Something’s making me irritable. I feel it coursing through my veins. I tell myself I am upset over my fruitless e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter check, but deep down, I know that’s not the cause.
When the divorcee rests one of her manicured hands on Jean-Luc’s shoulder, I toss my napkin on my plate and stand. “I’m going to check my bike before the ride.”
Fanny narrows her eyes over the rim of her tiny espresso cup. Gabriel wipes his mouth with his hand and hops up to follow me.
“Yeah, me too.”
Mrs. Byron tells him to sit back down and finish his orange juice. His cheeks flush crimson. Poor kid. I wonder if his mother realizes she’s emasculating her little man.
I am ineffectually kicking the tires of my mobile torture device when Jean-Luc steps out of the hotel, slides his sunglasses onto his face, and stretches his arms over his head.
“You ready for the ride?”
I am the only other person in the courtyard, so he must be talking to me.
“Ready and ride should never be used in the same sentence.”
“What if I said, ‘I will never be ready to ride?’”
“Seriously? I might kiss you.”
Jean-Luc chuckles as he strolls over, slides his sunglasses back up on his head, and looks deep into my eyes. My heart flips again. If the heart flipping thing keeps up, I might need to get an EKG.
“Give up riding in exchange for a kiss from you? That seems like a simple decision.”
For once in my life, I want to respond with a witty flirtatious line like some classic Hollywood movie star, but this is not To Catch a Thief and I am no Grace Kelly. Instead, my cheeks heat. Some girls look beautiful when they blush, but not me. I am pale and freckled. When I blush, my skin turns as ruddy as an old alcoholic.
Gabriel bounds out of the hotel, saving me from complete humiliation.
Merci beaucoup, kid!
Jean-Luc’s gaze travels from my face to my sweatpants, and his smile slips a bit.
I look down at the worn baggy sweats with the faded crew emblem and my newfound bravado wavers. In the watery gray flannel light of a dreary morning, the sweats don’t look preppy-casual, they just look…sad. My commitment to be authentic is suddenly as shaky as a Vegas wedding.
“You’re not planning on wearing those, are you?”
My cheeks are burning as bright and hot as any Vegas marquee. “I washed the skort in the sink last night. It was still wet this morning…and it must have shrunk because it looks like a Barbie bikini. Not that I am fat or anything… It’s just the water was really hot…” Oh my God! I am a verbal train speeding out of control toward the edge of a cliff. Brakes, Vivia! Brakes! I try to imitate one of Grace Kelly’s cool smiles. “Anyway, these sweats are more comfortable.”
Jean-Luc is just staring at me with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. He could be humored or perplexed or disgusted. I can’t tell.
“You’re gonna chafe,” Gabriel pipes in. “The fabric, it’s too loose.”
I look at the kid. I am physically present for the conversation, but mentally I am back at Jean-Luc’s comment about wanting to kiss me. At least, I think he said he wanted to kiss me. He said it would be an easy decision. Hold up. He loves cycling, so maybe he meant he would choose a ride over kissing me.
Gabriel waves his hands in front of my face and whistles. “Hello? Earth to Vivia? Are you there?”
“Sorry, I zoned.”
“If you wear those sweats, the excess fabric will rub against your”—he looks away—“skin. You’ll get wicked sores.”
Jean-Luc’s lips curve in a slight smile, and my pulse races.
“Yeah, you’ll get wicked sores on your…skin.”
I take several measured breaths to slow the erratic beat of my heart. “They’re fine.”
“They’re not, Vivia,” Gabriel insists, oblivious to the electrical current of sexual tension crackling in the air between me and Jean-Luc. “Did you know inner thigh chafing is one of the top five cycling injuries? Bike shorts are designed to fit your body in the—”
“Gabriel,” Jean-Luc interrupts the kid’s trivia dump, “I think Vivia has made up her mind.”
The other riders have finished eating and are now assembled around us like a revolutionary mob at the scaffold, murmuring condemnation of my attire. Even sweet-natured Mrs. Rosenthal is clucking her tongue.
