#thea.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Look out for the girl on the bike! Excuse me! I’m so sorry!” The air whipped through Thea’s hair, sending tendrils of black hair in every direction. She couldn’t see from in between the strands but prayed fast and wildly to any god that was both real and would listen to her. There was a fact about cheap bikes that she had forgotten: they were cheap. Prone to failure, her temp bike, meant for use while her beloved (accidentally stolen) green one was being repaired (after a similar incident to the one plaguing her today), had its brakes snap off. Literally, actually, and with a loud crunch, snap off. She was rushing downhill at a pace too fast to be safe. She had tried stopping with her feet only for her shoe to slip off and tumble up the street. Then she’d tried with the other one and gotten the same luck. So, she tried with her heel and instantly recoiled from the ripping pain that seared under her skin. Eventually, mathematically, and with sound reasoning to believe it, she would stop. She hoped she would.

“Look out! Shoeless girl on bike! Get off the sidewalk!” Thea yelled the best she could, but her voice was muffled by the wind and her hair flying into her mouth. Thea was what most people called a bore and what the rest called a nerd. She was the only adult who rode a bike around town in existence who actually wore a helmet (citations might have been needed for this fact but Thea certainly felt like she was the only one preoccupied with safety sometimes). This was because her dad told her to do it once upon a time and she had never forgotten. The most rebellious thing she’d done was forgo the knee and elbow pads. 

No one would ever laugh at her again for wearing a helmet. As Thea flew through the air, like a frisbee at a dog show waiting to be caught, her helmet saved her from getting some very unflattering grass in her hair. A victory, in her books. What wasn’t a victory was the scene: her bike crunched up, tire spinning in the air, and the thing she had crashed into. The person, with their own bike. “Oh my god,” Thea looked up. She’d bit her lip on the way down and scraped up her palms and knees; she was bleeding and it stung but wasn’t anything she couldn’t recover from. “Are you okay?” She asked the other party, wobbling up to her feet. 

—

A certain freedom came with having a bike. It was faster than walking, didn’t require Sully being available to carpool with them and was not as irregular as the bus. Wynne liked biking, even if it was more stressful in Wicked’s Rest than it had been back home. There, days that they’d gone biking had been few and far between, but they had happened. Their parents and brother and Wynne would take some food and cycle around the lake, have a nice meal and return home. It was one of the few ways they’d get away from the estate’s grounds and always something to look forward to.

But here, in town, there were cars and mopeds and all other kinds of things to be mindful of. Like other cyclists rushing down hills, in their direction. This was a bad combination: Wynne was lost in thought, head stuck on an annoying song that played constantly at work and mulling over what their brother might be up to and then there was the other, an object that would not be stopped. The crash brought them back to earth, in literal and physical sense: their body slammed against the concrete sideways, their bike stuck between their legs. They felt the bruise form on their knee already.

Their head spun for a moment the same way the wheel did, neither bike nor person moving forward. Wynne felt dazed, reached a hand up to their head (they got a vague look at their scraped palm and saw more blood when their fingers pulled back). “Ouch.” They pressed up, one leg still awkwardly stuck to the ground. “I – yeah.” They were in pain, and they weren’t sure what had happened, but they weren’t sure what other answer to give to that question. “Can you help with my bike? They wanted to sit, but the thing was stuck on and between them. “What happened?”

—

“Yes, yes, oh my god…” Thea scrambled to her victim’s sides The bike was stuck between their legs and it would take some twisting and lifting to pull it free. Thea hoped that with her help keeping the bike from crushing their legs, they could escape without further damage. She offered her hand out. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked again, she didn’t want to seem doubtful but she was staring at a bleeding palm to mirror her own scratched one. “Um, well, my brakes stopped working and then I couldn’t stop and I went right into you and…” Thea snapped her helmet off her head and threw it aside, surveying the other person and their bikes. Both of them were in need of repair. Thea really couldn’t afford her own bike repairs let alone someone else’s. “This is my fault,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She swiped at the dibble of blood escaping the small cut under her lip. 

