Chapter Thirty-Six
Bernie
After Pru leaves me alone, I do the only thing I really know how to do. I write a proposal.
I download the National Science Foundation proposal template and try to tell Ash in 10 single-spaced pages why he should pick me. Why I’m a mess and why I’m incredibly sorry.
Then I send it off, pull one of the large cardboard boxes we bought out of the closet, and start the process of dismantling and packing up my road bike.
I fold my kit and pack extra socks, thinking about sitting next to the Christmas tree, his parents snuggled on the couch, Ravi yammering about something on the TV. I remember his palms cupping my knees while I looked at the registration papers.
“I know you said you were worried about finishing a century, but you can do it, Bernie. We’ve been training and I’ll be there. You’re so strong.”
I kissed him stupid because he made me believe it—that I was strong.
Pru’s right. I need to get over myself and stop letting one mistake ruin my life.
I’ve been cycling since my doctoral program. I have the experience and fitness to ride a hundred miles, and I’m going to do it, even if it’s alone, because I can do hard things. Then I’m going to get on a flight to Boston and grovel and woo the hell out of Ash until he forgives me.
Because I love cinnamon rolls.
On Wednesday, I get onto a plane and check into the hotel by myself.
Thursday, I wander around San Diego and find myself in a jewelry store, a plan starting to form.
Thursday night, I lie in bed and daydream about Ash. I think about all the times we’ve been in hotel rooms, and I miss him. Picking up my phone, I text him to tell him because it’s time I start communicating how I feel and what I want.
The next morning, I straddle my bike next to a bunch of lean guys in tight bibs. I picked the back because my goal is to finish, not to race. I set my shoulders and remind myself that I can do hard things.
The race director’s blowhorn puts people into motion. I watch as the riders who are actually competing leave the starting line at a disturbingly fast pace. I join the back of one of the more casual rider group pelotons, willing my legs to wake up so I can relax into the ride.
At mile thirty, I pull off to the side of the road and stare up at the long climb ahead of me. I know it’s a mistake to leave the group because it means I have to push up the climb without anyone, but I feel unsteady and I don’t want to accidentally knock someone over if I’m moving too slowly. I rip open two honey straws and push the goo into my mouth.
Riders pass, some asking if I’m alright before tackling the climb themselves, and I finally stop procrastinating, clip back in, and go.
Onwards, Bernie. You can do hard things.
Surprisingly, it’s not those fifteen long slow miles to the top of Honey Springs Road that get me, it’s the six to the second peak. They’re steep and unyielding, making my breathing ragged and my thighs burn as I pop out of the saddle again to use my body weight to muscle up the grade.
Ash told me he wanted someone who was willing to work through the tough times. I think about his words as I push one pedal in front of the other, pulling up hard on my handlebars. Despite the fact that the climb wrecked me, the coast to mile sixty-five is especially sweet.
The way people describe life is a lot like how different riders think about a route. You have some that concentrate on the pain of the climb, their whole experience packed into the fifteen or twenty miles of absolute torture. They revel in it, and it defines how they think of themselves as an athlete.
Then you have the thrill seekers that remember the speed of the flats and downhills, the thrill of riding so fast that you know if you crash, you’ll do some serious damage.
As I coast downhill to the sound of my flywheel clicking, I realize I have ascribed more to the pain group.
My life has been defined by viewing my breakup and career hiccup as a singular event that changed everything. But I’m more than that, my career is more than that, just like this ride is so much more than twenty-sixish miles of climbing.
I want to look back at my life and define it by more than twenty-five percent.
At the base of the Rancho San Diego climb, I find a gas station and half hope someone steals my bike so I don’t have to keep going. I sit on the curb, dirt-streaked legs sprawled in front of me, and sip a cold Coke, watching riders pass.
They look strong. I wonder if I look strong when I ride, if others admire the determined look on my face, or if they can see the worry and doubt simmering beneath the surface. When I’m done with this ride, I’m going to take a shower, ship my bike to Pru, and find Ashish Mishra. I’m going to sit outside of his apartment until he talks to me. And when he does, I’m going to beg for his forgiveness because he was right. He does deserve better. And I love him enough to try. To give him everything.
I empty the can, straddle my bike, and ride.
I can do hard things.
***
When I pass the Olympic Training Center at mile eighty-three, I’ve officially reached my highest mileage in a single ride. Three tiny climbs and then it’s either flat or downhill. My front tire wobbles a little when I leave the saddle to leverage my weight for the climb. There’s a strong headwind, and my thighs are screaming for me to stop. A bike starts to come up alongside me, but I ignore it, trying to move to the right so they can pass.
I can’t do anything more to get out of the way.
I don’t even have the breath to lend an encouraging word. My bike makes a grinding sound to accommodate my uneven and clumsy movements at each strike of the pedals.
