Chapter 23
When I wake, gauzy blue light is seeping into the room, and Nate is holding me snug against his chest. It’s an opportunity to catalog details I don’t normally get to see, like the length of his eyelashes and the faint freckling at the tops of his cheekbones.
Wonder and fear hit me at the same time, lodging themselves under my rib cage.
I wriggle out of Nate’s arms and get up to pee, grabbing my phone afterward. On regular days in L.A., the first thing I do is check my email, even though I’m on the record in a Cyclelove.com interview as someone who “starts each morning with positive affirmations and a glass of water with lemon.”
Don’t get me wrong, I do those things too.
Plus I scrawl a note on a Post-it and slap it on the tub of protein powder for Michelle, a ritual born of sincerity that is now a joke, even if I do really want her to “Have a stellar day!” or whatever.
I omitted that from my interview response because they might’ve asked for a picture of one, and she always draws crude things on them.
Regardless, I do check my email first. It’s a mistake today, because a message from Tracy is waiting.
Quinn,
Looks like the trip is going well and you’re getting plenty of relaxation time.
Let’s touch base this week to discuss your return so you can hit the ground running.
We can also go over what content you’ll be responsible for posting going forward vs.
what Summer will handle to lighten your load. When are you free for a call?
In the meantime, as I’ve been saying, marketing thinks we can get more out of your socials.
I’ve seen some action from you on this front, but not a full commitment.
Remember your WHY. Why did you work so hard to become a CycleLove instructor?
Why do you drag your butt to the studio and turn on a smile even when it’s tough?
I know because I’ve heard you say it many times.
You love to connect with people. You love to make their days brighter.
Here’s a fun idea: A fan posted a photo with you at the festival and wrote that you gave her tips on handling a breakup.
We love that angle. How about an “Ask Me Anything” session for relationship questions?
Would be easy to do while you are relaxing at your next stop. And right in line with your WHY.
Don’t get lost in the sunflower fields.
—T
Red-hot pressure flares in my chest. She hopes I’m enjoying my time off—time she knows I desperately need, to get my head on straight—but also keeps encroaching on it.
She’s giving me a lecture about what motivates me (even I can’t bring myself to call it a WHY ), and she’s sort of right, but she’s twisting it into something that feels wrong.
I just got cheated on, dumped, and humiliated, and she wants me to use it to make other people’s days brighter.
To give advice when I’m obviously terrible at relationships.
And she still wants Summer to pretend to be me, but is that to save my time or wrangle control?
In the past, Tracy has always looked out for me, but right now, she’s trying to cash in on my inner turmoil.
How much of myself do I have to give to convert one new subscriber?
A lot, apparently. Maybe everything. I’m either sacrificing something by being more vulnerable than I can handle or I’m sacrificing something by lying.
Either way, it chips away at me. I’ve dedicated myself to this company, moving and giving up friendships and teaching day in, day out in a format I don’t love.
Trying to keep Tracy happy, because I respect her.
Because I thought she believed, as much as I did, that CycleLove exists to empower people.
I am lucky, I remind myself, rubbing my forehead. Lucky she’s paying attention to me, investing time in my development. Lucky to do this for a living. Even if, at the moment, this has very little to do with cycling instruction.
The glossy red tile on the walls of this room is making my head pound.
I need to get out of here, away from the red.
Blue sky and green grass, that’s what I want, so I change into workout clothes and slip past a still-sleeping Nate into the brisk morning air.
I jog through the campground, and it feels good, even though Tracy’s words are still jangling around in my brain.
I can’t bring myself to dole out dating advice, but there must be something else I can do that’ll satisfy her.
I stop in the VIP lounge area for a cup of water.
A few groups of people are scattered around eating breakfast, and a woman with a ponytail and a plate of huevos rancheros flags me down and asks for an autograph.
“I made one of those highlight reel videos!” she says.
“A year ago, I took a break from dating, and I haven’t gone back. No regrets.”
An idea clicks into place. “Would you be willing to let me film you explaining your favorite thing about being single?” I ask. “I’m going to make a compilation of a bunch of people’s answers.”