“I will pay for everything,” Thea offered quickly, before anything else could be said about it. “I mean it! I totally messed up here and I probably damaged your bike and also you, physically, and maybe even emotionally, but uh, okay….if you need therapy after this I don’t think I can afford that so maybe we can do yoga in the park? That’s free.” 

—

With the other’s hand now firmly in their grip, Wynne managed to push themself over the ground, from under the bike. Getting in a sitting position, they stared down at their jeans, at the hole on their knee and the blood slowly pooling underneath the ruined fabric. They weren’t scared of blood, weren’t scared of bleeding this little, but they still felt somewhat like crying. As if the smack on the road had scrambled their nervous system. “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” they said, pulling their leg closer to them. They had seen and felt worse than this. Wynne wasn’t going to sob over falling off their bike. Right? “It’s, no, I should have been paying more attention, you can’t help it if the brakes break. I was off in my own world, so —” They stopped staring at their bike and looked at the other. “It’s on both of us, right?” Wynne had never been very good at blaming others.

The other’s offer to pay for everything made Wynne realize that this damage had to be fixed and that included money. They hated this economy! Why couldn’t such favors be done in return for something else? They stared at their bike again, wondering if they were handy enough to fix it themself. (They were not.) “No, no, I couldn’t ask that of you,” they said, head shaking, watching the other’s bruised lip. This wasn’t some rude person who had hurt them on purpose “That’s not fair, okay? But maybe we can find a bike shop together, and maybe we should try and find some band-aids, right?” Since life had slowed down and Wynne didn’t feel like were constantly on the run, they didn’t carry everything a person could possibly need any more. “Are you okay? Your lip …”

—

Thea wasn’t sure of a lot of things: she didn’t entirely understand taxes and more than once she purchased yogurt thinking she could become the sort of person that ate yogurt and then the yogurt would go bad and she’d have to throw it out. She was sure, however, that most things were her fault: climate change (on account of all the wasted yogurt), world hunger (because of the yogurt again), and this bike accident (not because of the yogurt). Maybe this person was trying to appease her, trying to soothe the anxiety that often radiated from her like the electric buzz of an old light bulb. Maybe they were a kind person who didn’t deserve to be rammed into with a bike. Regardless, nothing worked to soothe Thea’s guilt for existing. Sorry, she wanted to say, if only she had decided to stay indoors and never go out anywhere and never do anything. Thea smiled softly, “that doesn’t change the fact that I’m the one at fault. If I hit a um…like a lamb or something…that’d totally be my fault. Not that you’re a lamb! I don’t mean that.” Thea shook her head violently, trying to reject her own awkward wording. “You’re more like a, uh, like a baby. Like what if I hit a baby? I mean, you’re not a baby—you look like a young adult—but what if I hit a baby?” The thought made her shudder. 

“Not asking,” Thea squeaked. “I’m giving! If you don’t take it I’m going to be haunted by this moment and it’s going to seriously decrease my quality of sleep.” Which already wasn’t very good and, in fact, this moment would still linger in her mind anyway. “Okay,” she mumbled, she reached down and picked up the stranger’s bike; hers was probably a lost cause. “Are you good to walk? I think there’s a shop just down the…” Thea paused, raising a hand up to her lips. Red blood painted the edges of her fingers as her eyes trailed down. “And your knee,” she winced. “Are you okay?” 

—

As the other stumbled over her words, Wynne blinked at them until looking back at their knee. The comparison to a lamb hit home and though there was no way the stranger could possibly know what kind of history they had with lambs and being compared to one, it still didn’t help their already frazzled state of mind. Again, they didn’t blame her: they just felt a little off because of it. “But you didn’t hit a lamb or a baby, you just hit me, and I’m okay. It’s a scratch, it will heal!” It would heal. This was nothing, this blood was nothing. They fought against their trembling lip. “And the bike is just a bike, right?” Material possessions were not the most important thing to Wynne, to whom life – and their continued presence in it – mattered most of all.

