Chapter 18
Sadie
Istare at myself in the mirror.
The girl’s code shoots fire out of her hands
at the boy for calling her bird’s-nest hair cute.
James Royce admired something about me, admired my hair, when I look like a hamster in a high wind.
My eyes drop from the mess on my head to my pink face.
I curl my hands into fists. I can still feel the muscles in his back under my fingers when he hugged me.
A friendly hug, Sadie. Stop hyperventilating.
You’ve got bigger fish to fry than James Royce and his long legs and unexpected compliments.
Cycling? Getting on a bike? My stomach does a weird loop the loop.
I won’t be able to balance. I close my eyes, stick my arms out to the side, and lift one leg.
In half a beat, I put it down again. Nope.
God, doing this with James … Ever since I moved in, all he has to do is look at me with those deep-blue eyes and all my secrets spill out.
I grab my brush and yank it through my hair.
I never wear fitted clothes. My chest is too large; my legs are too big at the top and too narrow at the bottom …
Ugh. Once I’ve straightened the chaos on my head out, I clean my teeth and stomp out into the living room: James is sitting at the kitchen island, looking at something on his phone.
“Will this do?” I say, scowling, as I look down at myself.
“It looks great, Sadie,” he says softly. “And if you don’t like the cycling, we can leave and go get some more banana chocolate loaf. How’s that for an incentive?”
That goddamn banana chocolate loaf. I dream about it.
Dream about James and me cooking together and our eyes meeting over sponge cakes.
It’s stupid. A smart guy like James Royce might compliment me and be kind to me, but I’m the girl who has no qualifications and no chance with a guy like James Royce.
He stands and steps forward, squeezing my hand. “Think of it as another first, Sadie. Failure is fine. No judgment from me. Okay?”
“What are you going to do while I cycle? Or fall off, more likely,” I mutter.
“I thought I might read my book.” He winks at me.
Where is Mr. Morose this morning? I think he’s been missing for a few days now; like the coffee with Jane, the drinking, and the hug all shifted something. I guess I should take that as a win. But I am not prepared for him being cute. I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay. Let’s just get it over with.”
“Go and put your sneakers on, and I thought you could wear this.” He holds out a cycling jacket. It looks very fancy.
“Whoa, whoa. They’ll think I’m some expert in that.
What happens if I fall off and rip it? I bet it cost like over a hundred dollars.
” And you’d have to be insane to pay that, I don’t add.
But as he shifts on his feet, my face heats.
His expression tells me that it cost a lot more than a hundred dollars. I run my tongue over my teeth.
“Five hundred?” I say, and he won’t meet my eyes.
“Try three,” he says.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“That’s not even that expensive in the cycling world,” he adds, and I gawk at him. “Please, Sadie, it will protect you and …”
“I’ll get my own jacket,” I mutter and disappear into the bedroom again.
I’m terrified of falling off. So I tell him that on the way, and he says, if I need him to, he’ll run along behind me and keep me upright. My face heats again at the very idea, but it’s possibly less embarrassing and less painful than wiping out in front of a boatload of strangers.
When we arrive at the cycling center, my chest eases a bit as everyone asks obvious questions and looks like this is the last place on earth they want to be on a Saturday morning.
But people are dressed in jackets remarkably like the one James offered me, and I kick myself for not taking him up on his offer.
Also, no one asks the obvious question: How the fuck do you balance on this thing?
The instructor goes through the features of the bikes we’re using for the class in detail, then gets everyone measured and on the right size of bike.
It takes a while to deal with us all, as he runs through the correct way to sit and pedal.
He shows us how to push off and balance and tells us not to worry if we can’t do it the first or even tenth time.
He says we’ve loads of time to practice, and the trick is to keep trying and not to panic.
That’s easy for him to say. James stands there staring at me earnestly with soft blue eyes, and I wish to God he wouldn’t look at me like that. It makes my insides go funny.
“Why are you here, at a riding class for a grown-ass woman, when you could be doing something important like taking apart a new Samsung phone?” I say.
“You think taking a phone apart is more interesting than this? I’m enjoying being here with you. It’s fun.”
All right, enjoyment. I can deal with that.
It’s a huge step up from suicidal. My main strategy for saving his life so far has been drinking coffee and talking to him about books, which is not earth-shattering as strategies go.
Pity I’m going to kill myself on a bike before I discover whether he ends up being okay.
When Des comes to my funeral, he can weep over my coffin about how my death at such a young age was all his fault for asking me to look after James.
“When I die in a horrible crash, or lose a limb,” I say to James, “I’m expecting an amazing eulogy at my funeral or at the very least some amazing artificial limb design.”
He pushes his tongue into his cheek and turns his head to one side. Is he laughing at me?
“Come on, you,” he says. “Stop putting off getting on this thing and trying to pedal.”
