Chapter 5
After a long shower and a date with the first-aid kit, I retreat to my bedroom, grabbing my phone and climbing under the covers. For the last few days, I’ve avoided social media, but it’s time.
If the Caleb drama isn’t fading away online, my job is in jeopardy. Exhibits A, B, and C: the three instructors who got fired after the recent board shake-up. The company won’t hesitate to cut me too, if I damage their bottom line.
Connecting with riders online is a necessary part of my job, and I used to enjoy posting workout tips and sending encouraging messages. Yet now I brace myself, like I’m about to swallow a nasty-tasting pill. I tap the Instagram icon.
Whoa. My follower count has skyrocketed from my usual twenty-eight thousand or so. It’s closer to forty now, and I have a ton of mentions. More than I should, since I haven’t done a new ride since I last checked in. But people aren’t tagging me in posts about their rides.
Someone chopped up bits of my ranty, confessional speech from my last ride and set it to a sped-up, techno version of “Stronger” by Britney Spears.
“I am so much more than my love life,” I’m saying, and then a bunch of images flash on-screen: A woman—the one who made this post, I guess—lying in bed with her dog.
Holding up a stein of beer at Oktoberfest. Lounging in a yellow inner tube in a river, arms linked with a bunch of friends in matching tubes.
Perched on her CycleLove bike, a towel draped around her neck.
I’m going full #rayofsunshine this week and celebrating my beautiful, full, SINGLE GIRL existence!!! the caption says.
There appear to be thousands of posts like this.
It is sweet, it is corny, and it is everywhere.
My face and voice, a battle cry for people to stop obsessing over their love lives and focus on all the wonderful things they have.
Meanwhile, I’m skulking around with my head down, dwelling on the men who’ve wronged me.
Shit. What is Tracy going to say? She needs the drama between Caleb and me to die down, not go viral.
I’ve created a mess and left her to clean it up on her own.
Quickly, I post a clip from my hike, with the total distance and my time—fitness-focused, business as usual—to signal to her that I’m not encouraging this.
If I look at these posts any longer, I’m going to hurl my phone out the window.
Instead I toss it across the bed and drop my forearm across my eyes.
I’d like to nap, but my restless leg syndrome kicks in, and I toss and turn and stare at the framed poster on the wall, an incredibly detailed picture of a Last of Us zombie with fungus exploding out of its face.
Then the bedroom door opens, and a familiar voice shouts, “Quinnie!”
I squint. Logan is wearing a neon-orange beanie, a T-shirt, and a pair of joggers. He’s still sporting the ridiculous mustache I thought he’d tire of months ago.
I didn’t know this was exactly what I needed until right now.
“Hi!” I screech, and spring out of bed. He wraps me in a hug and lifts me off the ground, and I squeeze him back. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
“Same,” he says. “And can I just say that Caleb sucks, obviously, but you’re everywhere right now, and that’s pretty sweet.”
Stress ripples through me. “I’m not sure whether my boss will agree. It’s kind of freaking me out.”
He follows me out of the room. “Trust me, I get that. Everyone hates me right now. That’s why I’m lying low. Last week I went to the UT football game—the tailgate was awesome—and people in the crowd booed me.”
Logan became a controversial figure after he dumped both of his final love interests on the reality show The Beach House last year instead of proposing to one.
And then recently, he went on a Beach House spin-off, avoided anything romantic, outplayed everyone, and won a bunch of money, and people are criticizing him for that too.
“What are your plans while you’re here?” I ask, heading for the stairs. “Maybe we can do dinner one night. I’m here for a few more days.”
When we reach the bottom, Nate glances over from where he’s sitting on the futon, the TV tuned to a Yankees game. “I told him not to bother you while you were napping.”
Logan ignores him. “We can do dinner every night. My other friends headed out this morning, so I figured I’d crash with you guys so we can all hang. Should we grill and get the fire pit going tonight?”
Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you had a place for us to stay.”
“I did have a place to stay, but then my friends left. Why wouldn’t we all stay here? It’ll be awesome.”
Nate and I lock eyes, and he winces. At this point, he’s not only hijacked my trip, he’s also roped in Logan, who’s going to hijack the hijacking.
