Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Logan
A horse never runs so fast
as when he has other horses to catch up and outpace.
~ Ovid
Five days. I made it through my first full week at Barnes Marketing. Ever since Wednesday night, Gil’s words have haunted me. Olivia avoids me as if I’ve got a deadly and highly communicable disease. Steering clear of me is quite a feat in itself, considering we share an open office space. She has yet to acknowledge my presence aside from the occasional glance my way, always followed by a quick snap of her head in the opposite direction when I notice her staring.
Other than Olivia’s silent treatment, I like my new workplace. And I love this apartment. It’s comfortable and trendy but not too showy. The historic features of the building carry through to my apartment with the cased windows and crown molding. And Rhett likes it.
My dog walker has been consistent. She loves Rhett and shows up mid-morning and mid-afternoon daily to walk him each week day. Everything’s falling into place—everything but proving to Olivia that I’m not the monster she imagines me to be.
Ah, well, it’s the weekend. I don’t need to preoccupy myself with her. I’ve got my run ahead of me. I’m still in the early stages of marathon training. Today, I’m doing a speed run with intervals.
I say goodbye to Rhett. He pouts, giving me those eyes that nearly make me reconsider my plans. He’s a master of staring me down, saying more with his expressions than most people are capable of conveying with a whole language at their disposal.
“I’ll take you on a walk for my cool down,” I promise him before shutting my door and taking the elevator down to the lobby. Once I’m outside, I stretch. Then I hit two buttons on my smart watch and start jogging for my five-minute warm up.
The air is cool on my skin, and the sky has that clear, crisp feeling that says spring has officially sprung. I’m about three minutes into my warmup when I could swear I see her. Olivia .
I need to get a life. Why would she be running near my apartment building on a Sunday?
I’ve become so preoccupied with improving her impression of me that I’m literally conjuring her up on a weekend. Gil would mock me relentlessly if he knew.
My watch beeps, telling me it’s time to speed up to my 5K pace of a seven-minute mile. I push a little harder. Now I’m gaining on the female runner ahead of me. Other pedestrians and joggers pass me going in the opposite direction. For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the swishing ponytail of the woman who looks so much like Olivia. I shift my attention to the landmarks. Trees, buildings, mailboxes, flowers in curated patches on the median … and her. I’m gaining on her, and I feel strange.
Just run past her. She’s not Olivia.
My watch beeps, telling me to slow to a 10K pace for the next two minutes. That’s a nine-minute mile for me, probably about the same pace as the woman who is now only about a half-block ahead of me. I slow, which means I’m not going to pass her, except I am gaining on her incrementally. It’s not my fault. This is my regimen. I’ll follow it religiously for a year so I can be in peak condition for the Boston Marathon next April.
The woman turns the corner just ahead of me, and I nearly trip when I see her profile.
It’s her . Or it’s the most convincing doppelganger ever.
I keep my pace, turning the same corner. I’m not intentionally following her. This is my route. My route in my new neighborhood. I’ll run to the park, around the park, and then take these same streets home—to my apartment building.
Why is Olivia here? It’s a Sunday. Maybe she has a friend in the neighborhood and she spent the night? But wouldn’t the friend be running with her? And do women have sleepovers at our age? I don’t even know. For some reason, I imagined Olivia still living at home in the same house where she grew up. Of course she doesn’t. She’s a twenty-eight-year-old woman. She has a home of her own somewhere. Maybe it’s even close by.
She still runs with that same impeccable form—shoulders low and loose, arms moving in an easy, steady rhythm, legs extending but not too far—simultaneously exerting and conserving energy. Her head is high, her back straight. She’s a vision. To watch a seasoned runner of her caliber is like watching artwork in motion.
I’m only about a quarter of a block behind her when my watch beeps again. Time to go back to my faster 5K pace. I have to pass her. There’s no way around it.
