Don't Look Back Read Free

you know the one with the new Batsuit?”
    His voice made her smile—her first of the day, it seemed. “You’re such a nerd.”
    “Thanks, Mom. That’s a lifetime of video games and being smart.”
    “You’re right. Nerds shall inherit the earth.”
    “Can I go spend the night? At Zach’s? Can I please?”
    The old fight.
    “Honey, we’ve talked about this. A sleepover’s tough. Other parents don’t get your diet.”
    Wounded silence.
    “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you getting a rash again. Or cramps. I know it doesn’t seem fair.”
    It sure didn’t. Nicolas had been a great fat, calm baby—his elbows had chins—before he’d leaned out overnight in his second year, save a perpetually distended abdomen. After a few go-rounds with various pediatricians, Eve had finally diagnosed him herself. Celiac disease, a huge relief and a lifetime pain in the ass. For the past three years, he’d been largely thriving—in fact, she’d gotten home yesterday to discover that, in a single lurch, he’d outgrown all his clothes—and she didn’t want to risk a setback.
    “ When then?” he asked.
    “I’m not sure, honey. But not tonight.”
    A longer silence. She screwed up her face, awaiting his reply. After the call with the elderly schoolteacher, she wasn’t sure she could withstand administering another disappointment today, no matter how small.
    “Okay, Mommy,” he said.
    She eased out a breath. “Tuck you in soon, Little.”
    “Okay, Big.”
    She clicked off. As the Prius bounced onto the exit, she ran through the list of what she needed to take care of before morning: review homework, pack lunch, do laundry. God, she needed a vacation. She pictured those plane tickets, still waiting there in front of Moby-Dick on the bookshelf in their cheery yellow sleeves, another promise she and Rick had failed to keep. For months she’d been meaning to cancel the trip, and now it was three weeks off. Well— enough. She’d do it now, pay the fee, and reclaim her miles for another vacation someday. One less thing to do tomorrow, one more chore to cross off the list.
    These things were so easy now: You asked your phone to do something and it did it. It took a few commands to navigate AeroMexico’s menu, and she got a customer-service rep on the line in short order. Eve’s explanation came out bumbling, and she felt a flush in her cheeks and realized why she’d actually been putting off the cancellation all these months.
    “Oh,” the rep said, still misunderstanding. “Happy anniversary.”
    “No.” Eve fumbled to bring up her frequent-flier number on her iPhone. “It’s not— We’re not—”
    She didn’t see herself until it was too late. At first a dark streak off the corner of the front bumper and then a single flash of clarity. It wasn’t her, of course, but the biker looked just like her. More precisely: a better version of herself. Same build, slightly more fit. A sleeker model of her Diamondback mountain bike. Same hair—same hair cut even, if more stylish, that straight fringe across the back of the neck.
    Eve hit the brakes, hard, and the Prius started to skid. The iPhone flew from her grasp into the passenger seat. Rubber screamed. She choked on a breath, waiting for the sickening crunch of metal grinding, for the thud of flesh against shatterproof glass. But, miraculously, the hood swept through the space the biker seemed to occupy and the car lurched to a stop, piling Eve against the door.
    She fought the handle and tumbled out, ground scraping her palms. She stood, night air scouring her throat, sweat trickling cool-hot down her back. The wide residential road had no streetlamps, just flares from her headlights and various porches and windows.
    Up ahead, the biker continued on, tires purring, chain clicking, spokes winking in the high beams.
    “Hey,” Eve called out. “Hey!”
    The helmet didn’t rotate. The biker didn’t slow. Was she spooked and eager to get away? Or blaring