Riding the Sugar High: a Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

1. You Can’t Drive

Fuck,tonight’s just not doing it for me.

The moon is high in the sky as I rev the engine, the sound echoing through the quiet night. The deserted road blurring on either side of me always does its trick in helping me clear my head, and the cool night air is usually like a calming balm.

I’ve ridden along Elm Avenue a hundred times before, but tonight, the vast, poorly illuminated road feels different. The wind is whipping through the tips of my hair, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins, but the freedom that comes from riding at night, alone with my thoughts, just isn’t there.

The same tightness I’ve been feeling in my chest for months doesn’t vanish like it should. The bills that are accumulating, the dozens of people whose livelihoods depend on me, the animals who are bound to get sick and need medication—they all pile up until the crushing sense of failure vibrates through me like an electroshock.

Something’s not right.

And I can’t, tonight of all nights, be sick.

The engine’s roar is deafening in my ears, but it’s not enough to drown out the cacophony of thoughts racing through my mind. A vice squeezes around my heart, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

Focus on the road, I tell myself. But as I blink, the blooming trees at the edges of the road blur, and I know I need to stop.

My hands are shaking hard—too hard to pull the brakes—and as another wave of gut-squeezing pain crashes through me, I clench my fingers around the handlebars, waiting for the tingling to subside.

I’m fine. I’m fine.

Pushing the throttle forward, I try to overtake the fear. But it’s like I’m running in quicksand, and whatever’s wrong with me is gaining ground with every passing second.

Why is my heart beating so fast?

God, my chest hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack.

Appealing to every bit of strength I have, I pull over to the side of the road, my hands trembling as I try to steady myself. My eyes burn, and my ears ring loudly enough to cover the engine’s rumble.

Clutching my chest, I lean forward and rest the top half of my body on the bike. This is it. I’m fucking dying, and I won’t be able to call anyone. This road is always empty at night, so someone will likely find me in the morning.

It’s almost a relief, for a second, that the all-consuming sense of doom following me around will stop.

But those two piglets.

My animals.

The farm.

I force my arm up, snap my helmet open, then throw it on the ground beside me. It helps—the cold air on my heated skin. Sweat trickles over my eyebrows, and I close my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing and slow down the quickened beats of my heart.

For a moment, all around me is silent, until the screeching of brakes against asphalt has me looking over my shoulder, right into a blinding beam of light. In the split second it takes me to realize a car is colliding with my rear end, my bike jolts forward, and I lose balance.

I’m tossed off the side, and the hit knocks the air out of my lungs, then my breathing fails me again as the bike falls over my leg.

“Fuck,” I grunt, my vision tunneling from the intense wave of pain. I blink up at the sky, trying to get my bearings.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” a high-pitched voice calls out. The engine of the car dies, and there’s the sound of a car door opening, then shoes slapping against the asphalt. A woman leans over me, her features hidden by the headlights casting a shadow over her face. Like a fucking angel of death.

“No, I’m not okay,” I choke out. “You ran me over, you moron.”

She hesitates, then circles the bike to stand next to where I’m sprawled, her blonde hair falling past her shoulders and fading into a bright pink. “You stopped in the middle of the road,” she mumbles, and as she leans down to study my face, I finally put hers into focus. She must be in her mid-twenties. Her eyes are the same blue as a spring sky, and there’s a healthy dose of freckles over her cheeks. “Did you hit your head?” she asks, lips coated in pink lipstick and bent into a frown.

“No,” I say through gasps. Of course, being run over by this blind idiot didn’t help the heart attack I’m experiencing. “The bike—my leg.”

Her brows knit tight as she turns back, then with a muttered curse, grabs onto the bike handle and pulls, achieving no tangible result. “It’s so heavy! How can you drive this thing? And where is your helmet? And why—why did you stop in the middle of this dark, deserted road?”

“Shut up,” I croak. I lean forward, trying to get my muscles to cooperate. I need to lift the bike an inch off my leg, but I’m shaking even more than before the crash, and this tiny woman is useless. “Pull.”

She does, grinding her teeth with effort, and I push at the same time. The bike lifts just enough for me to slide my leg out, and with a sigh of relief, I close my eyes and fall back, trying to catch my breath.

“Please tell me you’re okay,” the woman says as she comes to kneel beside my chest. She shakes my arm when I don’t respond, and as she speaks again, she sounds a moment away from breaking into tears. “Please, I’m sorry, I...”

I slowly sit up, holding a hand to my chest and looking into her eyes. “I’m...I needed to stop. My heart.”

Her gaze settles over my chest. “Your heart? Are you...” She studies my face, then gasps. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”

“No...reception.”