Her head turns to the sound of my watch. Our eyes lock. I pick up my pace. She squints at me with a determination that’s all too familiar.
I start to pass her, only to comply with the requirements of my routine. It’s not like we’re actually racing.
Olivia pulls out the stops and picks up her pace. I speed up a little. I need to pass her. She bears down and keeps her lead. I press on, passing her at the next corner and pulling ahead while we’re in the street.
I hear her breath. She’s right behind me to my right, drafting me. She’s keeping up. I’m well aware of the protocol for my training. And I don’t care. I put on a little more gas and pull ahead. Olivia surprises me and matches my effort. She’s still on my heels. I swear I hear her gritting her teeth.
My watch beeps. This is the point where I’m supposed to pour it on for two minutes and run my fastest. I’ve already increased my speed, but now my watch has given me the green light to hold nothing back. I give it my all and start into a full-blown sprint. I hear Olivia right behind me. The distance between us is spreading a bit, but she’s not giving up. She’s still as fierce as ever. She hates losing as much as I do. And she especially hates losing to me.
A small, nearly imperceptible voice that sounds an awful lot like Gil’s whispers something nearly unintelligible about this being an opportunity to relent and let Olivia win for once. But I know Olivia. If I give her the win, we’ll both know it. She’ll resent me even more, if that’s even possible. No. She has to take her own win. I can’t give it to her. So, I keep my speed, running so fast my breath is labored, until my watch beeps again just as I near the park. Time to slow to my nine or ten-minute mile. I drop my pace and Olivia shoots past me, slowing almost immediately and glancing at me over her shoulder.
“What’s your deal, Alexander?” she shouts back to me.
“No deal.”
“Right. Sure.” Her words come out between deep breaths. She’s still running ahead of me.
“I could ask you the same thing. I’m out on my routine run—training. And you show up in my neighborhood …” I inhale and exhale. “Running on a Sunday.”
“I didn’t stalk you, if that’s what you think. I’m on my Sunday run.”
She’s not even looking at me now. Her head is forward as she enters the park and heads down the path—the same path designated by my route.
“I didn’t say you were stalking me,” I tell her. “It’s obvious you’re avoiding me. You wouldn’t stalk the man you’re avoiding. I just find it odd that we’re both here.”
“I wasn’t the one running a half-block behind you at a creepy pace.”
She turns her head just long enough to make eye contact, giving me a pointed squint, and returns her eyes to the path again.
“My pace is not my decision,” I try to explain.
“Yeah. Right. So when you turned my run into a race, that was out of your control too?”
“Basically.”
Olivia turns around, running backward and facing me long enough to give me a full eye roll. Then she turns back and starts running forward in silence.
I don’t know what to say. I’m in marketing. I was in Toastmasters for a number of years. I excel at giving speeches, convincing clients of their needs and my ability to meet those needs. I don’t ever experience stage fright. I’m rarely anxious. Most people would say I’m confident. Gil would say I border on arrogant in my worst moments. This woman has the unique capacity and power to render me tongue-tied and speechless. She always has.
My watch beeps. Time to run at a seven-minute mile pace. That’s faster than she’d normally go, I imagine. Though, at her best in college Olivia ran an awe-inspiring 5:45 minute mile. Olivia kept up with our mid-level guys. She blew the rest of the women away—even in college. And we were a D1 school. She’s always been impressive.
I pick up my pace, passing her at first, unable to muster any explanation or excuse. I can only run. I’ve just passed her. I’m back to focusing on my well-calculated routine, and the only way I can describe what happens next is, it’s on .
Forget the watch. Forget my marathon training. Forget the past ten years of maturity. Olivia and I are back in high school, and we’re competing—hard.
She’s good, too. As she always has been.
I’m stretching my legs, maxing out everything I have. This is supposed to be my seven-minute pace. I’m sure I’m at five something. And she’s not relenting—at all. We’re neck and neck. My watch beeps, and I don’t shift gears. I run until we hit the curve in the path, and then it happens.
