CJ

I pedal harder. Faster. I’m climbing Mount Freaking Everest now. I’m cresting the icefall, then the Lhotse wall, and now heading to the summit. My heart hammers so hard it’s like a drumbeat in my ears. My blood pumps rapid-river fast.

But not fast enough.

I push the tension higher on the bike. Set the incline steeper. Ride harder. My quads scream at me, and my lungs feel like they want to rip right out of my chest.

But “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen blasts in my ears, nearly intense enough to drown out my thoughts.

Nearly.

But not enough.

Because no matter how hard I work out at the gym this afternoon, no matter how loudly I blast my favorite Retro Cycling Goodness playlist, I can’t help but think I am a colossal idiot.

Who the heck asks a friend to take off their training wheels?

Correction. Who the heck asks a friend who isn’t even attracted to her to pop her cherry? And then holds his company hostage?

I need to face-palm right now, but if I do I’ll slide off the bike and crumple to a pathetic death on the sweaty floor of my gym wearing my Good Grammar is Sexy T-shirt, and all things considered, that’s not how I want to go. The gym charges a fortune for towel rental so who knows how much they would charge for a full-body disposal.

As my heart slams against my rib cage, I imagine Graham poring over the newspaper on his tablet, quietly comparing the latest tragic world events to the tragedy of a woman reaching her mid-twenties without finding anyone willing to pluck her daisy. Graham out for a jog and running out of breath because he can’t stop cracking up over silly CJ, the weirdo spinster virgin. Graham in the middle of a meal and losing his appetite as he realizes he’ll have to find a gentle way to tell me that he has no interest in acquiring the deed to my property.

After all, it’s been hours, and he hasn't called. He hasn’t texted. He’s clearly going to give me a big fat no and tell me to hit the road.

I raise my chin, try to inhale deeply, exhale completely, and let go.

It’s cool. I’m chill. I’ll just ride till I collapse, then I’ll nap till the embarrassment washes away in, oh say, 2056.

My phone rattles on the control panel, startling me.

I slow my pace, nearly spinning off the bike when I see his name.

Graham . . .

My heart leaps into my throat.

This is it. The moment my brazen attitude slaps me in the face.

I study the text as if something, anything, in those three letters will tell me if that’s a let’s-get-it-on hey or a please-don’t-throw-your-vagina-at-me hey. But I come up empty, so I serve it back to him.

I’m hot. Sweaty. Panting.

But of course that would send the wrong message. And the message I need to send right now is one of repentance and contrition. I need to let Graham know I’m sorry I crossed a line.

I groan as I tug my buds out of my ears. Crazy. He’s confirmed that he thinks I’m crazy. I watch my sex ed plans go up in flames, fueled by the tinder of Graham’s and my forever damaged relationship. Biting my lip, I text—

My lips press together. Steel and sugar. That’s not necessarily a bad combo, is it?

I wince, my stomach cratering. Embarrassment washes over me. My shoulders sag. He can deny it all he wants, but he clearly thinks I’m storing up psycho for the winter.

But before I can type something sufficiently relaxed-sounding to hide my shame, my phone pings again.

Graham: Meet me at Patio West at nine p.m. tomorrow. Be ready for lesson one.

“Holy shit,” I murmur, hand coming to cover my mouth. “Holy, holy, holy shit!” My hands are shaking so badly with excitement that it takes three tries to tap out my reply—See you there—and hit send.

Resisting the urge to thrust my arms into the air in a V for victory, I start pedaling, but inside I’m not cycling. I’m soaring, flying so high I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face or keep giddy laughter from bubbling at my lips.

I’m finally going to lose it, the one thing I for sure don’t want to keep.

Goodbye, V card.