“They’re too long!” Gabriel is pointing at my sweatpants. “They might get caught up in the pedals.”
“Well, I don’t have anything else to wear.”
My cool mask melts. What would Grace Kelly do? She would probably wear the sweats with a dazzling diamond choker and finish the day’s ride by sipping a champagne cocktail in a swanky hotel bar.
I look at Fanny, silently pleading with my best friend to intervene, but before she can even open her mouth, Jean-Luc has climbed the steps of the scaffold and rescued me from the bloodthirsty mob.
He pulls a camping knife from the pouch fastened to his bike seat, flicks it open, and kneels before me, his strong hands moving confidently around my thighs. The blade slices through the cotton material transforming Nathan’s sweats into long shorts.
“Voila.”
He closes the knife, slips it back into the pouch, pulls out a laminated map, and addresses the group. For him, the matter has been settled. I, however, am churning in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. I am furious with Jean-Luc for destroying my sweats, devastated that he severed one more link to Nathan, and…a little turned on at having had the chauvinistic Frenchman’s hands on my thighs.
A blast of cold, damp air blows over my exposed legs. Damn Jean-Luc and his presumptuous, arrogant—
Jean-Luc points at a bold, squiggly red line on the map, tapping it with his finger. Sensing danger, I pay attention.
“Please notice we cross the D2 about a kilometer into our ride. This is a congested thoroughfare. I realize most of you are experienced cyclists.”
Is it my imagination or is Jean-Luc avoiding eye contact?
“Those of you with less experience”—he looks at me—sweet!—“Please exercise extreme caution and consult your map frequently. This route has many turns and it is easy to become lost. If you have any concerns, I am happy to ride with you. Anyone?”
Jean-Luc’s gaze moves to each person, but lingers on me. He expects me to ask for help, but I’ll be damned if I show him anymore of my weaknesses.
“Bon!” He closes the map and slides it back into his pouch. “The first stop is Roussillon, a fortified city about seven kilometers from here. Today is market day. Please take time to appreciate the local products. The van will be parked in the lot behind the bank, should you need to deposit your purchases. Give it to the driver. Rendez-vous en Roussillon!”
As the others click in, I consult my map, following the long squiggly red line with my finger from Gordes to Manosque.
“Hold up! This can’t be right.”
Gabriel and Fanny are still standing beside me.
“What can’t be right?”
“It says we are riding forty-one miles today.”
They nod their heads like eager dashboard dogs. I want to yank their bobbling heads off. How can they both look so happy?
“Forty. One. Freaking. Miles.”
“Yes.” Gabriel smiles.
“With breaks,” Fanny interjects.
“Are you crazy? I barely made it fifteen miles. How am I going to ride forty-one miles?”
“You can do it, Vivian.”
I can’t breathe. Anxiety is squeezing the air from my lungs. I stick my finger in the neck of my tee, pulling on the fabric.
Gabriel’s parents call to him.
“I’ll see you, Vivia.” He slaps his helmet on his head. “Don’t worry, this is a social ride. You may fall behind, but you will never be dropped.”
“Dropped?” I have an image of the others grabbing my arms and legs and tossing
me off the side of a cliff. “What does that mean?”
Gabriel only laughs as he hurries to join his family.
I turn to Fanny. “What does he mean ‘dropped?’”
“It’s just a road racing term.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It’s when a cyclist has fallen so far behind his group that he has no chance of catching up.”
“What happens then?”
Fanny shrugs her shoulders. “He is abandoned.”
“Abandoned? Whatthefuck?”
Great. We are only two days into this adventure, and already my companions want to abandon me. Then again, being lost in Provence is better than having your riding companions chuck you off the side of a cliff.
Chapter 13
Wanting
We haven’t gotten lost. In fact, Fanny and I crossed the busy D2 without loss of life or limb. We’re actually keeping pace with the group. Well, maybe not keeping pace. We are maintaining a pace that allows us to keep our fellow riders in our sights. Granted, they are tiny silhouettes on the horizon, but whatever.
