Epilogue
Olivia
Life's a marathon, not a sprint.
~ Phillip C. McGraw
Logan and I have been dating for almost a year.
But that’s not what we’re celebrating on the rooftop garden of The Serendipity tonight.
We’re actually up here, at a bistro table Logan set up for us, each of us with a giant bowl of pasta and a small portion of grilled chicken set in front of us. We’re carb loading mid-afternoon. It’s not exactly lunchtime, and it’s definitely too early for a usual dinner.
I’m finally running the Boston Marathon. And Logan insisted on buddy running with me, which means all his diligent training regimens resulted in no gain to him since he’ll run at my pace and end as a finisher with a time that resembles a strong recreational woman runner, not a nearly elite male athlete.
He said he’d rather prioritize supporting me over achieving his personal record. Sacrifice has become a constant in our relationship—and not just on Logan’s part. We both bend when needed if it means helping the other person shine. We’ve come a long way from the rivals we once were. Not that we don’t still compete. We wouldn’t be us if we didn’t challenge one another from time to time. And we always race those last few blocks back to The Serendipity on our morning runs.
“Are you nervous?” Logan asks me.
I glance around the rooftop at the greenery one of the tenants, Sophie, tends up here. The rows of raised beds full of flowers and vining plants feel like an extension of her sunshiny personality. Nothing looks perfectly matched or overly cultivated. Instead, there’s a natural beauty that comes from the blending of all the plants she’s chosen. You might even say the ambiance is magical.
“I’m not exactly nervous. We’ve prepared all year. I know about Heartbreak Hill. I’m mentally taking myself through the racecourse, slowing my initial pace for those first four downhill miles. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I think so too. And I’ll be right with you all the way.” Logan’s eyes are soft and gentle.
“You don’t have to be. Here’s your last chance to go with the first wave of runners. You don’t have to start in corral three with me and the other second wave qualifiers.”
“What if I want that extra twenty minutes to sleep in?” he winks at me.
“Far be it from me to come between you and your sleep schedule.”
Logan takes my hand in his. “Nothing would keep me from running with you on your first marathon. I want to cross the finish line together.”
“Thank you.”
He lifts our enjoined hands and kisses my wrist. Then he plants kisses up my forearm.
His eyes peer up at me, a roguish grin on his face. Goosebumps raise as the bristle on his jawline gently scrapes the delicate skin on my arm. He plants one more soft kiss on my wrist and I shiver.
“I love you, Olivia.” Logan’s voice is soft and serious.
He intertwines our fingers and runs his thumb across my knuckles.
“I love you, too,” I answer him quietly, the depth of what I feel for him filling every empty space in my heart, as if he was always meant to be mine.
He tells me daily, multiple times a day, and it never gets old hearing how he loves me.
We dig into our pasta. Rhett lays at our feet, sleeping. He’s uncharacteristically calm.
After our carefully curated dinner, Logan clears the dishes, and we walk downstairs. As I pass one of the vines, a flower blooms right before my eyes. I pause.
“Did you see that?” I ask Logan.
“The flower?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it’s one of those ones that blooms when people pass by.”
“I think that’s supposed to happen when the sun comes out or goes down.”
“Maybe your shadow tricked it into thinking it was sunset.”
“Maybe. But wouldn’t that cause it to shrivel, not bloom?”
“Unless it’s a night bloom.”
“Huh. Yeah. Maybe.”
An hour later, I’m throwing my travel duffel into Logan’s trunk. We take off for Boston an hour before sunset. I spend the drive repeatedly visualizing the racecourse. Logan and I have taken regular trips to Boston over the past year, practicing different legs of the run so I wouldn’t be running blind. We drink a ton of water and electrolytes as we make our way to Boston. I have to stop twice on our short drive to run into a gas station to use the restroom.
We arrive at our hotel a few hours later. Logan and I take a short, relaxing walk, and then he kisses me goodnight in front of my room. Before I fall asleep, I lay out my race outfit, attaching my bib to my shirt, and checking all my gear and energy supplements for tomorrow’s big run.
The next morning, we board a runners’ shuttle in Copley Square to get to Hopkinton and the start of the race. Logan respects my need for quiet. I have on noise-cancelling headphones, and I’m breathing through the nerves that sprung up as soon as I woke this morning. His hand is on my knee, an anchor to my unsteadiness.
We gather in the third corral for our wave. Over a thousand other runners surround us. A total of around eight thousand will take off at the same time we do. The energy is electric. People are smiling or stretching. Some are focused, tuning out the hum around them. Others are chatting up the athletes around them.
Logan grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m right here. I’ll cheer you over the line.”
“Not if I cheer you over first,” I tease him.
He leans in, kisses the top of my head, and steps back. “Don’t ever change, Pennington.”
“You either, Alexander.”
