Breed Me On The Bike

TELL ME SHE'S LYING

CORA

I turn around before Miles can say my name again.

My shoes are still by the door, so I shove my feet into them without sitting down. One heel folds under my foot, and I fix it with my fingers before grabbing my keys. I don’t look at the Target bags, the beer on the bench, or the Pringles can underneath it. I take nothing else because if I stop to think about what I’m doing, I might not be able to leave.

“Cora,” Miles calls behind me.

I keep walking.

I open the front door and step outside. The porch light is still on, and the warmer air hits my face as I head toward my car. Miles comes as far as the doorway, still calling after me, but I don’t turn around.

I get inside, lock the doors, and start the engine.

My hands are unsteady as I back out of the driveway, and I take the corner too quickly. The bottom of the bumper scrapes against the pavement the same way it always does, but I barely register the sound.

I pull onto the street and drive for a few seconds before the thought comes back.

It is a lie.

It has to be a lie.

“It's a lie,” I say aloud.

The words sound strange coming from me, almost too calm for what just happened.

I need them to be true.

I stop at the end of the street, and for a moment I have no idea where to go. Then I turn toward the shop because Dad works until seven on Thursdays.

Dad will know.

That thought settles something inside me, even if only for a moment.

Dad will hear what Vivian said, look at me, and tell me she is insane. He will tell me there is no debt, no deal, no Iron Dominion coming for me. He will tell me my life is still exactly what I thought it was when I walked into that house with a bag of Miles’s favorite snacks.

Because Dad loves me.

That is the one thing I refuse to question.

He kept me after Mom died. He packed my lunches wrong for two years before finally learning how I liked them. He showed up to every cheap school event I had, even when the shop was struggling. He cried in the hallway outside the dressing room when I tried on my wedding dress.

My father doesn't sell his daughter.

He doesn't make a deal like that.

He couldn't.

Traffic on the way north is thick and slow. I sit through two lights on the same red, staring at the changing numbers while my mind keeps dragging me back to the bedroom.

Avery in my robe.

Vivian in my bed.

Miles standing there while everything I thought I knew about him fell apart.

I tighten my grip on the wheel.

Then I remember the part I don’t want to remember.

Miles never denied the Iron Dominion.

He didn't even look surprised when Vivian said it.

I push the thought away and reach for my phone.

Dad.

I call him.

It rings twice before his voicemail picks up with the shop recording and his voice sounding too loud, like he was holding the phone too close when he made it. I hang up and call again.

Nothing.

I leave the phone on the passenger seat beside the little white Target receipt.

Maybe he’s with a customer.

Maybe he can't hear it.

There are a dozen normal reasons he might not be answering, and I grab onto every one of them because I need something normal to hold on to.

I glance down at my blouse and catch the faint smell of Miles’s cologne.

My stomach twists.

I crack the window and let the air rush through the car.

I don't want to think about him.

I don't want to think about Vivian.

And I definitely don't want to think about my father owing anyone enough money to make me part of a deal.

So I give myself another explanation.

Vivian got caught.

That's what happened.

She was angry, embarrassed, and desperate to hurt me, so she chose the one thing she knew would terrify me. Iron Dominion. My father's debt. Me being handed over like property.

It sounds insane.

It has to be insane.

Miles stood there because he was too much of a coward to defend me. Maybe he was ashamed. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe Vivian had simply shocked him into silence.

There are explanations.

There have to be.

I pass the same mural I saw on the way home earlier, then the bus stop, then the coffee place where Avery and I sat last weekend talking about my wedding. The sight of it catches me off guard.

I slow down without meaning to.

Last weekend, I was sitting there with my sister, laughing about flowers and arguing over which cake flavor we should serve.

I thought my biggest problem was whether the bakery could fit us in before the wedding.

Now I'm driving across town wondering whether my father sold me.

The car behind me honks, pulling me back to the road.

I keep going.

By the time I see the shop ahead, I have stopped trying to decide whether Vivian is telling the truth. I only know that I need Dad to tell me she isn't.

The shop sits on a corner lot with the same faded sign it has had since I was in middle school.

LANG REPAIR.

Two bays. One is open, and an old song plays from the radio inside. Dad's truck is parked where it always is, near the side entrance.

Seeing it gives me the first real sense of relief I've felt since leaving the house.

I pull in beside it and turn off the engine.

For a few seconds, I just sit there.

This is Dad.

This is home.

Whatever Vivian said, he can fix it.

I get out of the car and walk inside.

The bell above the door still sticks, so I have to shove it open. The familiar jingle sounds through the shop, and for one stupid second, everything feels normal again.

Dad is at the back counter with a work order in one hand and a pen in the other.

He looks up.

“There she is,” he says with a smile. “I just missed your call. I had a customer—”

Then he sees my face.

The smile disappears.

He puts the work order down.

“Cora. What happened?”

I walk toward the counter, but when I reach it, I don't know what to say. I place my keys on the chipped laminate because my fingers need somewhere to go.

Dad watches me carefully.

I look at him and see the man who packed my lunches, sat through my school events, held me together after Mom died, and cried when I walked out of that dressing room in my wedding dress.

I want to trust him.

I need to trust him.

But there is a small, terrible part of me that is suddenly afraid of the answer he might give me.

My throat tightens.

“I need you to tell me Vivian is lying.”