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 damned 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.
“You can go on ahead. I don’t mind riding alone.”
He looks at me. “I won’t leave you.”
He’s promising to remain by my side for the ride, not for eternity, but my heart still does one of those queer flips.
“Merci beaucoup, Jean-Luc.”
“Luc.”
“What?”
“My friends call me Luc.”
“Are we friends?”
He dips his chin and looks at me over the top of his sunglasses for several seconds before smiling.
“I think we will be.”