𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

29. Tour de Outer Banks.

T W E N T Y - N I N E
Tour de Outer Banks

Cycling is not for the faint of heart. It's also not for the people with a dodgy backpack they have to hall around. My biology textbook flings from one side to the other with every peddle, throwing me off kilter. I do not have the core for this.

This shit was so much easier when I was seven.

How Nelly did this with me sitting in the back is fucking beyond me. She's like the female Neil Armstrong, or which every Armstrong had the Tour de France cheating scandal. My mother loved that shit. As did my brother, although he just liked the legal ramifications, fucking nerd.

After the call where Kie was squealing so loud I had the phone two feet from my head in an effort to preserve my hearing concluded, Nelly convinced me to take her bike, it would make the trip from her treehouse to The Wreck a hell of a lot faster. But if I turned her down I wouldn't have hit my head eating shit, now I have blood in my hair and on my shirt from my elbows when I fell out a window.

My friends are alive, I keep reminding myself so I don't end it all because some old woman saw me fall off the bike and Nelly saw me falling out a window.

JJ is prominent in my mind, and, in fact, was the reason I fell off the bike. I thought about him so much I didn't see the broken concrete. I know he's going to be there, he can't fuck off and pretend I don't exist right now; and I can't do the same. It won't just be mouldy ceilings that will remind me of him, I'll have to actually look at him. Even still, days later, I want to cry when I think about what he said—that shit cut deep. It tore wounds that were just closing right back open.

I'd book an appointment with a therapist but I'm blacklisted. Pussies.

This is un-navigated territory for me. Are we going to pretend nothing happened? Because I simply cannot do that. He can't touch me like he did, no touching my leg or my back, no kissing my neck when people aren't looking. None of that. But what do I do if he tries to? I don't know if I have enough strength, dignity and confidence to turn him down. I'm so used to just rolling over to the whims of men, letting them take and take until I've got nothing left to offer.

I've been bled dry.

By the time I've gotten myself to The Wreck, I have to figure out how the bike lock works and douse myself in a mix of deodorant and body spray. Both to contain any sweaty smell and so I don't stink of pot.

"You've got this Frankie. Don't be a pussy. He's just a person. You could take him in a fight. But it won't be a physical fight. But if it was you'd win—"

The side doors swing open as I yank the bike lock one more time to make sure it's still locked. "Frankie! What took you so long?" Kie shouts, clearly still overly excited. I would be too if I wasn't pretending I'm not out of breath and in a lot of pain. "Where you at a guy's house or something? You look freshly fucked."

My jaw opens. Is she on drugs? Am I on drugs—yes, I am. Was the weed laced? I smoked a blunt, not crack.

Looking behind Kie I can see Pope and JJ hanging by the door, watching everything unfold. "N–no. I was at Nelly's. She lives ages away, I had to cycle so that's why I'm sweaty," I stammer. Do I seriously look so bad I look like I just got fucked?

Kie shrugs flippantly and jogs down the steps, a gleeful smile on her face. She squeals when she wraps her arms around my neck. I just pat her back stiffly, still in slight shock over her question. Why on Earth would she think that?

"Did you smoke pot? I thought you were going to cut back aft—"

"Can you stop interrogating me please, let's talk about the massive fucking elephant in the room. Sarah and John B. How do you guys know for certain they're alive?" I pull away from Kie, not understanding what she's implying. The big news must have set her filter up in flames because the stuff coming out is batshit insane.