I mean, there’s a lot going on,” I added, trying to pull myself out of this hole I’d unwillingly walked into. “Bills and business. And… making your own dental appointments.”
He finally smiled, erasing the building tension with that one expression. “I’ve always had to make my own dental appointments.”
“Oh?”
Nodding, he set his plate to the side and laid down on his side, with his head propped in his hand. “Yup. My dad couldn’t remember stuff like that. He also didn’t care about any of it. I realized quickly that if I wanted good teeth, I was going to have to solve that problem myself.”
“How old were you when you made your first dental appointment?”
He thought about it for a minute and then said. “Uh, seven maybe? And I’ve been on a strict every six months schedule ever since.”
“You’re kidding.”
He smiled, flashing perfectly straight and white teeth. “I never joke about the dentist.”
I threw a kale chip at him. He caught it in his gleaming chompers. “I never had to do that kind of stuff for myself. I mean, I wasn’t always rich. I don’t want you to get that idea. When my mom wasn’t with my dad, we were super poor. Like showering in truck stop bathrooms and splitting Top Ramen for every meal. But my dad was in charge of my healthcare, so I never had to worry about braces or checkups or anything.”
“I can’t decide which childhood I’d rather have,” he murmured, a frown replacing that blinding smile. “Sounds like we both had it kind of rough.”
I laid down on my side next to him. “I think that’s how most childhoods are. You know? If your parents didn’t totally mess you up, were you even a kid?”
He laughed and I loved the way it made me feel bubbly and happy and so totally removed from those dark memories.
“Maybe it’s not always your parents though. Sometimes it’s your circumstances,” he suggested.
“And sometimes it’s other kids. What I’m saying is there isn’t a way to get out of it unscathed. The only path to adulthood is trial by fire.”
