The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (18 page)

M
Y MUSCLES PROTEST
every inch my leg rises to get on my bike, and then scream when I balance on the narrow seat. I suck in a deep breath and try to focus on my core muscles absorbing my weight and stabilizing me. I probably should have extended my physical therapy after my accident, but shortly after being able to get back on a bike, I quit going. I hated it. The sight of so many people struggling with simple tasks and maneuvers because of injuries spanning from accidents, surgeries, birth defects, and those that came with time was there as a daily reminder that I might never recuperate.

Now, I face days where the pain becomes so great that my mind forgets the mundane exercises and fears that stopped me from continuing physical therapy, and what might or might not ever be possible again, and I start considering going back to see if new technology and teachings could perhaps make the pain I incurred become less frequent. But those thoughts vanish with the rising of the sun and my determination to stop thinking of myself as injured.

King grumbles as he fastens his helmet.

“You have to wear that every time you step into the shop or another box, so I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal to wear it outside.” My words are clipped, my annoyance with Kash making King’s inane complaints seem more intolerable.

King stares at me, his chin dipped. A million retorts are visible in his brown eyes, but he doesn’t voice a single one.

It is the Knight way.

I blow him off by plunging my foot down on a pedal and following suit with the next. My legs stretch, my muscles protest once more, my blood flows, my lungs fill with cold air, and my fingers tighten around the bars as the wind whips against my face. I am euphoric. It serves as such a great reminder that this is what I love—to be outside in an uncharted and unpredictable environment where I’m not working to improve a well-practiced move. I’m simply riding.

We ride down the long driveway, exchanging occasional cheers and calls when another makes an impressive move, but for the most part, we ride in silence until we reach the main road.

“Let’s go south,” Kash says without discussion.

We follow him in a line. The narrow road lacks a sidewalk and is unfortunately busy with cars. Like many streets here, moss makes the shoulders slick, adding a small challenge that we all see as a fun challenge. We veer and play with our brakes, testing the reactions of ourselves and the person following us.

I am sure I haven’t always ridden behind Kash when we go out on excursions like this, but for as long as I can remember, it certainly seems like I have, and I am again now with Parker directly behind me, laughing because my front tire didn’t regain traction and caused me to wobble. I smile, enjoying the thrill, but keep my attention split between the road and my distance to Kash. While there are tons of bike riders in Portland, I never assume it’s solely a driver’s responsibility to be watching for us, especially when we ride for speed, like we’re picking up to do.

Kash leads us with a building pace until we reach an intersection and have to stop for a light. We each gasp a few breaths, careful to stay back from the puddles that will likely remain until May. My ears are burning from the heat of the workout and the contrasting cold temperature mixed with chilling winds that feel uniquely good and painful at the same time.

The light turns quickly, preventing any awkward or forced conversation, and we set off, Kash setting a speed that tells me he’s relieved as well and likely trying to outrun the issues that have been following us both over the past few days. The street is covered with wet leaves from maple and chestnut trees, and they are even slicker than the moss was, creating a sea of brown, contrasting the green that is so common here in the Pacific Northwest with so many pine trees, moss, and plants that love our high level of rainfall.

My grandparents were from the Midwest, and moved here when my mother was young. Numerous times my grandmother would comment about how Portland was the most beautiful place she had ever traveled to, which was vast, considering my grandfather had been in the military causing them to have moved all over the country. Because I see the same sights every single day, I sometimes forget to view them for what they truly are. To appreciate and admire the many shades and colors the wet climate provides us with. Perhaps time, while enhancing and beautifying many things, also serves as a malefactor, allowing us to take advantage of and lose sight of the things that matter most.

We ride to Waterfront Park where an elementary class is walking in a single-file line wearing bright orange vests and smiles, oblivious to the cold and wet weather. A few of the kids point at us excitedly as we ride by, prompting Kash to show off and pull up on his handlebars so that he’s balanced on only his back tire for several seconds before he resumes speeding down a grassy hill.

My hair is in a low knot to prevent it from getting blown in my face or obscuring my helmet, allowing the wind to lick every inch of my face and most of my neck. It feels like an old friend that I’ve missed so dearly as the pain I faced all morning seems to wash away, being replaced with my need to go faster as we break apart from our single line and all race forward.

King is the first to pull a stunt, jumping up on a railing and spinning his bike in a full rotation. It’s impressive, even for him, given the small window of time for the move since the railing is fairly low. His face tips back as he rolls forward slowly, bliss present with his closed eyes. Parker follows him, his speed too fast. I know he won’t be able to land it, but know better than to yell—that only distracts the rider—and he’s already aware and trying to correct. The center of his bike slides down, metal on metal, creating a loud grating sound that often accompanies this sport. His bike falls fast and hard, kicking him off before he can gain control. Parker’s bike continues to slide several feet until the front tire crashes against the brick that lines all of Waterfront Park, keeping it from the Willamette River.

“I thought you were going to swim with the fishes!” Kash yells, riding down the hill beside the stairs. He stops in front of Parker and offers a hand.

“I was more worried I was going to have to eat through a straw again,” Parker admits with a laugh. He’s completely unaffected, the minor injury barely more than a thought as he picks up his bike and hops back on.

We follow the concrete path along the river, winding around people, benches, and each other. Parker sings to pop and rap songs, rarely getting the lyrics correct.

“You need to spend more time with Lo,” I say with a laugh when he butchers a song with words that prove he doesn’t know the lyrics.

“You’re kidding, right? She’s the reason half these songs are stuck in my head!”

