1.Alexander
Thursday - June 13
Today is not the first time I have sent someone flying toward their death.
But this time, I seem to be flying with them.
I’d barely caught the screech of bicycle brakes over Green Day’sAmerican Idiotblaring through my earbuds before the front wheel connected with my left leg. My hands and knees hit the hot tarmac as the bicyclist, with his Lycra top and shorts the same green as the crosswalk signal locked in my vision, careened through the air.
Fuck.
I reallyaman American idiot.
I’d managed to escape from my hotel unnoticed, but I’ve managed to cause a scene in less than five minutes. No wonder my team never wants to leave me unchaperoned, despite being twenty-three and a full-grown adult.
“Are you okay?” I look up to see an older gentleman in a flat cap leaning over me, a concerned look on his face, while a dozen or so other people gather round the motionless bicyclist a few yards from me.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, forcing me back onto my feet. A scuff on my right hand tingles as I pull my black baseball cap down. The last thing I need right now is for people to recognize me.
“Yes, I’m good.”
It’s a lie, but I need to escape this scene as quickly as possible. I can already see the headlines:
Alexander Morgan Sends Man Flying to His Death.
Alexander Morgan Guilty of Manslaughter.
The old man looks unconvinced, but with everyone else’s attention focused on the bicyclist, I’m able to make a clean break and dash down the road. I stop several blocks down outside the Three Falcons, an unassuming traditional British pub.
I crane my neck one last time, sending shooting pains up the side of my neck, to check the street behind me. It’s times like these that I wish I were an owl. Not only for its perceived wisdom about staying out of trouble, but its ability to look over its shoulder without discomfort.
I push on the gold handle of the pub door, wincing at the pressure on my scraped palm, and enter. The cool air from the interior hitting my skin gives me the sensation that my sweaty black running top is clinging even tighter to my body.
I pass the wraparound bar, a grandfather clock sitting next to a beaten-up wooden piano, and a collection of rustic wooden tables and stools on my way to the restroom, where I rest my hands on the cool porcelain sink and finally allow myself to breathe. After a moment, I turn on the tap and stick my hands underneath, involuntarily jerking back from the sting as the water hits my palm.
You’d think I’d be used to the pain from all the scuffs andknocks I’ve accumulated over the years while skateboarding. But my pain threshold seems to have dropped ever since I had to give that up. Just one more thing my team won’t let me do. There’s too high of an insurance premium on my face to let me deliberately risk damage.
In the mirror, I look pale and sweaty. My pupils are so dilated that I can barely make out the blue of my irises. I try to reassure myself that I am not at fault.
I had the right-of-way.
He jumped the light.
You’re not the one at fault here.
But no matter what I tell myself, the guilt in my chest won’t subside. I reach for the paper towels, wet a couple, and dab at my hands and knees to remove the embedded stones and stop the blood.
I always seem to fuck everything up. Me and trouble are on a first-name basis. BFFs, you could say. My ride or die. Except I’m a captive on the ride, and God help anyone who crosses my path.
I’ve learned to expect the worst and hope for the best.
I look into the mirror again before leaving the restroom, taking a moment to tuck my blond hair under my baseball cap and behind my ears.
Shit.
My left earbud.
My heart rate rises as I scan the floor, glance underneath the urinals, and into the empty stalls and around the sink, but it is nowhere to be seen.
