Trail Crossings

Lucy refuses to bike. Aidan vows to not give up on her. Will she choose the right trail to find healing?

Dealing with survivor’s guilt, Lucy has let her life fall to pieces. Until a crash, she was at the top of the youth mountain biking scene. When Lucy’s best friend, Ava, dies because of the crash, Lucy withdraws from everything in her life. Eight months later, during the summer before her senior year, Lucy is a dark shadow of her former self. Now Lucy’s parents are forcing her to do things and Aidan, her training partner and Ava’s twin brother, reveals his true feelings for Lucy.

Burdened by fear and guilt, Lucy struggles to put together the missing pieces of her former life. Scared to bike and afraid to admit her real feelings, Lucy sabotages Aidan’s attempts to get close to her. Turning to running and a new friend, Lucy discovers she has the choice in which trail to take. Reconnecting with her former friends, Lucy finds the missing piece in her life and decides to bike after Aidan. But Aidan is carrying a guilt as deep as Lucy’s, and when Aidan crashes, Lucy is faced with the same nightmare she thought she outran.

TRAIL CROSSINGS is a story of overcoming guilt, rediscovering yourself, and finding love, all with a side of sports.

Through the tinted windshield I see it hanging on the bike rack, taunting me as it does whenever I come into the garage. The vivid orange frame is tangible evidence of my guilt and a haunting reminder. I avert my eyes, but the neon paint is hard to miss in the dark garage. My mountain bike seems to be a flashing marquee with “Ride Me” written on it. I ignore the plea. The bike might miss me, but I won’t allow myself to miss it. It’s the cause of all my pain and suffering.

With a scowl on my face, I grab my bag from the passenger seat of my dad’s car and shove open the driver’s door. Once out, I slam the door and keep my eyes off the mountain bike determined to haunt me. A thick layer of New Mexico dust coats the frame. The dust is from nonuse, not from riding dirt trails. The bike has been hanging in the same place for months, ever since my accident. There isn’t enough dust to cover the memory of the last time I rode it.

When I enter the quiet open house, I find my dad at the kitchen island, a fork in his hand and a plate in front of him. The scent of coffee hangs in the air and my stomach rumbles. I drop my bag on the bench near the door, kick off my shoes, and walk into the kitchen.

“Hey, Luce,” Dad says. “I left some eggs on the stove for you.”

“Thanks.” My words are the bare minimum.
I take a plate from the cabinet and step to the stove to examine the remains of Dad’s scramble. I never feel like eating, but I do because I’m supposed to. Like everything else in my life now, I do stuff to get through the day. The scrambled eggs are dry and stuck to the bottom of the pan. I scrape some bits out with a spatula and dump them on my plate. I feel like the eggs, dried out and piled up in a heap. Dad watches me while I grab a bag of grated cheese from the refrigerator. I sense his hazel eyes on the back of my head, boring into me and waiting for the right time to ask when I’ll get back on the bike.

“I’m surprised you’re up early on your first day of summer.” Dad lifts a cup of coffee to his lips.
The sound of the nearby highway resonates in through the open windows and fills the silence. Grated cheese cascades from my long fingers onto the scrambled eggs. I place the plate in the microwave and grab the first mug in the cabinet before answering.

“Might as well keep a schedule,” I reply.

I pour myself a cup of hot coffee and wrinkle my nose. My scent isn’t as pleasant as the coffee. I’ve been sweating at early morning spin classes at the community center every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since January. It’s now the last Friday of May.

“When does work start?” Dad swallows his coffee, with a repeated sip, sip, sip noise which causes me to cringe. It’s like listening to a clogged sink trying to drain water.

I roll my eyes, because Dad knows the answer and because his sipping sound drives me nuts. “A week from Monday.”

My shoulders flinch when another of Dad’s loud sips punctuate the silence. He makes the noise because he knows I can’t stand it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Seems like a good time to get back in the real saddle.” Dad sets his mug down with a soft thud. There’s hesitation in his voice, and I know he’s worried how I’ll react. This conversation hasn’t gone well in the past. The irony of my situation isn’t new to me. It doesn’t seem right for a talented mountain biker to forgo the great outdoors and her real mountain bike to instead ride on a stationary bike in the dark hours of morning. It’s sad. The reason I do it is sad. Everything about my life is sad. And I don’t care, but I do care. Ugh. I’m a mess.

“I’ll be riding my bike to work,” I say.

I face away from Dad and pour a generous helping of flavored creamer in my coffee. I don’t know how Dad drinks his black. I prefer my creamer with a little coffee. I stir the creamer in, watching it swirl with the dark coffee to create a creamy concoction. A slight anxiousness builds in me at the thought of biking to work and I set the spoon down when my hand starts to shake.