“Is that why your tone is so far off?” King asks.

“Maybe one day if we get her really drunk, we can get her to actually sing a song,” Kash remarks, weaving his front tire close to my own.

Everyone laughs.

The joke is because Lo never actually sings. Whenever she hears someone say something that sounds similar to the lyrics in a song, she says the rest of the lyric. There were several times when she did it, and I had no idea she was referencing a song, so I’d look at her for clarification but never receive a response.

“Doubtful,” King says. “After two beers, she passes out.”

Parker laughs loudly, the sound carrying in the wind with his speed, making me smile.

I feel Kash’s stare before I’m willing to acknowledge it. Finally I do, and allow my gaze to linger on him for several seconds as we ride in tandem. He reaches across the short space separating our bikes and rests a hand on my right handlebar, our skin brushing. Even in the cold, his skin feels hot.

We’ve never ridden like this before. I’m not even sure of what he’s trying to do, but I am careful to maintain my same speed so his balance isn’t rocked off center so we can continue.

“Let’s do this all week,” he says.

His stare returns to my face as mine juggles between his and the path we’re on, feeling it’s necessary to watch for him as well.

“How’s Robert?” I ask.

Kash smiles gently, making my heart strum with nerves. “He’s good. The doctors have him joining a class that will make him do exercises—he’s already hating the idea of it—and he’s meeting with a nutritionist later today.”

“Is he back home?”

Kash finally acknowledges the concrete before returning to me. “Not yet. Mercedes is laying the guilt on pretty thick, but he’s spending his days there while she’s at school.”

“Clever girl.” I grin, enjoying his reciprocated smile that I elicited. “She’s got him wrapped around her pinky.”

“Wonder where she gets that from?” His hand lifts from beside mine and playfully shoves me, making my entire bike veer, and him laugh.

“I didn’t hear you. I think I have something in my ear,” I say, reaching my hand up once I’m steady and scratching my ear with my middle finger.

Kash chuckles, moving so he’s close enough to reach out and hold my handlebar again.

“Oh, what’s this?” I pull my hand away from my face and hold it up, so he can clearly see my finger flipping him off.

“Are you ready for this?” Parker yells, redirecting our attention.

“No, Summer didn’t bring her camera to document your stupidity,” Kash says.

Parker ignores him, picking up speed before jumping up onto a bench, posing, and then jumping back down.

“Weak!” Kash taunts.

He speeds up and jumps onto the next bench where his pose is far more pronounced, and rather than just giving a cheesy smile, Kash whips his left leg over the seat for a full second before mounting it again, and hopping down. He proceeds to do several smaller jumps in place. It’s shameful he’s wearing a sweatshirt so I can’t see his forearms working with each move. This maneuver, while looking simple, isn’t at all, and requires a lot of upper body and arm strength.

“Whatever, Tigger,” Parker says, waving him off and riding three full circles around a woman walking past us.

Amusement is clear in her eyes as she watches him and then the rest of us.

He salutes her and rides back over to us. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“You guys want pizza? Chinese? That Italian place delivers now,” Kash says as we hit the end of the driveway.

We’re all going slower from exhaustion, and are splattered with mud up to our mid-backs. I’m pretty sure I could sleep for a solid twelve hours right now, but the thought of food keeps me from closing my eyes. I’m so hungry my stomach hurts.

“I need to go home and shower,” I say, looking down my arms that are both coated in drops and streaks of mud.

“It looks like you guys were the canvas of some serious splatter painting,” Lo announces as she bounds down the front steps, a smile spread across her lips.

The mud doesn’t slow her progress to King where she leans up next to him and unabashedly kisses him with a desire that makes me jealous.

“Shower here.” Kash dismounts his bike and releases his helmet. He looks at me as he pulls it free, his eyebrows knit with confusion.

I always carry spare clothes in my truck and have some in the shop. Riding is serious work, and it builds up a sweat that I try not to parade around in for long.

“Mercedes will be upset if she goes a fourth day without seeing you.”

Kash’s statement reveals he has been counting. However, it doesn’t expose why he allowed so much time to pass without reaching out to me. In many ways, I wish he hadn’t revealed the fact, then maybe I could lie to myself, thinking that he got really busy and wrapped up with Robert staying over or work or something that hadn’t allowed him to send a simple text.

“I have some extra clothes here,” Lo offers.

I’m still considering my best excuses to leave, though staying is so tempting.

“I need to get some laundry done.” I’m not lying. I really do. I can’t see the floor in my laundry room anymore.

“Whatever,” Parker says. “The kid’s going to be mad at you.”

“I’ll call her,” I say, looking pointedly at Kash before leading my bike to the tailgate of my truck.

Typically this bike stays here at the shop so we can go on back trails, and take trips like this, but for some reason, I’m inclined to take it with me.

“The shop’s not that much farther,” Kash says as he steps up behind me and takes my bike.

He lifts it easily into the back without waiting for an explanation. It confuses me more than my own action.

“Right now, it seems a lot farther, though.”

The faint lines by his mouth become more pronounced as he frowns, confirming he knows I’m not referring to the distance I would have to walk to return my bike.

I try not to make my stare a challenge, but he dips his head, and I don’t give him a second chance.

“See you guys tomorrow!” I yell, opening my door.

My truck is already in dire need of being detailed, and now that I’ve come to the realization that I don’t really like my truck, I don’t second-guess climbing inside and getting the seats even dirtier. Reflexively, I slam the door—or at least try to. When I was a kid and doors didn’t have whatever it is they have to silence car doors, it was far more satisfying.