Chapter 28
I go through my new daily routine: a post-breakfast swim that feels heavenly on my sore muscles; a walk with Gramps and Wally; a couple hours of work at Paradise Coffee; and some manual labor at Pebble Cottage.
I almost can’t manage painting, given how sore I am from the animal workout, but I can’t afford to lose a day working on the house.
How embarrassing would it be to have to leave before it’s finished, to have to ask Daniel to finish it for me?
Or to hire someone else after all the effort I’ve put in?
No, I’m determined to finish it, even if my limbs ache to the point where I can barely lift a paint roller.
Anyway, I’m almost finished with the walls—tomorrow I start on the floors.
At six, I stop work—putting an “Away” message on Slack—and head over to Daniel’s.
It’s my first time seeing where he lives, and I’m strangely nervous as I drive up to the modest white building, standing on stilts like so many of the beachfront buildings around here.
It’s only three stories and has a tidy little garage underneath.
I park in a visitor spot and then dither at the call box. It’s in front of a locked door that leads to an elevator and stairwell. He didn’t tell me whether I should text him or buzz from the call box, so I scroll through the residents’ names on the ancient machine until I find M—McKinnon.
“Hello?” Daniel’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“It’s Mallory! Mallory Rosen? I’m here!” Very smooth.
“Okay, I’ll come down.”
This comes as an unexpected disappointment. I thought this might be my one and only chance to see his place, but I suppose—since we’re just friends —the garage is as far as I’m going to get.
A minute or two later, he bounds through the stairwell door, a grin plastered on his face. He looks like Wally before Gramps takes him on a walk.
“Hey.” I almost laugh at the excitement on his face.
“Mallory, how are you? I’m so glad you decided to bike!” He’s wearing his black-and-yellow biking onesie that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, holding a helmet under each arm.
I’m taken aback by his open enthusiasm. Maybe I misinterpreted things when he bailed on me the other day.
Maybe I should have taken his words at face value, that something came up unexpectedly.
On top of my surprise at his attitude, I’m just not used to the stark contrast between the people here and the people back home.
Seattleites don’t express their enthusiasm—they might twitch their mouths upward in a pseudo smile, but that’s about it.
“I couldn’t leave without trying it.” I reach for the spare helmet. “You talked it up enough. Where should we go?”
He leads me over to his bike, which is chained up next to a few others. “We can ride around here. There’s a trail along the bay.”
“Sounds pretty.”
“And, like I said, you’re free to take the bike for as long as you want. Until you leave, I guess.”
“Oh, thanks.” I can tell that my skepticism comes out in my voice.
“What?”
“I’m just not sure if I’ll use it again. After our ride today.”
“Why not?”
“Where would I use it? Where would I go?”
He stares at me blankly. “Wherever you go with your car. Your grandpa’s place, your house, the shops.”
“Those places are miles apart.”
“Only two or three miles, and it’s all flat here.”
“Right. Okay.” Now that he mentions it, it is flat here. Seattle is full of hills. “Maybe I will.”
“Wonderful.” He draws the word out, sounding so Southern it makes me smile. “So, this one’s yours. It’s my spare.” He unlocks a yellow bike that’s slightly smaller than his.
He wheels his own bike toward the street. I snap my helmet on and hurry to follow him. The yellow bike feels rather large and unwieldy.
He gives me a sharp look. Suddenly, he stops short.
“Do you need a lesson?”
“Um.” I examine the bike. Looks pretty standard. “I think I’m good. This is the part I sit on, right?” I point to the handlebars. He laughs, and I get a heady sense of accomplishment from the sound.
A few minutes later, we’re cruising down a paved path lined with boats docked at the edge of a canal.
It was ninety degrees out today, but it’s almost dusk now, and zipping along with trees on one side and water on the other feels amazing.
The warmth of the evening air and the fresh breeze in my face melt away all my worries. It’s magical.
Daniel’s riding ahead of me, and he looks back at me to give me a thumbs-up. I grin, remembering him saying—what feels like forever ago—that he would get me on a bike eventually. Like he knew I needed it, even though he barely knew me.
We’re not talking, just zipping along, Daniel in front of me, and the scenery is doing something to me.
It’s the glistening water, the colorful boats—some of them are canal boats that appear to be lived in, with people lounging on deck chairs, waving as we whiz past. It’s the smell of grass and tangy, fishy water.