She and some of her friends enthusiastically oblige, and I wrangle a few other people into participating. This is something I don’t mind doing; I’ll be sharing a variety of opinions, nothing that feels like a lie.
But even if Tracy likes this post, she’ll ask me to lie again soon. She’s going to keep asking me to lie, and if I don’t feel shitty enough about that on my own, Nate’s disdain will do it for me—at least until we go our separate ways. Which is happening soon, despite last night.
The endorphin rush of my run has evaporated, and I need more. After I finish filming, I continue onward: down the path we’ve only traversed by golf cart, onto the main festival grounds and over to the activity field, where a stretching and breathwork class is about to begin.
The group of festival-goers sufficiently sober or hangover-immune to take a sunrise fitness class is surprisingly large.
I only planned to run, but I find myself sitting down on a mat near the end of a middle row.
An instructor with pigtail braids and a serene voice leads us through a series of exercises, and it’s a relief to spend thirty minutes dwelling only on what I’m doing with my body.
Surrounded by other people doing the same thing. I missed this.
When we stretch our hip flexors, I notice a trace of soreness from last night, and it sends a delicious swirl of satisfaction through my abdomen.
Before it stirs up any other feelings tied to what’s happening with Nate, I push it away and concentrate on my next inhalation.
And when I get back to the RV, I feel lighter.
Nate is standing at the kitchen sink when I open the door. His eyes flick down my body, and my blood whooshes. “Run?” he asks.
I take a step forward, then lean back against the wall uncertainly. If I get too close, I’ll have to decide whether to hug him or kiss him, and I don’t know the protocol.
I nod. “And a class. Sorry, I should’ve told you, but you looked so peaceful. Do you normally sleep with a teddy bear, by the way? Because I felt like one last night.”
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t mention last night.
“Well, you managed to escape.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I figured you were either working out or trying not to freak out.”
“Why not both?”
His mouth curves indulgently, and he holds out a glass of water. I raise my eyebrows at the slice of lemon wedged on the rim. “I went to the breakfast buffet,” he explains. “It’s my god-given right, as a Very Important Person.”
I laugh, relieved that jokes are still on the table.
“Did you decide how you want to play it, then?” he asks.
I take my time sipping my water. “What do you mean?”
“Option A, we pretend it never happened. Option B, we try for option A, fail, and just act super awkward. Option C, we talk about it.”
I tap my chin. “Difficult decision. Which one do you want to do?”
“Option C, but later.” He sets down his cup and steps toward me, his eyes like torches. “First, we should do it again.”
A tingle shoots down my spine. When Livvie and Kyla bound up the steps of the RV ten minutes later, Nate has me up against the bedroom wall. With the door shut, thankfully.
I groan in frustration, and he shushes me and steers me into the bathroom, where we put a second door between us and our roomies.
With his hands between my legs and our eye contact in the mirror, we only need a few minutes.
I lean on the counter afterward, my knees shaking, while Nate pops out to say hello.
When I join them, Livvie is sprawled on one of the couches, swimming in a giant gray sweatsuit, with her hood up and her legs in Kyla’s lap. “I was so drunk, I tried to tell everyone the only explanation was aliens.” She spears a cube of cantaloupe from a cup of fruit salad.
“Then what happened?” Nate asks.
“She dragged us to the middle of the sunflower field at three a.m. so we could send them a message of peace,” Kyla says.
“She had me record it on my phone. All she did was sing Enya.” Kyla’s shoulders shake with laughter, and the messy nest of a bun on top of her head flops forward.
She’s still in yesterday’s clothes. Livvie is cackling so hard a chewed-up piece of melon flies out of her mouth, landing in Kyla’s hair.
They both shriek until Livvie plucks it out.
A pang of envy passes through me. It’s been forever since Bailey and I had a morning like this, reveling in our hijinks from the night before.
I don’t miss how uncertain my life felt in college, but I do miss rolling out of bed and spending the entire day watching Vanderpump Rules with her, debating whether to text someone with a nickname like “New Balance Brad” and planning our theme parties.
I miss my best friend. And maybe I’ve been avoiding her because talking to her makes me feel bad. But I think not talking to her has made me feel worse in ways I didn’t realize.