The other made it hard to reject her offer, if only because Wynne didn’t want to be responsible for ruining some else’s quality of sleep. That would seriously come to haunt them in return. “Oh. Oh, well, maybe we can see when we get to the shop, okay? It was an accident. And I wasn’t paying attention.” They needed to start paying attention. They watched the other pick up their bike and managed to push themself off the ground, despite really wanting to curl down there and just take a nap. Wynne watched the blood on the other’s face, and then the blood trickling down their leg now that gravity was more in play again. “Yes. A scratch. We will get a bandaid. And something cold for your lip. Okay? Should we get … your bike out of the road?” Just so not more people would get into accidents.

—

“But what if,” Thea argued, as if there was any real logic to it. It was always the what if’s that haunted her. What if she had hit a baby? What if she hit a baby and then the mother came out of the bushes and honked at her like the one time she got too close to a gosling (not the actor; she wished)? “The point isn’t that it heals…” Thea frowned. “It still happened. You still got hurt; that still matters and I still…” she swallowed. This person was being graceful, giving her the space to let it go. If she pushed, like putting something back into a box that was too small for it, she’d rip the edges of politeness. Thea squeezed the handlebars of the stranger’s bike. “Sorry, yeah…” She forced a smile. “You’ll heal up like it’s nothing; it’ll be okay.” But it wouldn’t, it wasn’t. The body fought to survive but the mind didn’t heal like a wound. If the stranger ever flinched the next time a bike approached too quickly, Thea would know the truth of the matter: it wouldn’t heal. Irrevocably, she has changed someone’s life for the worst. It might just have been a new instinct they gained, but wouldn’t it have been better if nothing happened at all? If Thea was better? Smarter? Kinder? Thea’s grip tightened until her knuckles turned white and her palms ached. “The bike is just a bike, yeah.”

“Huh? My bike?” Thea’s attention snapped to her mangled temporary bike— the cursed thing, the ruiner of days, the scrapper of knees. “Right, yeah.” She seethed; the damn thing and her damned stupidity. Thea set down the stranger’s bike gently, dragging hers off the street. Stupid. Horrible. Useless. Her muscles tightened and her nostrils flared. A small growl escaped her lips as she gripped her bike and spun, throwing it as far as she could. She watched it sail through the air, jaw aching and fingers twitching. As soon as the bike disappeared behind a line of bushes, her body relaxed with only a mild ache in the places a transformation threatened under her skin. “Yep!” She turned to the stranger with a cherry expression. “Let’s go now!” She picked up their bike again. “I’m Thea, by the way.” She held out her hand. “Normally I don’t crash into people.” 

—

What if was a very valid question and concern, in every situation ever imaginable. Wynne couldn’t begin to think of it though, evading the what-ifs in their life as if they were marked-off areas, afraid of getting too close to the truth with their doom-thoughts. (What if leaving the commune had killed everyone? What if they were coming for them? What if?) “It didn’t happen, though. It was just me. And I will be fine. It is okay.” Worse things had happened than a split knee. Wynne wanted to live in a world where this was the worst thing that had happened to them in this past year. Where a scratched knee was worth having a mental breakdown over. But they had learned a thing or two about composure back at home, where every faltered step could be taken as a sign of doubt or failure. “Please don’t worry too much, okay? I will worry if you do, and then we will never stop worrying. And I would like to not worry for a day.” They tried to smile. 

And then the other picked up her bike, as if it weighed nothing at all. Wynne didn’t fight to keep their mouth from falling open a little. There was a growl, and then a show of strength that they hadn’t sought after the other. Fair enough. Sometimes people were just very strong. Right? Their mouth remained somewhat agape, though, as they heard the bike crush a few bush branches. “Oh wow, Thea.” They were in awe, not afraid or put off — but just very much impressed. “Are you sure —” She had seemed very certain, actually, when she’d thrown the bike through the air. “I’m Wynne. I also don’t tend to get crashed into.” They shook her hand and gave another smile. “Good to meet ya.”

