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I had a good helmet, and my bike was incredible, so I wouldn’t need either, but Bridges had mentioned tools for repairs along the way, and I had none. I looked up the costs and recommendations for a toolkit before I realized I had no idea how to repair a flat on my bike.

Maybe the best idea was to take a backup bike—maybe Dad’s bike—along in case anything happened to mine? It was best to make a list of questions for Bridges, so I pecked it into an app on my phone.

Opening another search window, I typed in careers that involve riding a bike. The first thing that popped up was bicycle courier. The salary listed was between twenty thousand and thirty-five thousand dollars, and the requirements of the job were right up my alley.

Physically fit? If the looks I got when I went out on the town by men and women alike were a barometer, then yeah, I was physically fit. Getting around Manhattan had never been a problem for me, so I could say I was proficient at navigating the city which was listed on the requirements for the job.

Good customer service skills? I was a nice enough guy, so how hard would it be to deal with customers?

Problem solving skills? I had a fucking MBA. I could solve any problem tossed my way.

Feeling quite accomplished, I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, a smile on my face. Suddenly, I was on my ass looking at soap suds flooding the kitchen floor around me. They were flooding out of the dishwasher, covering everything. “Shit!”

I began plucking open cabinets to look for something to scoop them up with, finding a big metal bowl Renata used when she made fried chicken, though I had no idea why. I took off my socks and waded into the thick of it.

Once I had the bowl filled, I took it to the sink and dumped bubbles, turning on the faucet to rinse them away. For a moment, I considered using the sprayer on the floor to get rid of them, but then my common sense slapped me. That much water might do damage.

When I turned back to get another scoop, it appeared as if the bubbles had doubled in size. I was going to be there all night at this rate.

Mom’s bedroom door opened, and I knew if she saw the kitchen in its current shape, she’d lose her fucking mind. I rushed into the hallway. “Hi, Mom. Do you need something?”

She stared at me for a moment before smiling. “Good night, dear. I’m sorry I was sharp with you earlier. We’ll adjust to our new dynamic soon. Sleep well.”

Without waiting for a response, Mom went into her room and closed the door. I hurried back to the kitchen and continued the futile job of ridding the kitchen of more bubbles than a foam party at a gay club.

After the dishwasher stopped, I opened the door to see it was still full of bubbles, so I pulled the dishes out and rinsed them in the sink, propping them in the dish drainer on the counter to the right.

The smarter thing to do would have been to run the dishwasher through a rinse cycle to rid the dishes of all the soap. Problem was, would the bubbles start over again? I couldn’t take that chance.

I left the dishwasher door open in hopes that the bubbles would dissipate, and then I found the mop in the laundry room and cleaned the floor, which was quite slick with the leftover soap.

Why the hell were simple chores so damn hard? Shouldn’t I know how to handle shit like this?

After a restless night’s sleep where I woke several times to jot down questions for Bridges that popped into my dreams between the sexy times I envisioned between us, I finally gave up. I went to the kitchen where Mom was already sitting with a cup of coffee and her tablet.

“Good morning, dear. Thank you for mopping the floor last night. I didn’t expect it, but I appreciate it.” Her bright smile was a soothing salve to me because she didn’t know what a fucked-up situation I had on my hands.

And then, Mom continued. “I think I’ll turn over grocery pickup to you. Can you get these things today? What are your plans?”

She handed me a list and at the bottom of it, I saw “dishwasher pods.” So, I hadn’t imagined them?

“I have a question, Mom. What’s the difference between dishwasher pods and dishwashing liquid?”

A quick smile curved her lips before she tamed it. “Dishwasher pods are specifically formulated for using in the dishwasher. Dishwashing liquid is only for handwashing dishes in the sink. Oh, and you didn’t know this, but we handwash the pots and pans. One trip through the dishwasher won’t hurt them, but continuing to send them through the dishwasher ruins them. Please don’t do it again.”

How the fuck was I supposed to know that?

On the Friday before Memorial Day, I rode my bike to Superior Courier Service on Fifth Avenue. The business occupied a small storefront with the name painted on the front window in big white letters surrounded by red outlines.

There was a bike stand in front of the business with about eight bikes chained to it. I fastened the chain around mine and slid off the leg band from my pant leg, shoving it into my pocket as I adjusted my button-down shirt.

I wasn’t interviewing at a Forbes five-hundred company, but Mom suggested I wear more than bike shorts and a T-shirt for the interview. “It’s respectful if you show them you want to make a good impression.” She had an interview at Chaney & Associates the next week, and I trusted she knew what she was talking about.

I ruffled my fingers through my hair, taking in my reflection in the window. Once I had my courage controlled, I went inside. There was a pretty girl who couldn’t be more than nineteen sitting at the desk with four guys and two girls in a line in front of her.

“Okay, ladies and gents. Who wants to go to the Financial District and deliver on the Upper West Side?” A guy in a red and white jersey and black bike shorts lifted his hand.

“Great. Here’s the sheet. Call me when your done and I’ll give you another assignment.” It went on that way until everyone had an assignment and it was only me and the young woman.