It’s the feeling of going fast, being propelled by the strength of my own legs.
It’s the man riding in front of me and the way I can’t stop looking at the back of his neck, strong and freckled and lightly sheened with sweat.
All these things add up and make me think, How did I get here?
How did a solitary girl from Seattle go from lonely, rainy days to all this?
And I know it’s not forever, but right now that doesn’t matter.
Because right now it is . Right now I’m here, doing this.
And I’m happy. So ridiculously happy.
After twenty minutes or so, Daniel takes a right turn that spits us out onto a street. I think we’re near the downtown area, but I’m not sure exactly where.
He pulls over on the side of the street and I stop next to him. “I thought we could grab a bite and something to drink before we turn around.”
I blink at him, getting emotional whiplash as I picture us sitting down at a little café together—because that would totally be a date, right?
But then I see where he’s pointing. It appears to be a farmers market of some kind, rows of white tents and a covered area of picnic tables.
Very cute—and definitely not a date, unless explicitly stated. Which it won’t be.
We wheel our bikes among the tents, where vendors are selling everything from pastries to antiques.
The first thing I notice is how un-crowded it is here.
A similar market back home would be swarming with people, but here the vibe is relaxed, just a couple dozen people milling about.
Also, strangers keep saying hello to us, even going so far as to make friendly comments about our bikes or the weather. It’s bizarre.
“This place has the best pretzel dogs.” Daniel nods toward one of the tents. “And fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
“Lemonade sounds perfect.” I hesitate, scanning for a menu. “Do you know if the dogs have pork in them?” I brace myself for a confused question, prepared to give my standard answer— I’m Jewish —and hoping we won’t go into the intricacies of the different levels of kosher. But he doesn’t ask.
“I always go for the veggie dog myself. Says the other ones are one hundred percent beef, though.” He points out the menu, a laminated piece of printer paper taped to the cash register.
“Excellent.” I unzip my belt bag to pull out my wallet, but he covers my hand with his.
“My treat.”
“Thanks.” I am so not going to read into this. He’s a Southern gentleman; he can’t help it.
He orders, and as we wait for our pretzel dogs, I ask, “Are you vegetarian, then?”
He nods. “Going on fifteen years.”
“Wow. I’m surprised. You seem so…” I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Manly? Floridian?
He just laughs. “Yeah, well, I visited a slaughterhouse on a high school field trip and that was that. The trip was supposed to get us interested in agriculture and farming, but it certainly had an unintended effect on me.”
“Yikes.” Our order’s up, and I look sadly at my paper-wrapped pretzel dog, wishing I’d gone for the veggie one, too. But after one bite of the salty, juicy goodness, I forget about it. The lemonade is incredible, too, super fresh and not too sweet.
We lock our bikes together against a tree and wander, munching our pretzel dogs and sipping our iced lemonades.
“I can’t get over how good this is,” I say.
“What did I tell you?” Daniel balls up his paper bag and tosses it in a garbage can.
We pass a flower vendor, someone selling ocean glass jewelry, and a tent full of beach-themed knickknacks.
“Clearly, they have everything here,” I say, pointing to a pair of oven mitts shaped like mackerel.
Daniel nods. “All your sea creature paraphernalia. If you can imagine it, they sell it.”
I gently brush my finger along a sand dollar wind chime.
“Now, I would feel remiss if I didn’t buy you a going-away present.”
I whirl around to look at Daniel, and then burst out laughing.
He’s holding up a toilet brush that has apparently been superglued to a gulf-themed snow globe.
I can only assume you’re supposed to hold the snow globe as you clean the toilet and the swirl of glitter inside will make you feel a sense of peace with the unpleasant task at hand.
“That would make cleaning day more interesting, for sure.”
“Are you a cleaning-day-type person?” Daniel asks as we move on to the next vendor.
“What do you mean?”
“Just trying to gauge what type of personality I’m dealing with here. Are you a ‘clean the house top to bottom every Saturday morning with music blasting’ type of person? Or a ‘it’s been so long I can’t put it off another day’ type of person?”
“When I’m home, I clean my apartment every other Sunday. Sometimes more frequently if I have people coming over. Often with music blasting.”
“Ah. So not quite an every-weekend gal, but close.” He pauses, slurping down the last of his lemonade. “I won’t tell you which kind I am.”
“Gross,” I laugh. “Is that why you didn’t invite me upstairs?” I ask before I can stop myself.