Part Three : The Trails…

The mountain bike told me more than the sundress did.
Every afternoon, without fail, she'd wheel it out and ride up the fire road that cut behind both our properties into the national forest. And every afternoon I'd stand at the edge of my yard with a decision to make, stay or follow.
The first time I followed, I kept my distance. A hundred yards. I told myself it was exercise. She climbed hard and fast, calves flexing, ponytail whipping, and I learned that she could ride. She took the switchbacks like she'd memorized them. At the top, at the overlook, she stopped and I, like a coward, stopped too, just far enough back to be plausibly separate.
She turned. Looked right at me. Raised one hand in a slow wave.
I waved back like a teenager. God.
The second time I followed, she'd waited for me. Not obviously, just when I reached the overlook, she was still there, water bottle in hand, breathing hard, watching the valley. She didn't say anything when I pulled up beside her. Neither did I. We stood there a full minute in the pine smell and the wind, and then she said, without looking at me:
"You're the one with the coffee."
Not a question.
"I am," I said.
"You drink it on the porch every morning." Still not looking. "Seven-fifteen."
She'd known the whole time.
She capped her bottle, swung a leg over the bike, and rode off down the hill and this time she didn't look back, which somehow said more than if she had.