Megan and Lynette are somewhere in the crowd near the starting line with both my parents and Logan’s. Gil and Maisy couldn’t make it. Genevive, their new baby, is still too young to endure the trip and hang out in a crowd this big all day. There’s no way to pick our family and friends out from the thousands of people surrounding us, but knowing they’re here gives me an extra boost of energy and motivation.
A hush comes over the runners. Moments later, the gun fires and we’re off, pacing ourselves and moving like a stampede out of our corral. Logan’s to my left, running at my pace but setting the overall cadence, just like we practiced. He’s our pacer. His job will be to make sure we don’t overexert ourselves at any point.
We conserve our energy the first six miles through Hopkinton. The crowds grow and the course levels out through Ashland. I’m feeling pretty good. Logan and I have settled into our pace. Spectators hold up signs, and people cheer as we pass. Our focus is on hydration and recovery during the next four miles through Framingham.
We approach Wellesley College around mile twelve. There’s a famous spot called “Scream Tunnel.” Students and spectators line the course, many of them holding signs that say, KISS ME … and something funny afterward. My eyes catch on a woman who is definitely over seventy years old. Her sign says, IF YOU THINK I’M SEXY, KEEP RUNNING!
I laugh. Laughing slows me down for a minute, but then I feel more energized.
I look over at Logan. “Did you see her?”
“Second sexiest woman in Boston!” he shouts over to me.
I giggle, and we continue to run.
Then I see Megan. She’s holding a sign and screaming like it’s her job. “Go Olivia!!!!! Go Logan!!!!” Her sign says MY BESTIE IS A BEASTIE.
I wave at her, and she shouts louder. Lynette stands next to her, with Cassidy on her shoulders. She’s shouting, “Go Liv!” And Cassidy is yelling, “Go Aunt Olivia!”
I run faster, fueled by their cheers.
The next time we see our family and friends is in the Newton Hills, somewhere around mile eighteen. I’m slagging. My legs feel like two lead weights.
“I want to quit,” I tell Logan. “We haven’t even hit Heartbreak Hill yet.”
“Slow down,” he says. “Pace yourself. You didn’t come here to quit.”
“I did. I think … I came … to quit.” I take puffs of breaths between my words.
I made it twenty miles. That’s enough. I don’t have it in me to do the next six blocks, let alone the remaining miles.
“You did not.” Logan’s voice is patient.
“How are you not dying right now?” I huff out between gasps for breath.
“I’m focused on you and the next little stretch in front of me.”
“What do I get if I keep going?” I ask him.
“You get a kiss.”
I’d roll my eyes if I had the energy.
“Take some Gu,” Logan advises. “We’re coming up on a water station.”
I pull the packet of energy gel from my belt, tear the pouch and squeeze it into my mouth over the next few strides. We reach the water station, and a volunteer hands me a disposable cup. I slow to nearly a walk and take sips while I still move forward. Then I crumple the cup and toss it to the ground. My energy lifts, my mind feels a little sharper. I can do this. My legs even feel a bit lighter.
“I’m ready,” I tell Logan.
“Let’s go show those hills who’s boss!”
I focus ahead, but then I hear my name being called by a group of people off to the side in the middle of the crowd of spectators.
“Olivia! Olivia! Go!” and then, “Go, Logan!”
I look to my right. Mom, Dad, Logan’s parents, Megan, and Lynette are all jumping around and shouting our names, waving their handmade signs, and cheering.
Tears form in my eyes. I straighten up, and my stride lengthens. I wave at my family and keep running.
We’re silent and focused over the infamous Heartbreak Hill, and when we crest that massive incline, Logan looks over at me and says, “We’ve got six miles to go. Six miles, Olivia.”
He musters a smile. I can’t tell if he’s actually as relaxed and comfortable as he seems, or if he’s feigning the appearance of a man who could run another fifty miles for fun.
“Six miles is our weekend run,” he says. “You’ve got this! And it’s mostly downhill from here.”
We take off for the final six miles past Cleveland Circle, Kenmore Square, and the iconic Citgo sign near Fenway Park. The crowds grow larger and louder as we approach the finish line on Boylston Street.
“One mile!” I shout to Logan. “That sign means one mile!”
My muscles ache. I think I have blisters on every toe and my heels. My side has a cramp in it that started back on the hills about seven miles ago. I’m exhausted.
One. More. Mile.
Tears start to stream down my face as I recall all the runs Logan and I have taken over the past year to prepare for this race, all the times we drove out here to practice running pieces of the course. I recall the years I ran cross country and track in high school and college. And most of all, for some unknown reason, I think of Logan, how I despised him and avoided him. How my mission was to outrun him in every single event or activity. And now, we’re approaching the finish line together—because he chose us. He gave up needing to win so he could be by my side. His personal best is going down in history today. Because running next to me is Logan Alexander, the man I love with my whole heart, at his best, supporting me.
