Whit shoots Angeles a look, but he’s too busy lifting Jada up to sniff her butt. He makes a disgusted face and motions for me. “Hey, favorite uncle, your niece wants you.”

I wave him off, and kiss Whit’s cheek.

“Nice try, man. But Uncle Jamal doesn’t do poop, sorry.” I peek into the living room. “Autumn’s not here? I thought I heard her.”

But before they can answer, someone yells “BOO” behind me, and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I clutch my chest. “Ohmigod, you could’ve killed me.”

Autumn laughs. “You’re so easy to scare, I couldn’t resist,” she says with a shrug.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pretending to be upset.

“Don’t be mad,” she says, draping her arms around my neck and pulling me into a kiss. “There, did that help?”

I frown. “A little, but I’m still pretty shaken up.”

She laughs, kisses me again. “Now?”

“We’re getting there,” I say.

“Ohmigod, groan,” Whit exclaims. “I thought you guys were going out.”

“We are,” I say. I turn back to Autumn. “Except Autumn won’t tell me what we’re doing.”

“We’re gonna have fun,” Autumn says. “Trust me.”

And by fun she meant . . . a bike ride.

“Bike riding is good for the soul,” she says.

You should see us, decked out in elbow pads, helmets—the ones with the blinking light and the little rearview mirror thingy that extends like an antenna out in front of you—because safety, right?

Whit’s alternating between taking pictures and laughing her ass off, although I’d say the ratio is more like thirty to seventy in favor of the laughs. Angeles is pumping Jada’s arms up and down, like she’s cheerleading. And I swear she’s smirking at me.

“You guys look so cute,” Whit says.

Autumn’s one of these people who keeps her bike attached to her car at all times. A hood-rack-having, waterproof-match-carrying human. One of those nature over Netflix types who walk around insisting a little fresh air is the solution to all our problems.

That being said, I love the heck outa her.

And I gotta admit, she’s not wrong. Being outdoors is already making me feel calmer. You know, except for the one-woman paparazzi.

“See you guys soon,” Whit calls out after us.

“Remember to use your hand signals,” Angeles yells, and I wave goodbye to him with my middle finger.

The wind is howling something fierce; with each gust I jump, the way you do when you’re nice and toasty and someone comes in from the cold and rubs their icy feet on you.

“Deadman’s hill,” Autumn shouts over the breeze.

“Thought you said a nice leisurely ride?”

“Are you down?”

I give her a thumbs-up and we pedal faster, with purpose. Leaves, no match for our rubber-burning, crumble beneath our wheels.