Page 5

Chapter 5

APRIL

B illie surveyed a table of knickknacks with her upper lip pushed so far up, it covered her septum ring. Every item on the table was lemon-themed: lemon saltshakers, a bowl with lemons painted around the rim, and porcelain lemons of all shapes, sizes, and wedge cuts.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, amused at her obvious disdain.

She scratched a line of scalp between corn rows as she decided on an answer. I noticed she had dried paint on her fingers—the pastel dots contrasting with her dark skin—and couldn’t help but wonder what her latest art project was. “It’s a lot of citrus for a three by four-foot surface area.”

Billie was my closest friend—the most chill and hip person I knew. She found beauty in the most bizarre modern art sculptures. She never shopped on Amazon and rarely bought anything outside of consignment or farmer’s markets. She only listened to indie music and read indie books—couldn’t bear the idea of consuming mainstream or anything enjoyed by the masses, really. So, the fact that not even she could find beauty in the lemon table was saying something.

I picked up a framed cross stitch pattern that had When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade stitched across it. “What about this one?”

“Actually, we need to put that above your workbench at the shop.”

“What? Why?” I asked with a laugh.

“Because,” she said, moving toward a table with books, “you’ve been crabby ever since Clay fired you as his athlete.”

I knew she had an ulterior motive when she mentioned coming to the estate sale. I was here, looking for something specific. She was here because she wanted to pull me out of my funk.

“Well, it just happened last week. I’m allowed to be moody. Aren’t I?”

“You are. As long as you move on from it. Look on the bright side: you don’t have to take orders from someone who looks like he’s just been sent to timeout.”

My hand grazed over knick-knacks and oddities of all sorts. I’d been about to pick up a dainty hand mirror with roses along the handle, but I yanked my arm back when I noticed the hairline crack along the edge. I was pretty sure the seven years of bad luck was saved for the person who actually broke the mirror, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I had enough working against me, thanks.

Instead, I picked up a teacup with hand-painted monarch butterflies. My heart tugged at the sight as I instantly thought of Mom.

She hadn’t been a religious person, but she was very spiritual. Always looking for little signs from the universe, careful not to disturb the cadence of nature, a believer in myths, legends, luck, and magic. Every single time she spotted a butterfly in the wild, she’d stop to point it out, “Look,” she’d say, “a little bit of magic.”

To her, butterflies were a sign that the universe or God or our ancestors or whoever was looking out for us. When I was little, the awe in her voice made me believe that something greater was on our side. However, the evidence as of late, had turned me into a skeptic. I wanted to do this one thing: reconnect with my mom by finishing this Ironman, and I felt like I was being punished.

I shuddered to imagine what would be thrown in my path to keep me from finishing this year. After a storm, the flu, and a broken bone, the pattern indicated something horrid waited.

The worst part? I was way too logical to believe in nonsense like fate or cosmic signs. Life was all cause and effect. You leave your bike out in the rain, and it gets rusty. You don’t true a wheel, and the rim goes out of line.

But there were too many moments that didn’t add up. Didn’t make sense. Weren’t fair. Your mom drives to work, and she never makes it back home.

I looked at the tiny butterflies fluttering along the rim.

Please give me something, I silently begged. I just need to know the universe doesn’t hate me.

“How is training going . . . you know, without Clay?” Billie’s question yanked me from my silent prayer, and I put the teacup down delicately before narrowing my eyes at her.

Despite being the cashier of a triathlon shop, she didn’t have the slightest interest in the sport. To my knowledge, she’d never even been to a race. “You don’t care about training.”

“I don’t. But I know how much this means to you. So—” She put out a hand to beckon my answer.

I shrugged. “I still have his workouts to follow until after the race tomorrow. So, things feel the same.” That wasn’t entirely true. The pinch in my knee was growing harder and harder to ignore. Much less like straw being added to the camel’s back and more like iron beams, but I told Trevor I would give Ironman a real chance, and giving a voice to the concern felt like throwing in the towel already. So, the plan was to be positive. Fake it until I made it. I had a sprint—a shorter triathlon—the next day. I planned to show up and remind myself that I was a competitor.

Billie nodded, but even a short conversation about athletics made her smile look like a grimace. That is, until her eyes fell on a paperback. Her grin turned gremlin-like as she tossed the book to me. “Bet this is a good one to add to your porn collection.” I glanced at the half-naked models on the romance cover before putting it facedown on the table. An elderly woman stopped her perusal of the teacup selection to look at us, and my cheeks flamed.

“Not porn,” I corrected, louder than necessary. “Books. Literature.”

“Sure.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Cliterature.”

I wished the game board section on my left had a Jumanji board. Maybe I could get sucked in like Robin Williams’ character. Getting chased by wild animals had to be better than this humiliating conversation with Billie.

“I can’t bring you anywhere,” I said, straightening the stack of Nora Roberts books.

“Come on, lighten up.”

“I’m light,” I said through my teeth. “I just don’t want strangers thinking I have an unhealthy porn obsession when, in reality, I just like to read books that are a little bit spicy.”

Billie laughed. “Everyone has an unhealthy porn obsession. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Trying to put distance between Billie and her porn talk, I rounded the table and a collection of flower-printed couches, but I nearly tripped over something wedged between two pieces of furniture. My pulse picked up as I realized it was a bicycle tire. I grabbed the seat and pulled it from hiding, revealing the exact treasure I’d come to the estate for .

The paint on the bicycle was chipped and patchy. The seat was torn. Rust dusted across the white rims. But it was all cosmetic. This baby looked like it was from the sixties, perhaps even the fifties. I ran my fingers reverently over the metallic blue frame. The evening rolled out in front of me: I’d finish my sizzling audiobook while I disassembled the bike, lay out the pieces on my toweled workspace, and clean each part. I’d have to replace some parts completely. It would need new paint, but I could see the end result already. She’d be beautiful. “I’m here to rescue you,” I told the Schwinn.

“Who is embarrassing who now?” Billie mumbled, but she didn’t give me much shit other than that. I think she could sense the lifting of my spirit, even if just by a bit.