Nevada: A Novel

by Imogen Binnie

I don’t know, she says again, But I’ll tell you where I am with it. I rode to work that day, thinking about it. I went home thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about what we’re going to do—Steph relaxes visibly, relieved that Maria is working on this—But I’ve been thinking about my bike. You know I love my bike. I’ve just been thinking, I don’t think my bike is just this thing that sits outside the bookstore rusting, or inside the kitchen, rusting. That bike is, like, the only way I know to really be in touch with my life, with the world outside myself. It sounds totally hippie, but, Steph, all I ever want to do is ride my bike, and there’s a reason for that. I think I’m only happy when I’m alone.

It’s just that once you start using their terms, she says, You’re putting yourself into this restrictive box they made up that doesn’t leave room for figuring out who you are or what you want.