“But it’s been the best few days of your life,” he said, no recrimination in his voice.
I didn’t know how to respond to that, because it was true. And I hated it. Sort of.
He knew me too well. “Right, Paul?”
I shrugged.
He sighed like he was a bit annoyed which, to be fair, he probably was. “Honey, just when I start to think you can accept things and move forward with them, you have these idiotic little notions in your head that you’re not good enough, that you don’t deserve to be happy like everyone else.”
“I don’t think like that,” I replied weakly, but we both knew it was a lie.
He didn’t call me on it. He didn’t have to. “And whether or not you can admit it,” he continued, “you’ve smiled more this past week than you have at any point that I can remember.”
“You must have mistaken smiling for looks of frustration, bewilderment, and full-on horror.”
“Hey, Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to say a word,” Sandy said. “Just react how you normally would, okay?”
I glanced warily at him. “Cracker Jack psychology. Fun.”
“Ready?”
I nodded.
“Vince,” he said.
I smiled widely; I couldn’t stop it if I’d tried. “Oh, goddammit!”
He smirked at me but didn’t say anything in response.
“Finding alternate route,” That Damn Bitch said succinctly.
THE bike store smelled like rubber and sweat and good health. I hated it.
“Can I help you?” the cheery little woman asked as we walked in. She had to be just under five feet tall, but she was ripped, and I thought it was possible she could kick my ass in a fight. Then I wondered why my first thought was that I was going to fight this woman, and I just chalked it up to me being weird. As usual.
“Hi, I’m looking for a bike,” I said.
“Well, you came to the right place!” she said with a chuckle.
“Oh, really?” I asked her. “I wouldn’t have guessed since the sign outside says ‘Bike Shop’.”
“Forgive my friend,” Sandy said smoothly as the bike chick stared at me oddly. “He’s not normally so rude. He’s just a little flustered. Wonderful, exciting things are happening in his life, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them quite yet.”
“Oh?” she said, recovering slightly. She looked me up and down. “Have you decided to make some healthy lifestyle choices and become a bike rider?”
Before I could scratch her eyes out, Sandy spoke for me again. “The bike is for someone else.”
“My boyfriend,” I said, quite loudly, sure she would also be a homophobe and wanting to stick it to her good. “I hit him with my car and broke his other bike.” Oh sweat balls.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Is that so?”
“It was an accident,” Sandy said. “Look, this probably wasn’t the best way to start this. Hi, I’m Sandy, and this is Paul. We’re here to look at bikes.” He shook her hand, but I didn’t, because I had convinced myself the little biker chick was evil since she thought my “lifestyle choices” included shoving my face with lard. I didn’t want her evil to rub off on me in case I became a weed-smoking hippie who went to music festivals in a skirt made of hemp.
“I’m Jenny, and I think I can help you,” she told us, but really speaking only to Sandy. I had a tendency to alienate people with my mouth. You’d think I wouldn’t have been let out into public as much as I was. “It’s probably a good idea if I knew what kind of bike you’re looking to replace.”
Sandy looked at me. “What?” I asked him.
“What kind of bike was it?”
“What do you mean? It was a bike.” How hard was that to understand?
Jenny looked at me with bemusement. “There are many kinds, Paul. Was it a mountain bike? A road bike? Touring bike? Racing? Time trial? Triathlon? Track? BMX? Freight? Roadster? Cyclocross?”
“It was blue,” I said hastily, not even remotely impressed by her listing off bicycles. “I think. Maybe a little bit gray.”
“Were the tires thin or thick?”
“Paul’s a size queen,” Sandy said. “That’s probably not the best question to ask him.”
I glared at Sandy before looking back at Jenny. “Does it really matter what kind it was? I just want to get him a new bike.”
Jenny nodded. “It’s very important. It’s almost like a way of life. The type of bike a person has can define who they are.”
“I don’t think that’s a real thing,” I told her. “I don’t have a bike and I know who I am.”