I can try explaining that I’m desperate for alone time, but Logan won’t understand that.
His enthusiasm tends to steamroll everything in its path.
He’s the first one on the dance floor at every party, and he’ll drag anyone nearby along with him.
But you know what? Spending time with a friend who makes me laugh, someone I’m happy to see in a refreshingly uncomplicated way, sounds pretty damn good right about now. The girl in the viral video would never let the awkwardness of a failed romance get in the way of what she wants.
“Sounds like fun,” I say.
“I’ve never wished for anything as hard as I wished for that store to have a functioning self-checkout.
” Nate shakes his head at Logan as he pushes a grocery cart out of the South Lake Tahoe Whole Foods.
“I couldn’t look the cashier in the eye when he was scanning your stuff.
What you did in there should be a felony. ”
“That’s ridiculous,” Logan sputters.
The automatic doors open onto a parking lot in one of the more commercial areas of town, where the Five Guys and Chase Bank are camouflaged in rustic Craftsman-style buildings.
“I don’t know,” I say, my flip-flops smacking as the guys walk and I waddle across the pavement, nature’s beard burn haunting my inner thighs. “Big Marshmallow’s got a lot of political sway.”
The “S’more War,” Logan’s calling it, our activity for this evening.
A taste test, with regular s’mores versus fancy ones with artisan marshmallows, premium chocolate, and candied orange peel.
Refined sugar isn’t in the meal plan my CycleLove-provided nutritionist recommends, but hey, I’m on vacation.
Logan pulls a brown paper container out of his shopping bag. “They’re small batch. Look at this packaging. Look at the font. They’re not fucking around. These are amazing, guaranteed.”
“You are a marketer’s dream,” Nate says.
Logan’s smile cracks open on his face. “You know, man, I think this is the first time you’ve busted my chops all day. Thanks for finally showing up.”
I dig around in my grocery bag for the keys, under a yellow onion and a head of garlic.
A side dish that doesn’t take up real estate on the gas Weber on the deck, that’s my responsibility.
Logan and Nate are making feta and dill turkey burgers and corn on the cob.
I chose rice-stuffed tomatoes—cheap and delicious, my favorite kind of recipe.
“I’m open to them,” I say. “It’s important for a juror to be impartial.”
“Ha!” Logan hooks his arm around my neck and kisses my temple. “I’ll win you over too, Nate.”
“You don’t sound impartial,” Nate grumbles from behind us. “By the way, I think those girls took a picture of you.”
A duo in tennis skorts disappears into the store. Logan gestures at himself. “All I’m doing is grocery shopping. No one can possibly get mad at me about that.”
“You just paid four bucks a marshmallow, ” Nate says. “French royalty has been executed for less.”
This is the most fun I’ve had in days. With Logan as a buffer and a job to do—grocery shopping and dinner prep—it feels easy, and the next few hours are more of the same.
There are plenty of tasks to complete, and I focus on those: hollowing out ripe tomatoes and boiling rice in their juices, cleaning up the chopped-herb debris in the kitchen after Nate preps the burgers, setting the patio table.
Even when we’re eating, somebody’s always running into or out of the house for a drink refill or extra napkins.
On one of my trips inside, I grab my phone from the counter and find an email waiting for me from Tracy.
Quinn—The single empowered woman thing is resonating. Your last ride was the biggest of the week by far, and we should leverage the powerful response. I knew you could thrive like this under the right circumstances.
Relief clouds my vision. She’s not pissed about me going viral, and I had the biggest ride of the week?
That spot is usually reserved for one of our top instructors, the ones who do features in Shape magazine on their pre-workout routines and star in our TV commercials.
I was worried about disappointing her, about getting fired, but if she’s happy with the turn things have taken, maybe it’ll work to my advantage.
That could be me in Shape magazine, with a toothy smile and job security.
Tracy’s email contains two more paragraphs:
Make sure you stay on top of your socials during your time off.
Lean into the single-and-proud messaging.
The stuff you shared from your hike was okay, but a bit of a snooze.
Not quite juicy enough for the mood of the moment.
Try to keep the momentum going by connecting with your audience on a personal level—more about how you’re feeling post-breakup (in an upbeat way) and what’s next.