I scowl at him as I walk over to where he’s holding the bike the instructor gave us. I grip the handlebars, swinging a leg over with a confidence I don’t feel, and I lift one foot. It tips dangerously, so I put it back down again. “How do you even balance on this thing?” I grump.
He’s pressing his lips together now like he’s still struggling not to laugh.
“I’m going to hold the seat and you’re going to raise both feet up, okay?” he says.
He stands behind me, and I stare across the asphalt outside the training center. A woman wobbles precariously on a bike to my right.
“Don’t look at what other people are doing,” James adds.
“Tell me something you’re really scared of.”
“Like jumping off a building?”
Ice constricts my lungs. What the goddamn … Why did he say that? Des found him on his roof! Jesus Christ, I did not expect him to go there, never mind say that to me.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my feet. “Just like that.”
He pushes forward and the pedals move—why, I have no idea—so I hastily slap my feet on them. We’re moving slowly, and my legs go round and round as I grip the handlebars as if my life depends on it.
“Couldn’t do it,” he mutters. He’s behind me now, so I can’t see his face.
“I looked over that edge and knew how much it would hurt. So I’m a chicken.
I don’t like medical stuff and the thought of hitting the ground …
” His voice trails off, and I hardly dare breathe.
I can almost feel his shudder through the bike.
“Could you do it with a parachute?” I say.
What the fuck did you say that for? Leap into the surreal, Sadie, why don’t you? That sounds like a brilliant idea.
Her code is a path on a map leading her ever forward. The girl finds an infinite string, and it opens above her like an umbrella and saves her life.
“Maybe. It’s the going over the edge that’s difficult. What happens if you change your mind halfway down?” he says.
“Yeah, you have to have an escape route, don’t you?”
“Always. You always need that.”
“I sometimes wonder what dying would be like,” I say, and I want to groan at myself all over again. Open mouth, engage brain later. “You know, so many people die in fantasy books, and it’s almost casual the way people write about it.”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding distant now, like perhaps he doesn’t want to talk about it. But screw it, I’ve said it now, so I might as well go all in. I wobble a bit but keep pedaling as the idea takes hold.
“I don’t think they should write about death that way.
It ought to be as messy and awful as it is in real life, with weeping relatives and horrible injuries.
Somebody dies, and—boom—they’re written out of the story.
And you can’t help but wonder, where are all the consequences?
You never see some knight or fantastic being rushed to the ER or slogging through rehab, or facing a long and complicated court case for murder, do you? What do you think?”
“You’re doing great!”
His voice is fucking miles away. I shriek, and the wheels wobble. I lurch to the side, trying to put a foot out to save myself, but I’m going too fast, and before I know it, the bike goes right over and I land on my hip, sprawling on my back on the asphalt. Running footsteps thud toward me.
The bastard let go of me just as I was warming up to my idea!
His dark curls and grinning face appear over me. “Are you having a rest down there?”
“You let go of me, you asshole.”
His grin widens so much that it takes over his whole face. “Well, I knew you’d go on and on about books forever, so I thought you wouldn’t notice if I let go and you got a good ride in.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘I’m going to stop holding your seat now and let you try on your own.’”
“Am I now?” he says, still grinning.
“Have I told you that I’m beginning to think you’re a terrible boss and a dreadful person?”
He laughs out loud, and watching his joy does something strange to my insides. But this is also why I don’t talk much: I open my mouth and say completely the wrong thing. Really, I’m the worst person in the world to be living with someone who’s depressed.
His eyes meet mine again. “I’m well aware that I’m an awful boss, Sadie.”
I wave my hand at him. “No, you’re not. I was joking. You’re great at it, James. How about asking me if I’m okay?”
“Are you okay, Sadie?”
“I think I’ve bruised my hip.”
His forehead creases, and he drops to his knee next to me.
The man’s suit of armor shimmers in the sunlight, his face flushed, dark damp hair curling out of the side of his helmet. He places his sword pointing down into the earth and bows his head while he waits for the queen to speak.
His hand comes out and rests gently on my hip. “Where does it hurt?”
I push up on my elbows, and is that better?
I’m much closer to his thick curls and blue eyes.
I gaze down at his large hand on my hip, fingers spanning around me as if he can magically heal injuries.
The warmth of his hand burns through the fabric; and the weight of it, the concerned frown on his face, the way he hasn’t let go, spreads through me like fire and ice.
The fingers gripping his sword are bruised and bloody. The queen pulls her blade out of its sheath and taps him on the shoulder. “Arise, my knight,” she says.
“We can stop if you like,” he says.
I shake myself out of my daze. “No way! I was just getting started. I rode that hellish thing for at least a minute on my own.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, smile widening again.
My heart aches with how true I want that statement to be, but all I say is: “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that banana chocolate loaf you promised me.”