“We can take the bikes,” Waylay piped up.
“Bikes?” I repeated.
“Yeah. Liza J dropped them off. Said we have to come to dinner tonight too.”
“You met our landlord?” I squeaked. “Who else stopped by? The mayor? Exactly how long have I been asleep?”
Her eyes went wide and serious. “Aunt Naomi, you’ve been asleep for two whole days.”
“What?”
She smirked. “Just messin’ with you. You were out for an hour.”
“Hilarious. Just for that, I’m buying brussels sprouts and carrots.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”
“Serves you right, smarty pants. Now, make me a sandwich while I tackle this inventory.”
“Fine. But only if you think about brushing your hair and washing your face before we go out in public. I don’t want to be seen with Aunt Zombie.”
SIX
ASPARAGUS AND A SHOWDOWN
Naomi
At this minute, I was supposed to be jet-lagged and wandering the streets of Paris on my honeymoon. Instead I was clinging to the handlebars of an ancient ten-speed bike, trying not to tip over.
It had been years since my ass had met a bike seat. Every bump and rut on the gravel road jarred both my teeth and my lady parts. The one and only time I’d talked Warner into trying one of those tandem bikes at the beach, we’d ended up head first in a shrub outside the kite store.
Warner had not been pleased.
There were a lot of things that hadn’t pleased Warner Dennison III. Things I should have paid more attention to.
The thicket of woods passed in a buzzing blur as we rode through swirls of gnats and the thick southern humidity. Beads of sweat trickled down my spine.
“Are you comin’ or what?” Waylay called from what seemed like a mile ahead. She was riding a rusty boy’s bike with her arms dangling at her sides.
“What’s your middle name?” I yelled back.
“Regina.”
“Waylay Regina Witt, you put both hands on your handlebars this instant!”
“Oh, come on. You’re not one of those fun hatin’ aunts, are you?”
I pedaled harder until I caught up. “I am lots of fun,” I huffed, partially because I was offended but mostly because I was out of breath.
Sure, maybe I wasn’t a ride-with-no-
hands or a sneak-out-of-a-sleepover-to-go-kiss-boys fun, or a call-in-sick-to-go-to-a-concert fun kind of gal, but I didn’t hate fun. There was usually just too much that needed doing before I could get to the fun.
“Town’s this way,” Waylay said, gesturing to the left with a flick of her chin. It was such a Tina gesture that it took away what remaining breath I had.
We abandoned gravel for smooth asphalt, and within minutes, I spotted the outskirts of Knockemout up ahead.
For a second, I lost myself in the historic familiarity of a bike ride. The sun on my face and arms, the warm air as it brushed over my skin, the call and response of a billion insects in the throes of summer. I’d been an eleven-year-old on a bike once. Heading out for adventure into the morning swelter and not returning home until I got hungry or the fireflies came out.