About six miles out of Roussillon, Gabriel drops back. He entertains us with nonstop trivia. Fanny hates idle chit-chat, especially when she is focusing on her fitness. It’s one of the reasons we don’t go to the gym together that often.
Once, we hit the treadmills together. I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to catch up on current events, our latest reads, Hollywood gossip.
“Vivian, you’re distracting me.” Fanny huffed. “I can’t focus when you talk.”
“Focus? What do you need to focus on? It’s a treadmill. Step. Step. Step. Kinda like breathing. Not a lot of thought required.”
I don’t mind. I like the kid and his trivia. It’s keeping my mind focused on something other than my aching spine.
“Did you know—”
“Do you mind if I ride ahead?” Fanny says, interrupting Gabriel mid-sentence.
“No, go ahead.”
“You sure?”
“Go on.”
Fanny increases her speed, leaving the kid and me to bring up the rear. Gabriel resumes his chattering.
“Hey, did you know the last beret factory in France closed in 2012? The traditional French hats are now made in Asia.”
“Does that mean they have a high lead content and cause the wearer to go bald?”
“Nice,” he says, laughing. “Well played, my friend.”
“I got skills.”
Gabriel laughs. “Speaking of China and going bald, did you know a Chinese businessman offered to pay a million dollars for a lock of Axl Rose’s hair?”
“Are you kidding me? I am a redheaded encyclopedia of useless Rock trivia.”
Gabriel slants a look at me.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“An encyclopedia? Really?”
“Bring it, kid!”
“Did you know Axl Rose’s real name is William—”
“William Bruce Rose, Jr. born in Lafayette, Indiana.” I snort. “Puhleez. Is that all you got?”
Gabriel falls silent, so I press my advantage and fire off a final round in this sadly mismatched Rock Trivia duel.
“You know the song ‘Kickstart My Heart?’”
“By Mötley Crüe?”
“Did you know Nikki Sixx wrote ‘Kickstart My Heart’ about his 1987 drug overdose? Nikki Sixx overdosed while Mötley Crüe was on tour with Guns-n-Roses. He was with Slash—” I look over at Gabriel but he just stares at me blankly. “Slash. Crazy talented guitarist for Guns-n-Roses—”
“I know who Slash is, Vivia.”
“Just checking.” I don’t think the kid knew who Slash was, but I let it go. “Anyway, Nikki Sixx was partying with Slash in his hotel room. He overdosed and Slash’s girlfriend called the EMTs. Nikki was clinically dead by the time help finally arrived. The EMTs gave him cardiopulmonary resuscitation, his heart started back up, and he lived to write the Crüe’s Grammy Award-nominated song.”
Gabriel grins. “I see what you did there—linking Mötley Crüe to Guns-n-Roses.”
“That’s right.” I nod. “Six Degrees of Separation, the theory that every musician is six steps or fewer from away from Axl Rose, the self-declared center of the Rock Universe.”
“Can you connect Bret Michaels to Axl Rose?”
“Can I connect Bret Michaels to Axl Rose?” I snort. “Bret Michaels dated Pamela Anderson, who dated Slash, who dated Monique Lewis, who dated—”
“Axl Rose.”
“That’s right. Center of the Rock Universe, my friend.”
Gabriel shoots names at me—Beyonce, Bieber, Prince, P!nk, Bono—and I make the musical or romantic connections linking each of them back to Axl Rose. An old Citroën zooms by us, tooting its horn. The traffic increases as we approach a village. We ride in silence for half an hour, passing through a series of sleepy villages. Finally, we make a turn onto an undulating country road winding like a ribbon through ancient vineyards. A downy shroud of early morning fog hangs over the vines. The scene is so beautiful I almost forget we still have twenty miles left to ride. Almost.
“Could we go back to non-Rock trivia now?”
I laugh. “Sure. Whatcha got?"
“Did you know China produces more grapes than France?”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is.” Gabriel increases his speed as we begin to attack a series of small hills. “China produces more grapes, but France produces more wine.”
I adjust my gears and increase my speed to keep up with Gabriel. We take several hills before I hit the kid with a little trivia.