—

Telling Thea not to worry was a lot like telling a dog not to stare at a passing bunny. Maybe it was possible after some training and a lot of treats, but for right now, Thea was going to worry. She laughed nervously. “Yeah! Okay! No worrying!” Much like a dog would dream that night, paws twitching, imagining a world where they chased that bunny down, Thea would sleep imagining the countless worlds where Wynne was more seriously injured and one world where there was a test she had forgotten to study for, just because that one often haunted her despite its irrelevance. 

“I feel really sore,” Thea confessed, rubbing her arms. She expected her muscles to ache but it was more like her bones did. Seeing Wynne’s awe instantly embarrassed her. “Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown it.” What if she hit someone? More worlds to dream about in the night. “It’s nice to meet you too!” She perked up, pushing Wynne’s bike down the sidewalk. “Do you ride around here often? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Um, but I do usually commute at weird hours. I’m not blessed with a Dolly Parton nine-to-five. Um, but I guess, like, in the song—um, and the movie—it was a shitty job anyway…” Thea laughed nervously again. In the disjointed year of travel and monthly carnage, she felt like she’d forgotten how conversations went. “Do you–uh–like Dolly Parton?”

—

Asking someone not to worry was an impossible request, Wynne knew that distantly, and still they had meant it fully. They didn’t want to cause worry in others, not the concern-type but not this kind, either. This sort of distress. As the other laughed nervously and exclaimed that she wouldn’t worry, they doubted if that was true, but they also weren’t sure what they could do. Wynne would go over this interaction themself, reevaluate their response and their own faults. Maybe that was human existence. “I’m sorry you feel sore. Maybe the shop has something for the pain too?”

They smiled at the returned sentiment, glad to have something to hold onto in this confusing interaction. A swap of names, a nice to meet you, nice to meet you too. Some customs didn’t die, even when bikes crashed into each other. “Oh, yes, when I go to or from my work. I don’t always bike, though, sometimes a friend gives me a ride. I …” They frown. “Don’t know what a Dolly Parton is, but I do work regular hours. Sometimes earlier, though, like from six-to-three? Or until late. I work at a Latte to Love!” Maybe that was a detail best omitted when meeting strangers, but Wynne didn’t think Thea was that bad. Maybe a bit frazzled, but so were they. “Sorry to hear your job is shitty. What do you do?”

—

Thea shook her head; she wasn’t sure if bike shops offered anything for pain but even if they did, her pain wasn’t the sort that could be solved with an Advil. “I’m alright.” She swallowed. “I’ll be alright.” If she said it enough times, it made it true. As evidenced by her daily morning mantra: I am normal and not stinky. Both things were totally true. “You don’t know who Dolly Parton is?” Thea froze, just a few steps from the fated bike shop. “You don’t…” She tried to make it make sense. Maybe she was being gatekeepy—never mind that Dolly Parton was a country legend, maybe Wynne also didn’t know Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Willie Nelson, etc. etc. Maybe country music just wasn't for them; it wasn’t for most people. Thea had a broad music taste, which was a kinder way of saying she had no standards. But even if you didn’t like country music, you knew Dolly Parton. Everyone knew Dolly Parton. “Jolene, Jolene, I’m beggin’ of you please don’t take my man.” She stared at them, signing off-key. “Please don’t take him just because you can.” 

Thea threw her hands up into the air, letting the bike fall before she frantically caught it again. “It’s Dolly!” she exclaimed. “Dolly! She’s got big boobs! Blonde hair? Everyone loves Dolly. I mean, maybe she’s secretly evil—I heard Jenna Ortega spits in peoples’ coffee…” Thea held up her hand. “Don’t ask; it’s a long story. I’m working on bringing the spit mafia down. It all starts with Casey. Anyway, don’t ask.” She sucked in a breath. “But Dolly? The Dolly Parton? Are you going to say you don’t know Led Zeppelin or Fleetwood Mac or Paramore?” Despite the venerated status of both Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood Mac, Thea would’ve been more offended if Wynne didn’t know Paramore, which was venerated in her heart. “Dolly Part—Oh sorry, I work as a janitor, hence the shitty, and I love a Latte to Love, great coffee.” She blinked. “Dolly Parton!” 

