Chapter 5

Amelia

The steam from my coffee mug curls up into the air, wrapping itself around Stella's skeptical frown. Chiming of dishes and low chatter fill the cozy breakfast nook we've claimed as ours in The Neighborhood Café on an early Saturday morning. We've met for breakfast before I meet a Swipe Right date a little later for some cycling.

"Amelia, seriously? When was the last time you even touched a bike?" Stella asks.

I take a bite of creamy scrambled eggs with extra crispy, extra thick bacon, pooling my resolve before answering. "I used to ride all the time when I was growing up. It's like… What's that saying? Riding a bike, right?" I try for a chuckle, but it comes out more nervous than I intend.

Stella rolls her eyes, her fork pausing on the way to her mouth. "That's not the point, and you know it. Stanley Park is no kiddie playground." There's genuine concern in the lines between her brows.

"Relax," I say, waving away her worry with a hand adorned in a smear of strawberry jam. I lick it off. "Jason seems really nice, and he's into outdoorsy stuff. This is just biking. We're not scaling Mount Everest."

"Fine." Stella sighs, finally taking another bite of her omelet. "But if you come back with a broken limb, don't expect me to sign your cast."

"Deal." I grin, the thrill of anticipation bubbling inside me.

Stella and I part ways soon after, and I make my way to the bike rental shop.

The total is over a hundred dollars, and I hand over my credit card with a wince. The clerk presents me with a sleek-looking bike, but a helmet that clearly prioritizes safety over style. Taking a deep breath, I pull it on. This is going to be fun.

Strapped into the helmet, I catch my reflection in the shop window. My hair, which I'd carefully styled for the date, now looks like a nest under siege. "Great," I mutter, adjusting the capri pants that seemed like such a cute-yet-practical choice for cycling an hour ago. Now they feel like a commitment not to fall off this two-wheeled contraption.

I push off into the stream of downtown traffic, and my heart hammers a little harder with each pedal stroke. I focus on getting to the park, but the transition from concrete jungle to the lush embrace of Stanley Park doesn't offer the relief I'd hoped for. My thighs protest, my breath comes in short bursts, and I grip the handlebars tightly enough to make my knuckles blanch.

Who knew fresh air could be so exhausting? I blink against the wind as it whips over my face. But there's beauty here too—towering trees that seem to nod in encouragement and the distant glint of sunlight on water. I'm early, beating time and Jason both, and I allow myself a moment of pride. "Maybe I still have it," I whisper, leaning into a gentle curve in the path, the bike responding like a long-lost dance partner. Just maybe this date will be…exhilarating.

The totem poles loom above me, their painted faces watching silently as I pedal into view. It's one o'clock on the dot. I pride myself on punctuality, even as my legs quiver from the effort of the ride here.

"Amelia?" a voice calls from behind me.

I swivel around, nearly toppling off the bike. A man in sleek riding shorts and a jersey that looks more expensive than my entire outfit circles back toward me. His road bike gleams like a thoroughbred next to my sturdy rental steed.

"Yes, that's me," I reply, steadying myself with one foot on the ground. "You must be Jason."

He pulls up, taking in my setup with poorly concealed disdain. "You said you could ride a bike?"

"Of course I can," I reply, feeling suddenly defensive. "I've been riding since—"

"Never mind." He waves off my indignation. "Let's just get going."

We set off along the path, the rhythm of our wheels syncing for a moment before he edges ahead. Bikers zoom past us; it's like being tossed into a river of spandex and sweat. Jason's jaw sets in a line of annoyance that I imagine matches my own.

"Thought this would be more…leisurely," I confess when we're alone on the path for a moment, puffing out the words.

"Leisurely?" He snorts, barely looking over his shoulder at me. "It's not meant to be a stroll."

Through the next throng of cyclists, we navigate a sharp turn known as The Point. My focus splits between keeping up with Jason and avoiding a collision. Then, out of nowhere, there's a blur of motion as a racer overtakes me, too close, too fast.

"Watch it!" I cry, but it's too late. The world tilts precariously.

Metal clashes with pavement. I'm airborne for a split second before gravity claims me with brutal certainty. My knee collides with the asphalt and a large rock, and a jagged pain shoots up my leg.

"Are you okay?" Jason's voice is distant, the concern in it obligatory at best.

"Fine," I grit out between clenched teeth, pushing back tears. "Just a scratch."