There’s a frisbee and a labradoodle. No! It’s two labradoodles, and they’re on a mission. The frisbee stops right in front of us, the dogs jump up, vying for it, the same way Olivia and I are vying for some invisible bragging right. The dogs collide midair. I try to stop short, but my momentum propels me forward. I lose sight of Olivia. I’m toppling over a dog, landing with a thud, cushioned by curls and the mass of warm, panting canine beneath me. Olivia lands across my back with an “Oof!” The doodle squirms out from under me and shakes off the whole experience, chasing the other dog, who got away with the frisbee. The owner runs over to the spot where Olivia and I are splayed on the ground.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No worries. I’m fine,” I tell him.
Somehow, I managed not to injure myself.
“Me too,” Olivia says from over my shoulder. Her body is still pressed onto mine, but she’s wriggling to get up. “Don’t worry. We’re fine.”
“You sure?” the dog owner asks.
“Yeah, yeah. We’re good,” I assure him.
Olivia’s pressing down on my back with one hand, moving to separate herself from me. She stands, and I pop up, brushing the dirt from my legs. I push the button on my watch to pause the tracker.
“Okay,” Olivia says. “That’s enough, Alexander.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She pops one hand onto her hip. “I will be, once I can resume my normal run without you trying to turn it into a contest.”
“I’m not … I didn’t … I …” I stutter like a fool.
Olivia studies me. “Are you okay?”
Her question is perfunctory, like a child being forced to apologize when she’s not truly sorry. Though, her brow does furrow a little. Maybe she is actually concerned.
I nod, and she’s obviously satisfied with my answer, because she shifts gears immediately.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Olivia looks at me as if she’s waiting for a protest. “You’re going to tell me which way you’re going to run. Then I’m going to pick a path—a different path. And we’re both going to run. Separately. Okay?”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to try to speak right now.
“I am going that way.” She points in the direction of my route, not waiting for me to claim a direction after all.
Don’t worry, I don’t have a death wish. I pick another option.
“I’ll go this way,” I assure her, pointing back the way we came.
“Have a nice run,” I tell Olivia before I turn to take off.
Olivia starts running away from me.
She turns and shouts, “I could keep going, you know! I wasn’t even tired. Not a bit.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
Olivia gives me a look that rivals the one Rhett gave me when I abandoned him in my apartment less than a half-hour ago. Then she turns and runs away without another word. I hit the button on my Garmin twice and head the opposite direction, back toward my apartment.
The rest of my run is uneventful and calculated. I’m back to following my routine, changing my cadence with the beeping of my watch. I’m rounding the corner of my street when I see Olivia. Again.
She’s coming toward me from the opposite direction. I consider turning around and running anywhere else just so she doesn’t accuse me of following her. I obviously took the opposite path. She must have left the park out the other side and circled back here from that point. But why?
I reduce my pace even though I’m already running at my slowest for my cool down.
I stop in front of The Serendipity, intending to stretch my calves and quads before I go inside to keep my promise to Rhett.
To my surprise, Olivia slows in front of the building as well. Then she comes to a dead stop. I avoid her eyes, resting my heel at the edge of the bottom step and pulling my toes back by leaning my body in.
“Uh, Logan?”
My first name. She never calls me by my first name. I like the sound of it way too much. It’s coming out breathy after her run. She’s sweaty, rosy-cheeked, and stunning. Yes, I looked. I can’t seem to help myself where Olivia’s concerned.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Stretching.”
“I can see that.” She huffs. “I mean, why are you stretching here?”
“I live here.”
“You … ?”
I turn to face her. Her mouth pops open. Her brows draw in.
“You—you live here?”
“Yes. I just moved in. Last week. When I came back into town. Why?” I search her face.
Then I know. Without a doubt, I am certain. “Do you … live here too?”
She nods, her mouth still slightly agape.
“I moved in last week too.”