“Did you know Napa Valley has approximately four hundred wineries?”
“Huh. I didn’t know that,” Gabriel says. “You like wine?”
“It’s okay. My fiancé—” Pain shoots through my chest. I am not sure if it is from the ride or my sudden recollection of Nathan. “My ex-fiancé loves wine. His family owns a winery in Napa Valley.”
“Wow. That’s weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Gabriel adjusts his gears so he can match my slower pace. “You just don’t seem like the winery-owning type, that’s all.”
“What does that mean?” I take my eyes off the road for a minute and look over at the kid.
He notices me staring and shrugs. “I don’t know. You just seem…cool. My parents make a lot of money and they’re uptight. They’re always pushing us to compete and worrying about appearances.”
“I worry about appearances.”
“Believe me, you’re not the same.”
We ride on in silence. Gabriel’s comment has uncorked my bottled up uncertainties. Believe me, you’re not the same. What made me ever think I was sophisticated enough for Nathan? How had I fooled myself into believing that middle-class Vivia Grant was smart enough for Nathan’s posh set? A teenager sized me up and found me wanting. No wonder Nathan dumped me.
I drop my gaze to my hands wrapped around the handlebars. My flawless engagement ring is winking in the watery light, taunting me in my imperfections. For the first time since Nathan slipped the sparkler on my finger, I want to take it off and forget it exists. I remember the photo Fanny took this morning of me reclining on the balcony, my hand pressed to my forehead in a dramatic lady-of-leisure pose. Ironic, really. I was wearing sweats and a tee. Not exactly lady-of-leisure attire.
A fat drop of rain plops on my cheek, sliding down my face like a tear. Great. Rain, too? Come on!
I was stupid to think someone as important as Nathan would want to spend the rest of his life with me. Stupid to think I could build a career in Journalism. Stupid to think I could ride a bike from Provence to Tuscany.
Wait a minute. I am riding a bike from Provence to Tuscany. I am doing it. If I can finish this tour without quitting, doesn’t that prove I am good enough for Nathan? That’s it! I will finish this damned ride and every dam
ned ride that follows. I have to.
I am shifting gears when a cable snaps. The severed cable flies up, hitting my helmet with a frightening thwack. Gabriel looks over, eyes wide.
“Holy shit! You just broke your gear cable.”
I stop pedaling, slowing my bike to a stop. Gabriel stops too.
“What do I do?”
“Can you change a gear cable?”
“No. Can you?”
Gabriel shakes his head. I reach forward, grab the dangling cable, and hold it up. What in the hell am I going to do now?
“I’ll ride ahead and let Jean-Luc know what happened.”
“You will?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind staying here by yourself.”
“No problem.”
Gabriel rides off. His silhouette disappears over one hill and then reappears atop another. When he disappears behind a second hill, I prop my bike against a wooden pole supporting vines laden with fat purplish grapes. I pop a squat on the hard-packed dirt and inhale the vineyard’s ancient, earthy scent.
I am listening to Mötley Crüe wail out “Same Old Situation” and popping juicy grapes into my mouth when Jean-Luc rides up.
He gets off his bike, removes his helmet and sunglasses, and walks over to my bike. Lifting the frayed cable, he says, “There are easier ways to get out of the ride.”
I am about to sputter a protest when he looks over his shoulder and winks, a sexy little wink that literally takes my breath away. It sounds totally cliché, but the breath really left my body in a quick rush.
He takes my bike apart with the speed and efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew. I only have time to pilfer a few more grapes before he’s replaced the broken cable. He props my bike up against the pole again and then holds his hand out to me.
“Ready to ride, or would you prefer to wait for the van?”
I hop up.
“What? No way. I am riding.”
“On se bouge.” He smiles and gestures for me to get on my bike. “Let’s go.”
We are several minutes into riding when I steal a peek at Jean-Luc. His profile is stunning. The beginning of a scruffy beard shadows his chiseled jaw. His long eyelashes cast arcing shadows on his cheeks. He shifts gears and slows his pace.
Faking It Page 9
