Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [77]
I knew better than to even try to single out my dad among the scores of riders. In their racing gear and helmets, it was nearly impossible to tell them apart as they whizzed by. His club always sets up a small recovery area somewhere near the finish line, so I searched through the chemical Ben-Gay haze, following a trail of hollowed-out orange halves, protein bar wrappers, and conical paper cups stomped flat into triangles. The racers spoke in the exuberant yet exhausted tones of those who are out the door by four A.M., drive one hundred miles to cycle fifty miles, then return home by noon and complain to their wives that they’re too wiped to mow the lawn.
“Oh man, I almost bonked on the twelfth lap….”
“I hammered it on the tenth….”
“Fierce field today….”
The whole scene was making me feel oddly nostalgic for high school cross-country practice, though I would never say this to Dad, since he considers my quitting the varsity XC team one of the greatest tragedies of his life.
I finally spotted the JSACA banner, and under it, my dad. I can’t help it: I get embarrassed whenever I see him in his acid-green spandex unitard. Yes, even when all the riders are wearing similar racing gear. He’s in great shape for his age, but I don’t need to see his fiftysomething physique in such scrotummy detail. Ack.
My father was stooped at the waist, resting his hands on his quads as he spoke to another middle-aged rider who would surely mortify his own daughter with his own nut-hugging ensemble if she were there to see it. I couldn’t tell from his posture if he’d had a good day or not. He always seemed defeated lately.
“You looked good out there, Dad!”
“I felt like shit,” he said. “I really did.”
“You still placed well in a competitive field,” said his friend, slapping him on the back.
My dad grumbled and rubbed the top of his head, which was almost as smooth and shiny without the helmet as with it. He didn’t even bother introducing me to his middle-aged friend, which I appreciated. “You want a bagel?” he asked me, gesturing to a huge bag sitting on the back of an open SUV. “You’re too skinny. You need to eat more. It’s free, so it should fit your budget.”
He feels bad about the sad state of my finances, but not too bad, because he thinks I’m an idiot for not joining Wally D’s/Papa D’s Retailtainment Corp.’s lucrative quest for global gluttonous dominion. And while he occasionally used to throw me a few bones, that’s not so much of an option now that he’s retired and on a fixed income.
I helped myself to a cinnamon raisin bagel.
“Take another, for later,” he said, thrusting an everything bagel into my hand. He tore at a sesame and stuffed a chunk of it into his mouth. “C’mon,” he mumbled through the dough, which was going staler and tougher by the second. “Let’s take a breather.”
This was as close as my dad would come to actually asking me to talk. I followed him to a slightly less chaotic clearing. Along the way, various spandex-clad riders congratulated him on his performance.
“Way to bring it in, Dar!”
“Top five this week!”
And my dad either grumbled a thank-you or said nothing at all. When we were far enough away from everyone else, we plopped ourselves down in the prickly brownish grass.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “It’s just my damn knee acting up.” He slapped it as if it were a bad dog that had dumped on a brand-new Oriental rug.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Jessie, here’s some advice: Don’t get old.”
“Ah, but the alternative is worse, right?”
My dad slapped his knee again. “Ask me another day.” Then he promptly changed the subject. And the new subject, appropriately enough, was you. “So Marcus is off to Princeton next week. That’s a great area around there.”
I knew what he was getting at. I picked a raisin out of my bagel as if it were an annoying hanging scab on my elbow. “I don’t know if we’ll get a chance to