—

They blinked at the other as she went on and on about Dolly, who Wynne was apparently seriously supposed to know. They vowed to themself to remember the name, so they could look this blonde, big-breasted woman up and listen to these songs. For now, though, their face just flushed and something trembled inside them out of embarrassment. It was all a little much! Falling off their bike, their bike being damaged, their body hurting and now, once more, falling short when it came to pop culture. “I don’t know her, I don’t … I know a blonde woman with big breasts, but she’s called Winifred, and I don’t think she makes music.” Winifred was a woman from back home, so she was definitely not the same person. “And I don’t know that song, nor Jenna Ortega, but that’s really rude! I never spit in people’s coffee and I make a lot of coffees for a lot of people. I also don’t know a Casey?” 

But Thea mentioned something that they did know, so they decided to latch onto that. “I know Fleetwood Mac! With Stevie Nicks? Of that song, Silver Springs.” Ariadne had told them all about it, playing the song for them and then a video of it too. Wynne had thought it very powerful. “I love their song ‘You make loving fun’.” That one reminded them of Ariadne most, whereas Landslide made them indescribably sad. They felt less inclined to cry now that they had something to say about something they knew. That they didn’t know those other bands (or artists?) was omitted. “I will look up Dolly! Okay? I just don’t know a lot of music.” They frowned. “Because I’m Amish. Or well, was Amish. Now I’m a barista.”

—

Thea felt stupid again, she was feeling that a lot around Wynne. Of course it was stupid to insult someone for not knowing who Dolly Parton was when they were Amish. That was like growing up in a cult, or something (Thea didn’t know, she didn’t know much about the Amish except for what existed in Weird Al’s “Amish Paradise”). Although, a part of her mind did consider that even the Amish would know who Dolly Parton was. “I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, her cheeks bursting with crimson. “Y-you know Fleetwood Mac?” But not Dolly Parton? Thea pushed the doors of the bike shop open and ushered them inside, pulling the back along with them. “Silver Springs is kinda deep cut--well, not that deep, but usually people bring up ‘Songbird’ or ‘Landslide’ or ‘Dreams’ or something.” Thea considered what sort of person would know only of Fleetwood Mac and nothing else. At least it was a good band to know about. “‘You Make Loving Fun’?” Thea blinked. Something was going on here, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “My favorite is ‘Rhiannon’--it makes me feel like the cool girl monologue in Gone Girl. You know, Santana Lopez sang ‘Songbird’ on Glee and…” Thea trailed off, clearing her throat. “Actually, it’s probably better if you never learn what Glee is.” 

Thea leaned Wynne’s mangled bike up against the counter. “I’m sorry about the--the Dolly thing.” Thea stuck her hand out again. “Friends?” She smiled. “No hard, Amish feelings? I think you’re really cool and--” I need more friends. “--I’d like to be your friend. So, friends?”

—

“No, it’s okay! You couldn’t know! I don’t look Amish.” Because they weren’t Amish. Some of their dresses did look similar to the ones they’d worn at home, though, but they’d never worn those white caps. Those looked strange. “Silver Springs is my girlfriend’s favorite song. But I love those others as well. Landslide is very sad, though, right?” Wynne smiled at the mention of Rhiannon. “I love that one also! It’s about a Welsh witch. I’m also –” They stopped themself, there. The Amish weren’t Welsh, right? “Um, really fond of Songbird. I don’t know what Gone Girl is? Is it a movie?” Another thing to Google. Just like Glee. “Oh. Is Glee not good? Even if there’s Fleetwood Mac on it?” They’d have to ask Ariadne about that one too.