Chapter 11
Clementine
Liability.
Alec’s word echoes in my head like the thud of a missed landing on stage.
I’m rhinestones and tulle and lemon water with cucumbers. Not the sort of person who scrambles up ridges and yells at bears.
I waddle up the dirt path between the lodge and my garage apartment, my soles collecting grit, my bandages turning a delicate shade of gross. The boots hang from my fingertips, heavy and useless. I’d rather walk barefoot across a lava field than put them back on.
It’s day one of training, and I’ve already failed spectacularly. He thinks I’m a liability, and I was over here batting my eyelashes at him.
My rib cage goes rigid. The crawling, warm, clawed pressure that starts under my sternum and stretches outward until it owns me. My body knows the pattern. The rush of heat in my face, the prickling in my fingertips, the bone-deep itch that says fix it.
All I have to do is make sure I never get a blister again. Easy.
I need socks with more padding. Boots that fit better with just the right ankle support that will make me look like I belong here.
Maybe then Alec wouldn’t need to rewrite our training schedule. Maybe he wouldn’t look at me like I’m a bad investment. Maybe he won’t say liability again.
The ache in my feet is nothing compared to the need in my hands. The one that wants my laptop open, a browser tab glowing, the sort by lowest price option practically winking at me.
Gear. I just need the right gear.
It’s practical. It’s for the race.
I unlock my phone, searching for a hit of dopamine, only to find the No Service signal at the top of my screen.
There’s Wi-Fi in the house, but that would mean going inside where Gran is.
And if I go inside, she might ask me what I’m doing.
And I would either have to lie or admit that I’m attempting to online shop my way out of yet another shame spiral.
I shouldn’t be shopping. I shouldn’t want to.
I pace the driveway in slow, stupid circles, holding my phone to the sky like I’m performing some kind of dark little prayer to the algorithm. I just need one bar.
The roof. Of course.
When I was little, I used to sneak up there all the time. Gran would yell that I was going to crack my skull open, and I’d yell back that I’d be careful right before doing something extremely not careful. But up there, the noise of the world didn’t reach me. Up there, I could hover.
Barefoot, I tuck my phone into my bra and climb the wobbly lattice behind the garage. The wood groans. Morning glory vines snag my toes. I kick them off like they’re trying to shame me.
Halfway up, the clouds part, the heavens open, and Instagram loads.
Sweet, sweet victory.
Within two posts, the targeted ads descend like divine intervention.
Trail runners with pink accents. Hiking jackets in colors called “Moss” and “Stone.” A jade-green water bottle that promises to make me feel like the kind of person who drinks electrolytes and wakes up with purpose.
Anthropologie scarves. Outdoor Voices puffers.
Then a reel. A girl with sun-kissed cheeks and freckles (the good kind, not the I-forgot-SPF kind), laughing on a mountain with gear that’s definitely not in my budget.
I want to be her. Or at least look like her long enough for Alec to take me seriously. For him to not need to handle me like I’m made of papier-maché.
Debt feels safer than this. Debt is numbers, and numbers have rules. But this creeping panic that I’m not enough, that I’m ridiculous and broken, doesn’t come with instructions.
I can’t click “Check Out” on self-worth.
I can’t two-day ship love.
I can’t return this crummy feeling of failure.
But I can buy the socks.
And maybe the sweat-wicking zinc panties. And a little keychain to make that gray monstrosity of a pack a little cuter.
Service flickers, so I climb higher. The “Buy Now” button glows like a neon sign. To my joy, my Apple Pay is still hooked up. My thumb presses down on the screen, and relief floods me like an open window after a week of stale air. A three-second chemical high.
Then the service drops.
“No. No, no, no—”
I climb another rung. This time, the lattice lets out a splintering crack before the whole thing buckles. My brain has exactly one second to think, oh, that’s bad, before I’m airborne. Then—plop. Straight into Gran’s flower bed, in a puff of dirt and marigold petals.
Somewhere in the mess of vines and leaves, my phone chimes. Order confirmed.
A laugh escapes me. I just lie there, vines wrapping my arms, smelling like dirt and desperation.
A bee lands on my elbow.
I don’t move.
Let it sting me. At least it wouldn't cost me anything.