“Shit!” Eyes stuck on her phone, she throws her other hand up. “What is this place?” She tosses her phone aside and looms over me again. “What do I do?”

And how would I know?

When I shake my head, her brow furrows. “Don’t you have a heart condition?”

I grip my throat, at this point almost completely closed. This is it. These are my very last breaths. “Not...that I know...of.”

“Oh—oh! You’re not having a heart attack!” She works on the zipper of my jacket until it opens, and it relieves some of the pressure immediately. “You’re having a panic attack.”

A panic attack?

She rises to her knees, then takes big, exaggerated breaths. “Do what I’m doing. Focus on breathing in and out, and it’ll stabilize your heartbeat.”

Her voice almost sounds like an echo, hard to hear with the way my ears are ringing. She can’t be right. This can’t just be panic. It feels like I’m staring down the barrel of my final minutes.

“I promise you’re okay,” the woman insists as she cups my shoulder. When I flinch, she pulls her hand back. “Sorry. I won’t touch you.”

I hold my head between my hands, trying to breathe the way she showed me. My hair curtains around my face, and it helps to be separated from everything else, but I also need to know she’s here. That she’s going to help make this feeling disappear. So I hold my hand out.

When she takes it, her soft fingers sinking into my much bigger gloves, I squeeze it gently. It soothes the shaking a little, knowing whatever is happening to me, I’m not going through it alone.

The wind, crisp and fresh, gently picks up, carrying hints of blossoms and damp earth. I open my mouth—maybe to tell the woman that my business is failing and I’m the only one who knows just how deeply screwed we are. How it’s all my fault, and the thought of disappointing everyone is slowly killing me with its inevitability. But nothing comes out except for strangled breaths—none of which manage to bring any air into my lungs.

“Is it your first time having a panic attack?”

I nod stiffly.

“It happened a lot to me growing up. Your life isn’t in danger.” She looks firmly into my eyes, her full lips pulled into a tight line. “I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you can. I promise your throat and lungs are perfectly fine.”

She approaches with her hand, then stops before it touches my chest. “Can I?”

When I lean back on my palms, giving her room, she lays it over my sternum.

“Take the deepest breath you can, and watch my fingers.”

As I breathe in, her hand rises, then falls once I breathe out.

“See? You’re breathing just fine.” She gives me an encouraging smile, then continues. “Here’s a little beginner’s trick. Ever heard of the three-three-three rule?” Without waiting for an answer, she sits on her heels, her pink dress draping over her thighs. “It’s easy, and it’ll help you focus on something else. Tell me three objects you can see.”

I breathe in, out, in, trying to remind myself that though it doesn’t feel like it, air is inflating my lungs all the same. “Scrunchie,” I choke out. She pinches the pink scrunchie with yellow flowers off her wrist and nods, holding it in her hand. “Dress.” Looking up at her face, I mutter, “Pink hair.”

Still with a hand to my chest, she utters a soft ‘mm-hmm.’ “Now, three sounds.”

“Your voice.” Her bracelets jingle as she tucks some hair behind her ear. “Bracelets,” I whisper, and when I struggle to find a third sound, she starts whistling. “Whistling.”

“Almost done. Now, I need you to move three body parts.”

I take her hand in mine, the pink scrunchie trapped between our palms. It makes her smile in a soft way and—fuck. I like that. Focusing on her is distracting me enough that my breathing is almost back to normal.

“So good. Just like that, deep breaths.” Cute dimples appear on her cheeks. “Two more.”

She’s so pretty. I wish this wasn’t happening in front of her, and at the same time, I’m thankful she just ran me over because the tingle under my skin is disappearing, and adrenaline is replacing the strangling fear.

My other arm moves up, then my hand is holding on to the back of her neck, and I only realize my heart rate has slowed down because it picks up again. What am I doing? Maybe I did hit my head, because as her relieved expression dissipates and her eyes dance over my lips, I think I want to kiss her. I think she wants me to kiss her too.

“One.”

With a slow pull, I drag her forward until her mouth is on mine. I guess it’s technically two movements because my lips dance on hers. Three, when my fingers shift to her hair and use it to direct her the way I want her.

Her hands fist my shirt, and her body roams closer until her chest is pressed on mine. I slide my hand down to the spot over her ass, urging her closer.

Fuck, this is a kiss. A proper kiss.

A kiss like only a few others in a lifetime.

The road is pitch black except for the moonlight, casting gentle shadows and illuminating patches of wildflowers. With only the symphony of nighttime creatures around us, the delicate sounds of our subtle breaths and pressed lips are all I can hear.

Her tongue keeps teasing mine, and with each flick, I want to deepen our contact. I want to flip us over and do more, as if we’re not sitting in the middle of a road on the town’s outskirts.

