Page 79 of Matchmaking On The Menu

16

DANNICA

LOCAL WOMAN NEARLY MUGGED. FRIENDS SOMEHOW WORSE

The air has that feel to it today.

Not cold yet, but cooler than it has been. Like fall is standing just offstage, waiting for its cue, and occasionally leaning in to remind us it’s coming. It brushes against my cheeks as I pedal, slips down the collar of my shirt, tugs at loose strands of my hair like it knows I’m in a good mood and wants in on it.

Which… rude. But I’ll allow it. Because for once, I am in a good mood. No late orders. No customers asking for oat milk we don’t carry. No Quadri side-eyeing me like she knows something I don’t. Just me, my bike, and a straightforward mission to the print shop. Shelly did me a favor, but you bet my apple-bottom ass I’m not gonna tell her that.

I huff out a quiet laugh to myself and pedal a little faster, the tires humming beneath me as the road dips slightly toward Main. The town looks different this time of day, like it’s taking a breath before the evening rush. Leaves skitter across the pavement, catching in the spokes for half a second before flying off again. I smile wide. Ah, this is the life.

I roll over a slight crack in the road, and it makes my stomach flip like it did when Grandma used to go over bumps in the road a lot faster than she should have and made me feel like I’d left my stomach behind.

“Whoohooo!”

But then there’s a sharp clunk beneath me and my entire bike jolts.

“What the⁠—”

The handlebars jerk sideways, hard enough that my stomach drops straight to my knees. My foot slips on the pedal as the back wheel makes this deeply concerning grinding noise that feels less like a mechanical issue and more like the hounds of hell are after me.

“Oh no, no, no⁠—”

I swerve, overcorrect, and for one horrifying second I am absolutely, undeniably about to eat pavement in front of God, Main Street, and probably Mrs. Henderson who will never let me live it down. This feels oddly like history repeating itself. What the hell is my bike’s problem?

I wrench the handlebars back, gripping so tight my fingers ache, and slam my foot down to stop myself. The bike lurches. Wobbles. Decides, very dramatically, to give up on life entirely.

I manage to stumble off instead of falling, catching myself with a graceless hop that is technically not a crash, but spiritually? Very much a crash.

I stand there, breathing hard, one hand still clamped around the handlebar like I can’t believe that nearly happened.

I look down. The chain is wrong. Wrong in a way that suggests it has made a series of very bad decisions and is now facing the consequences.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

Headline updates immediately.

LOCAL WOMAN BETRAYED BY TRUSTED BICYCLE, NEARLY MEETS TRAGIC END ONE BLOCK FROM DESTINATION.

I close my eyes briefly, tipping my head back toward the sky.

“Cool,” I say to absolutely no one. “Fuck you, universe. I don’t need your cool breeze and good vibes only for you to screw me without lube. Screw you!”

Because of course. Of course the one time things feel easy, my bike decides to stage a full mechanical meltdown halfway to the place that could actually fix it.

I stare at the chain a second longer, like if I give it enough time it might reconsider its choices. It does not. Traitor. I blow out a breath and straighten, brushing my hands down my jeans like I’ve just gone through a life-threatening situation which, honestly, it feels like I have. There was a moment there. A real, life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment. And for what? A mid-afternoon errand.

Amazing. Shelly is going to pay for this. It doesn’t escape me that a moment ago I was praising her for doing me a favor. Well, things change.

I glance down the road toward the print shop. It’s not far. I can practically see it from here if I lean a little to the left and ignore the tree that’s aggressively minding its business in the way. Then I look back at the bike. Then back at the shop. Then back at the bike again.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” I tell it.

The bike, committed to its villain arc, says nothing.

Right. Cool. Great talk.