“Sit back in your seat, brace your core, and push with your heels, sunshine. It’s too windy to be out of the saddle.” A voice calls behind me, and I start to whip around to look, but my bike swerves with me and I’m forced to keep my face forward. My body wants to move in whatever direction I’m looking, and I’m too tired to control it.
“Ashish?” I yell over the wind, pushing my hips back in the saddle and leaning low on my handlebars.
“It’s me, Bernie. Keep pushing. You’re almost done. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I try to wiggle my fingers and toes—they’ve long since gone numb—and do what he’s advised. I’m running out of steam on the second tiny hill, going just fast enough to keep from falling over, when he passes me and positions his bike in front of mine, blocking the wind. Trying to protect me, even in this.
“Just keep pedaling, sunshine. You can do this,” he says, and I grit my teeth, hugging his back tire. I need to gain momentum on the slight downhill to carry me up the next incline. I groan in appreciation when we crest it and start to coast down.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as we gain speed. I press lightly on my pedals to hover my ass over the saddle because I’m so sore.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ash glance in my direction and position his bike on the outside of the bike lane.
“I made a commitment to you, Bernie. I told you I would get you through your first century and I meant it.”
“You-you’ve been here the whole time?
“Yes.”
“I thought you were done with me.” And the weight of it makes me lean forward so I can rest my weight on the drops of my handlebars.
“I will never be done with you.” He has to shout the words over the wind, and tears pool in my sunglasses frame.
“I want to stop but I’m worried if I get off my bike I’ll never get back on.”
He laughs and shakes his head, adding a little speed to get in front of me again. I push through the last five miles of my first century, staring at the most perfect ass spandex has ever had the pleasure of gracing.
When we cross the finish line, there are a few people on the side cheering riders on, but I don’t care about them. I clumsily sidle up to a curb and unclip, dropping my bike into the grass and unbuckling my helmet. I wobble to Ash, and with shaky numb hands, I remove his sunglasses so I can look at him.
Solemn squinty eyes stare back at me, and I push my own sunglasses off so I can see him better. I reach for his chin strap and unclip his helmet, needing both hands to release the clasp because my hands are numb.
Fisting the front of his jersey, I pull him into me and kiss him. He smells like sunblock and salt, and it’s perfect. I don’t care that I can barely stand, that we’re sweaty, grimy, and smell. I can’t waste another minute of my life not showing up for him like he shows up for me.
I brush my lips against his plushy ones. I kiss the tip of his nose and the base of his throat. He tugs on my braid, and I rub my nose against his.
“I love you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
His arms tighten behind my lower back, making my snack wrappers crinkle. “I know, Bernie.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, didn’t you read your email this morning?”
I shake my head and lick the salty taste of him off my lips.
He smiles and tips my chin up. “I accepted your proposal. It was very compelling.”
“Yeah?”
“Especially the broader impacts section.” He gazes down at me, and this is it, my moment to really tell him how I feel. Lay it all out there.
In an NSF proposal, the broader impacts section is the opportunity to explain why the research benefits society. How will these findings make a contribution that advances the achievement of societally relevant outcomes?
In my proposal to Ash, I’d explained that every facet of my life was better with him in it and that I knew that we were soulmates. When he told me he believed in fate and his parents fell in love at first sight, I was terrified he was going to tell me that’s how he felt because I wasn’t ready to hear it. I might not have fallen in love with Ash at first sight, but I was drawn to him because he was my fate. I told him I didn’t know how being together would contribute to society, but I know that I wouldn’t reach my full potential without him by my side.
“What did you mean by flexible to location?” he asks.
“I think I’m going to be fired.”
“What?”
Shaking my head, I grip his shoulder and use my other hand to flip over the waistband of my shorts so I can unzip the little compartment there. It wasn’t logical to bring it with me today, but I haven’t been able to put it down since I bought it yesterday.
And I’m not logical.
“Help me?” I step away, wobbling a bit. I manage to drop down to my knees and try to pop one leg up. My cleat drags in the grass, almost toppling me over, and Ash laughs, settling onto the grass in front of me. He grips my upper arms to steady me.
“What are you doing, Bernie? You should walk around to cool down.”
I smile and hold up the plain gold band in front of me, sitting back on my heels because I can’t keep kneeling.
Ash’s big beautiful smile takes over his face, and even though I can’t see the hazel of his eyes, I know he can see me.
“Ashish Mishra. You once asked me to be open to possibilities. Then you told me you didn’t want possibilities anymore, you wanted to be my everything. I want that too. You’re the love of my life. The reason I might have laugh lines when I get older. Marry me?”
My voice waivers and I hold the ring out in front of me, the proof that I not only believe in happily ever afters but I’m going to make one with him. There’s some commotion around us as people crowd in to watch the mess of my life, but Ash’s response is the only one that matters.
His eyes twinkle when he takes the ring and slips it over his ring finger. “I’ll marry you, sunshine.”
People cheer around us when I launch myself at him, kissing his salty face feverishly, hugging him so tightly I hope he knows I’ll never let go.