He eyes my torn capris, my bleeding knee, then his watch. "You should get that checked. I'm going to keep going."

"Wait—" But my protest is cut short by the sight of his back, proceeding down the path without another glance.

"Sure, go," I mutter, feeling a sting sharper than the one in my knee—humiliation. The jagged slice is bleeding rather heavily. "Hope the rest of your ride is as charming as you are."

Shaking, I retrieve my cell phone from the abyss of my bag with a grimace, each movement sending ripples of pain through my knee. "Stella," I whisper into the phone when she answers. "I need you."

"Where are you?" Her voice is sharp with concern.

"Stanley Park. I'm at by The Point, by the lighthouse," I manage to say, trying to sound calmer and more collected than I feel.

"Stay there. I'm coming." She hangs up, and I know she'll be here as fast as her old Mini Cooper can carry her.

Minutes trickle by, each one punctuated by the throb of my wound. My pants leg is pretty well soaked in blood by the time Stella screeches to a halt beside me, her car's paintwork as scratched and bruised as I feel. "What the hell happened?" she asks, jumping out.

"Crashed," I tell her simply, not wanting to delve into the humiliation of it all.

We wrestle the rental bike into the back of her car, the metal frame clanking against the interior. The bike looks almost as defeated as I feel. We then drive back to the shop, my leg leaving smudges of red on her upholstery.

"Your knee…" Stella glances in the rearview mirror, her brows furrowed.

"It won't stop bleeding." I press my hand against the fabric of my pants, feeling the warm stickiness underneath.

"ED. Now." She doesn't wait for my agreement before turning the wheel toward Mercy Hospital and what I predict will be long lines on a Saturday afternoon.

Sure enough, the emergency department is loaded with people, and I wait long enough that Stella runs home to get me clean sweatpants. When my name is finally called, a nurse wheels me down a narrow corridor, the squeak of the wheelchair sharp against the hushed sounds of medical efficiency.

"Here we are," the nurse says, pulling back a pale blue curtain to reveal a small, sterile space.

"Thank you," I mumble, scanning the impersonal room. When she's left me, I open the app that introduced me to Jason and find he's already deleted me from his match profile. I snort. What a jerk.

After what seems like forever, the curtain is pulled back and the doctor enters. My heart jolts as I look at him. It's the not-Superman from the grocery store, this time in a white coat and scrubs. My stomach drops. He's focused on a computer in front of him, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if he's staring at another woman's breasts.

"Amelia." He finally looks up as he greets me. "I'm Dr. Kent Johns."

"Dr. Johns," I reply, my voice cold. How much worse can this day get?

He looks at me another moment and recognition forms in his eyes. "Last Friday, at the IGA… You should've stayed in line."

I glare at him, my patience fraying. "You shouldn't have been absorbed by your phone while buying groceries."

He blinks, color rising in his cheeks as he seems to fumble for a response. For a moment, I relish the shift in power, but the throbbing pain from my knee threatens to eclipse my satisfaction.

I shift uncomfortably on the paper-covered exam table, the texture crinkling against the back of my legs. Dr. Johns's gaze pins me like I'm a specimen under his scrutiny.

"Can I just…wait for another doctor?" I ask, my voice with a tremor I despise.

"Amelia," he starts, his eyes averting momentarily before returning to mine. "About the other day—"

"Look, can we not do this now?" Annoyance flares up through the pain. "My knee is practically gushing, and you want to chat about supermarket etiquette?"

He sighs. "I'm sorry, okay? I was out of line. But right now, I'll focus on your knee."

Reluctantly I nod, letting him step closer. His hands are gentle despite the earlier awkwardness, fingers probing with professional detachment. But when he pours antibacterial liquid over the raw wound, it feels like fire searing through my skin.

"Ah!" I can't stifle the howl that rips from my throat.

"Sorry, sorry," Dr. Johns mutters, but I barely hear him over the pounding of my heart and the stinging in my knee.

A nurse pokes her head in, eyes flicking between us. "Everything okay in here, Dr. Johns?"

"Fine," he answers, and there's an edge in his voice that narrows my eyes.

The curtain closes behind the nurse, and I'm left staring at the small gap, as if it could offer some sort of escape. He hurt me. The thought coils tightly around my chest. Whether by accident or on purpose, he made me cry out in pain, and I can't shake the feeling that he didn't mind doing it. My jaw tightens, anger simmering beneath the surface of my skin, mixing with the humiliation of being so vulnerable under his touch.