Living Proof, стр. 20

He blinked. “The main one.”

“The big loop, you mean? I know a better one, less crowded. Follow me.”

He exhaled as she swung her leg over her bike and pushed off with the other foot. He did the same, wobbling behind her. A job that comes with a workout, he thought. A surprise perk.

Twenty-five minutes later, he was just beginning to break a sweat, relishing the cool wind on his perspiring forehead and the comfortable exertion of his legs. But when he looked over at Arianna, she was standing on the pedals, pushing left foot, right foot, coaxing her body to keep up with him. The asphalt path she had taken him on was one for only the fittest riders; there was no respite from the upward slope, and although it was minor, Arianna looked like she was climbing a mountainside.

“You okay?” he called over his shoulder.

“Fine,” she gasped, motioning for him to keep going.

Trent reduced his edge, pedaling more slowly to match her pace. They barely exchanged words—her lungs were busy enough. Trent felt strangely satisfied; the physical challenge had morphed into a competition in his mind, erasing any worry that she could outpace him. But just then, he glanced up to see her black hair flying in the wind, her tanned legs pumping the pedals as she stood, gliding past him. I will take you down, he thought. A surge of might invigorated his muscles, and he pedaled faster, harder, until he quickly gained a few yards on her.

“Hey,” she panted from behind. “I didn’t know we were racing!”

He slowed down to let her catch up. Enough, he thought. There was work to be done, the tough job of getting to know each other. “Water break?” he suggested.

“Please.”

They both dropped their feet to the ground, skidded to a stop and dismounted. His shoulders found relief in his straightened posture, but his legs felt hot and rubbery. Arianna turned off the asphalt to a dirt path lined with trees, and he followed her single-file until it opened to a grassy patch with a few oversized rocks. They withdrew water bottles from the holders on their bikes and stood drinking; she stopped after every few sips to catch her breath.

“I told you I needed to do this more often,” she said, wiping her lips. “How did you get so fit?”

“Well, thanks,” he said modestly. “I’m afraid it’s easier for men, or so I’m told.”

“It’s true. Nature two, women zero.”

“Two?”

“When you’ve seen as many labors as I have…” She trailed off, shaking her head with a smile.

“Right. Another reason God must be male.”

“Or so I’m told.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, so he said nothing as she unzipped her jacket and threw it to the grass on top of her bike. Then with a gesture, she led him to the rocks. He lagged behind her, carefully watching her bouncing ponytail. With the slightest nudge from his right pointer finger, he slid the metal knob on his watch down a millimeter until it clicked into place. Then he joined her on the smooth boulder, sitting on her right and leaning back on his hands as she was. Before he could direct the conversation, she spoke.

“So how’s your novel coming?”

He gritted his teeth.

“Look, I’m terrible at small talk,” she said. He noticed she did not seem apologetic.

“Me, too,” he said. “My novel’s going okay. Sometimes I get stuck.”

She nodded sympathetically. “The creative process is painful. I paint, and it’s always a choice between colors and strokes. Sometimes I have no clue how to choose.”

“It’s like that, but with words,” he said, and went on before she could reply. “So if you’re the creative type, what got you into medicine? The money?” Shouldn’t have led the question, he thought. It was the first rule of reporting.

She shook her head with a glance that told him his assumption was clichéd. “Once you get to know me, you’ll see that that’s the last reason I would pick a lifetime endeavor.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, I was lucky enough that money wasn’t a factor. My parents were both successful bio professors who told me that the only criterion for my career was to do something I loved. So I figured I would end up doing research like them, since their work intrigued me so much.”

Trent’s heart knocked harder, set off like a giant church bell by that key word. “But you didn’t end up a researcher.” The word slurred off his tongue, as if uttering it might tip his hand.

“No. I love biology and I loved studying how the body works on the molecular level, but the appeal of practicing medicine won out. Research can be so tedious and with no guarantees of any success. With medicine—”

“But research can be exciting, right?” Trent interrupted. The bell clanged frantically in his chest. “If you discover something big?”

“Sure, if,” she said.

“Did your parents?”

“My dad did once.…” She trailed off, looking wistful, and Trent remembered that he had read her father’s obituary in The Times. As his sensitivity battled curiosity, he decided not to prod her. Instead, following a reporting technique, he let the silence prolong into awkwardness so she might feel obligated to elaborate. She did not. He waited.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” she said, “with medicine, I’m constantly doing hands-on problem solving and seeing results. It’s very satisfying, although I respect scientists to no end, and if I had been born with more patience, who knows.”

Trent could see she was about to ask him a question, so he cut her off.

“So why reproductive medicine, then? Doing risky IVF treatments and all that?” His heart beat faster, a warning that he was veering into a dangerous zone. Most men probably had no idea about in vitro fertilization, he realized; why would he? “I don’t know much about it,” he added, “but I bet it feels great to help people have kids who can’t.”

She nodded. “It’s pretty amazing what we can do today—even beyond IVF, we can finally do a