With a soft moan drowned by my mouth, she pulls back a little, and her eyes look nothing like they did when she was helping me through my panic attack. They were sharp-focused then, and they’re cloudy now. Hungry and pleased at the same time.

God, I can just picture those eyes looking up at me while I take her.

She opens her mouth, and I glance at the bright pink lipstick smeared over her chin. Her lips are swollen, bruised by my kiss, and the skin around her mouth is red with the friction of my beard.

“That’s a very unhealthy way to process your anxiety,” she whispers, and I nearly laugh, but it’s like my body’s too tense for it, my fingers rubbing the scrunchie I’m somehow holding. “Did it work? Did all your blood rush from your brain to your groin?”

“Yes.” But I haven’t kissed anyone in five years, and I’m unsure how to behave now. The woman nearly killed me, then saved my life, and then I kissed her. And I can’t bring myself to check my bike, because I’m pretty sure that will cancel out my gratitude for her.

“You shouldn’t be riding. Can someone come pick up your bike? I’ll drive you home.”

As if. “I’m not leaving my bike.”

“You’re joking, right?” She scoffs as I tentatively stand, then locate my helmet next to a bush. “Ah, so you do have one of those.” Following me, she powers on. “You can’t get back on that bike right now. It could happen again—it’s not safe.”

“I doubt getting in a car with you would be safer,” I say distractedly as I dust the helmet off.

A sense of dread tightens my chest when I turn to the bike and force myself to walk closer. After I pull it up, I run my fingers along the frame, feeling the imperfections beneath my touch. The once smooth surface now bears scratches and dents, and one of the mirrors hangs at an awkward angle. But overall, the damage seems primarily cosmetic.

Relief floods through me, and besides some stiffness in my muscles and a sense of sleepiness, it’s almost as if whatever that...attack was, never happened. My heart is back to its normal rhythm; my vision is sharp. Like it’s all been a nightmare.

“Seriously? You’re being very irresponsible.”

“Who, me?” I ask as I give her a dry smile. “That would be a first.”

She crosses her arms, tilting her head as her eyes gently scold me. “So that’s it? You involve me in an accident, then kiss me, and now you’re going to head off into the sunset?” Eyes bouncing around, she shrugs. “Or...night?”

“Look, what do you want? A date or something?”

“Who says I don’t have a boyfriend already?”

Oh, shit. She has me there. And though she definitely kissed me back, it doesn’t feel right to know I’ve kissed someone else’s girl. “Uh, sorry, I...”

“I don’t.” She taps a foot on the ground. “I’m just saying.”

Saying what, exactly? “Okay, well...I’d ask for your number, but trust me, you don’t want me to call.” I slide my helmet on. “And besides, you’re not from around here.” I’d remember her if I had seen her before. “Judging by your accent, you’re not from Roseberg either.”

“Mayfield.”

There you go. What’s that, a six-hour flight from here?

It makes it easier for me because she could be living inside my house, and I still wouldn’t date her—or anyone else, for that matter.

“Well, thank you for...” I vaguely point at the ground, where we were sitting just a minute ago, and her small shoulders hunch. “If you notice any damage to your car or need anything while you’re in town, Farm Coleman.”

“Farm Coleman? You’re a farmer?”

The disgusted grimace on her lips makes me regret my offer instantly, and she must notice, because she quickly waves both hands.

“Oh my god, sorry. No—my ex, he...” Studying me suspiciously, she shakes her head. “Anyway, the car is a rental, and I’m leaving tomorrow. Are you sure you’re fine to drive?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” She still doesn’t look convinced, but she takes a step back. “Well, it was...nice? To meet you.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how I feel about it either,” I say as I hop onto my bike. I should leave, but for some reason, I can’t.

“I think I can help with that. You feel grateful.” Dipping her chin, she adds, “And a little turned on.”

“That sounds about right.” I start the engine, and when it sputters with a rocks-in-a-tin-can sound, I glare at her through the gap in my visor. “Mostly turned on. A little grateful.”

“Stop on the side of the road next time.”

I grin, and though there’s no way she can tell, she does too. With one last wave, she spins on her heel. “Bye, then.”

“Hey.”

She twists to glance at me over her shoulders, her blue irises even brighter now that the bike lights are shining directly on her face.

I hold up her scrunchie. “This is yours.”

With a little “hm,” she walks closer. I hand it over, and her eyes study mine for a long moment before she turns to leave.

My eyes dip down her dress, the same pink of cherry blossoms in spring, gently hugging her upper body before flaring out slightly at the waist, and settle on her ass. Once she enters the car and her headlights flash on me, the engine emits a feeble sputter, like a tired cough struggling to gain momentum.

Then the headlights turn off.

With a mumbled curse, I kill the off switch.