I say nothing, overwhelmed by the bareness of his admission, the roughness of his voice.
Dimples. “Care to explain the biker gang?” he asks, throwing me a lifeline.
“It’s not a biker gang like that,” I clarify. “Cycling girl group is more accurate.”
“What’s your favorite bike route in Austin?” he asks.
“I like taking the Johnson Creek Greenbelt and then connecting at Barton Creek. You eventually wind up at Zilker Park. It’s scenic.”
He says, “Maybe I’ll give that one a try tonight.”
“Enjoy,” I say.
“Given yourreasons,” Will says with an indulgent edge, “are you sure it’s okay for me to stay for Garlic Fest?”
“Absolutely.”
There is no better solution for squashing the attraction between us than spending some quality time together at the notorious Garlic Fest. Last year, I was sweating alliums out of my pores for a week.
“I’m one hundred percent okay with it,” I add with a big, wide grin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That evening, I don my athleisure and start up my Strava app to track mileage before departing my house on a solo bike ride. My laptop and Wi-Fi hot spot are in my backpack with a frosty bottle of San Pellegrino, a few fashion magazines, and a very large, very old monogrammed towel that debuted at my third birthday party.
I catch the Johnson Creek Greenbelt, cross the bridge at Red Bud Isle, then tool back over the river and along the trail that runs beside Barton Creek. The air smells like warm molasses and smoky charcoal. The wind dries my sweat against my brow, stiffening my skin.
I zoom past Will at one of the creek bed outlooks where turtles sunbathe on the rocks. He’s standing a few feet behind a family with young children, but when I get close enough, Will’s eyes switch from the turtles to me.
He looks unsurprised, even pleased to see me, like he’d been expecting me to come find him somewhere along this route.
Will catches me less than forty seconds later, his pedaling evening out to match my pace. Our gazes lock, our breaths labored.
“Can I ride with you?” he asks with his voice. And with his eyes:You came to find me. You knew I would be here because you told me to be here.
“Sure,” I say with my voice. And with my eyes:If I didn’t want to be distracted, I wouldn’t have come, so I guess I want to be distracted.
We’re quiet after that, focusing on the speed, the pace, the greenbelt beneath our tires.
Ten miles later, I rest my bike in the grass, the view of downtown Austin snagging on the skyline beyond the river.
Will loops his leg over his bike and sets it beside mine, pulling his hands above his head. His skin is glistening with sweat. He’s in loose training shorts, an old T-shirt from NYU that pulls up to reveal his tanned, muscular stomach when he stretches. He unclips his helmet and tosses it, runs a hand through his damp brown hair. It sticks back like a wave frozen before the crash.
“That pace was no joke.”
I pull up my Strava app. “We were only going twenty miles per hour.”
“Only,” he repeats, smiling. His voice is husky, his breath still rough.
I take off my backpack and spread out the oversized towel, then collapse onto it, staring at the washed-out sky. It’s maybe seven o’clock. Only an hour and a half of daylight left.
“Sit down,” I offer.
Will sits on a corner of my towel, drawing his knees up to his chest, hooking his fingers around them. I loll my head in his direction, and he looks down at me. We stay like that for ten breaths. In, out, in, out.
I roll onto my belly and pull my magazines and seltzer out of my backpack. Will takes a long drag of water from his aluminum bottle.We maintain normalcy for another two minutes as our heartbeats drop to resting rates. I glance at him every twenty seconds. His eyes never leave my face. But I go about my business, intent on proceeding with my evening.
“Would you consider this free time?” Will asks cheekily.
