49. The Bamboo Bike Makers Strike Again
49
THE BAMBOO BIKE MAKERS STRIKE AGAIN
Leighton
“I feel we should tell her,” Indigo says.
I privately groan as I walk through the doorway of the bedroom and into the living room, the early morning sun spilling through the window.
“I feel it’s a mistake,” Ezra says.
They must be really used to not having me around if they’re speaking like this with me here. But they both turn at the same time as I trudge to the kitchen in my old apartment turned temporary refuge from my own bad decisions. From the mess I made of my life. I didn’t have the heart to go to Miles’s home last night. It felt wrong. Presumptuous, even. So I came here. Much to their surprise. And clearly, they’re not really accustomed to me being here anymore. It makes sense. It’s been close to a month since I’ve stayed, and I’ve only returned a few times to grab clothes.
Indigo meets my gaze and gasps, her braid whipping around as she turns and faces me. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were up.”
Ezra winces, dips his head, his man bun bobbing with him. “Oops.” When he looks up again, he turns to her and says, “I told you so.”
These two haven’t changed one bit. “So tell me what?”
Indigo twists her fingers together, looks at Ezra with I’m sorry written in her eyes, and says to me, “I feel you should know we’ve been performing fellatio and cunnilingus in your bedroom.”
My eyes don’t even pop in surprise. This is super on brand for them.
“I feel you should know I didn’t want to tell you,” Ezra adds.
I should be annoyed by them. I have been in the past. But I’m not—I’m jealous for the first time. Because the thing is—they’re making it work better than I ever could. These two talk about everything. And what do I do? I keep secrets and push people away. Instead of being with the guy I fell for, I’m further apart from him than the miles between us.
I just shrug. I am a shell of whatever this morning. “It’s fine,” I say, not caring they’ve been getting it on in my room. I walk through the kitchen to the cramped bathroom, shutting the door with a loud rap.
I shower quickly, get dressed, and get out of there as fast as I can. I have my meeting with Melissa in a couple hours, but I’ll use this free time to walk, think, and strategize over how to fix all of the relationships I’ve wrecked. Starting with my father.
But how? I have no clue what to do next. His words won’t stop repeating in my mind— I am more hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you had fallen for someone .
They cut deeper each time I play them in my head. I need my friends. Need to discuss what to do next, to figure out how to fix this.
But just as I’m tapping out a mayday text to the crew, a new text from Riley lands on my screen.
Riley: School has a late start today. Guess who’s wandering around Japantown at nine in the morning with nothing to do? Come whisk me away for a boba.
My thumb hovers over the mayday text. I’ll want that later, but right now, sister time is exactly what I need.
After I order a green tea boba and a mango bubble tea for Riley, she tells me she’s all set for the SAT and refuses to study again for the next twenty-four hours. So once our drinks are ready, we grab them and wander around Japantown.
“Tell me something, anything not related to college or the SAT,” she says.
I scoff as we pass a cute little shop peddling all manner of Hello Kitty merch.
Perhaps intrigued by my scoff, she arches a brow. “What have you got?”
In the past, I might have held back. She’s sixteen, after all. But she’s the only other person in the world who knows exactly what makes our dad tick. Besides, I’ve never treated her with kid gloves, and I don’t want her to treat me that way either. I tell her everything because I don’t have a clue how to fix this mess but I know I need to start with my father.
Riley’s eyes widen until she stops mid-sip, dropping her metal straw in the cup. “Wow. You’re kind of the bad child now.”
“As if you were ever in consideration. You’ve always been good.”
She flicks her hair but then turns serious. “This is actually a big deal,” she says, heavily.
I sigh and take a sip. “Yeah, I know. What do I do, Riley?” I ask, hoping. Imploring.
She hums then stops outside a sticker store and says, “Look, I’m not always the good child. Dad and I have fought plenty. But when I’ve really screwed up, I always write him a letter. It’s just easier to say everything on paper—and he listens better that way too.”
Riley’s words sink in. I’ve let this guilt fester. I’ve fed it, watered it, grown it. It’s time to let it go.
With the truth.
I have a free hour before my meeting with Melissa, and I feel the pull of High Kick. It’s our place—Miles’s and mine. And right now, I don’t feel at home anywhere else. Not with Indigo and Ezra, and not at Miles’s place. Birdie’s café has always been where I figure myself out, and maybe it’s where I’ll start fixing things with Dad too.
While I’m there, I finish a photo collage on my iPad. There are pictures of all the things my father has taught me over the years.
How to ride a bike .
How to read.
How to cook.
How to balance a budget. How to save money. And how to apologize from the heart.
He took pictures of me doing all of those things over the years, and the story they tell—it’s the story of a girl who learned how to be a strong woman from her dad. He’s not the only one who keeps photos of special moments and memories. I guess that’s something else I learned from him.
In the middle of all those moments is a letter.
Dear Dad,
I can’t say I’m sorry enough. Truly, I can’t. I am very sorry that I hurt you. You taught me better. You’ve always listened to me.
But you also taught me to be independent. To handle the world. To make it on my own. And to trust myself. Part of trusting myself is choosing who I want to love. Part of choosing that also means knowing when it’s time to share that love with others. I wasn’t honest with you. For that I am sorry. But I am not sorry I fell in love with Miles Falcon. I’m not sorry that I’m going to pursue this relationship with him. I’m not sorry I want to be with him at all. He’s kind, caring, and strong. He makes artichoke pasta, orders the tea I love, brings me wildflowers in a mason jar, and makes sure I have everything I need.
Best of all? He listens to me.
That means everything. As you know.
I also know you think no one is worthy of your daughters, but I’m here to tell you—he is worthy. Believe me. Trust me. I chose well, Dad. And I chose well in part because you taught me what I’m worth—the world. And he gives me that.
I hope you’ll forgive me for lying, and I also hope you’ll have dinner with my boyfriend and me sometime soon. Because I love you, and I love him.
Love,
Leighton
I email it to him and let out a sigh that’s full of hope and wistfulness. Hope for the future. Wistfulness for the past. And a new faith in the present. When I’m done, I take a photo of the locket around my neck and I send it to Miles.
It’s the story of us—our beginning and the rest of our story, waiting to be told in photos, in words, and in days and nights together.
After my meeting with Melissa and the bridal web site, I tug my hair into a ponytail and go to pole class early, repeating you can do it in my head as I ask Jewel to lower the volume of the music. “I can hear you better if you do that,” I add, and I don’t feel like I’m drawing attention to myself. I’m asking for what I need.
She doesn’t bat an eye. “Of course. Thanks for letting me know,” she says.
And this time, I can hear her above the beat as I spin. Turns out she’s a pretty good instructor after all.