The finish line comes into sight. We’re running at the pace Logan set for us. Not too fast, but not slow either. There’s not a spot on my body that doesn’t ache, but I’m exhilarated and energized as we push through the pain.
Logan looks over at me.
This is our moment.
We planned this. If I nod at him, we’ll do what we planned.
I nod.
He nods back.
We pick up our pace. I pull from reserves I didn’t know I had.
The crowd roars.
Logan and I press on, our strides matched in a near sprint, until we run over the timing mats, neck and neck, tied, cheering one another over the line.
The large clock displays the time since the starting gun shot. Three hours, forty-two minutes.
I fall to my knees, gasping for air. Logan towers over me, a smile so bright and full I almost forget the exhaustion threatening to pull me under.
A volunteer is at my side in an instant.
“Are you okay?”
“I am,” I assure her.
Tears stream down my face as I slowly get to my feet with her help. Logan’s steady hand falls onto my shoulder. The volunteer moves me out of the way of other runners passing through behind us. She presses a water bottle into my trembling hands.
Once we’re up the block from the finish line, another volunteer approaches me and Logan. She’s carrying two ribbons. She loops one over my neck. “Congratulations on finishing the Boston Marathon.”
I grasp the medal and hold on to it, fresh tears falling.
She turns to Logan and places the medal over his head. “Congratulations on finishing the Boston Marathon.”
Logan pulls me into a hug. I squeeze him and hold on. We did it. We ran this race and finished strong. We crossed that line together.
Another volunteer wraps us in space blankets, thermal foil coverings to help us retain our body heat. She ushers us along through the crowd to keep the flow of the thirty thousand athletes moving.
Once we’re out of the way, I crack open the bottle and take a long draw, gulping down water as if I haven’t had a drink in days. Then I hand it to Logan, and he chugs almost all of what’s left.
We make our way to a spot where volunteers are handing out more water, sports drinks, protein bars, and bananas.
Logan loops his arm around my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, Olivia. You are a rock star.”
“Thank you,” I say, clasping my medal and smiling up at him. “Are you even hurting?”
“I feel the burn, yes.”
We down our electrolyte drinks, and then Logan grabs my hand and we weave through the crowd to the spot where we’re meeting our families and Megan a few blocks from the finish line. My legs ache the whole walk. Logan and I are quiet, sharing private glances every so often. Mostly, I’m taking in the whole experience and feeling more bone tired and sore than I ever recall feeling in my life.
We make it to Stuart Street, where our family and thousands of other spectators are waiting in zones demarcated alphabetically by runners’ last names. We told our family to gather at the “A” sign for Alexander.
I see Megan first out of all our family and friends. She runs over to me and pulls me into a hug, and my tears fall all over again.
“You did it!” she shouts when she releases me.
I smile. “We did it.”
She looks over at Logan and winks.
He drops my hand. Megan grabs his hand to shake it. She’s acting weird.
She pumps Logan’s hand up and down. “You made it. Good job, Logan.”
I look between the two of them.
Logan turns to me and he drops to one knee.
It takes me a second to realize what he’s doing.
He clears his throat, staring at me with so much love and tenderness, I nearly buckle.
“Olivia, you challenge me like no one else. You make me a better man than I would ever be without you. You bring excitement to my life. And you settle me in ways I’ve never known possible. Gil said it when I first started working at Barnes. In you, I’ve met my match.”
Logan smiles up at me. I’m staring down at him in disbelief.
“You are the best woman I know. You’re my best friend, my best competitor, and my best cheerleader.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. We’re both still wrapped in our thermal blankets. We’re sweaty and sore, and my head is swimming with emotion.
“Beyond all that, I want to promise you something. I told you last year that I vowed to never overlook you, to always consider you. I want to vow more than that. I want to be by your side, to give you my best and to walk alongside you in our worst. I want to love you every day of my life and I want to raise a family with you. Olivia Pennington, I am so madly in love with you. Will you be my wife?”
“Yes!” I shout the word so loudly, people around us turn to see what’s going on. A collective “Awwww” rises from the crowd around us.
I feel all the eyes on us—that is, until my eyes find Logan’s again. He’s standing from his spot on the ground, carefully, with a wince as he rises to his full height.
He takes my hand in his, his eyes still riveted to mine. I extend my hand and Logan places the ring on my finger. Then he leans in and kisses me in front of our families, Megan, and all the crowd gathered to greet their loved ones at the end of the marathon.
Logan’s kiss is like an oasis. He’s my safe place, my partner, the man I trust more than anyone else in the world. We’ve grown up together, and in this past year we’ve grown past the hurt and beyond our old patterns to bring out the best in one another. Logan tugs me close, and I loop my arms around his neck.
He bends in and kisses me again, brushing his mouth next to my ear before we pull apart. “You did it, Pennington. You conquered the Boston Marathon.”
“And I got the prize,” I say, cupping his jaw and staring up at him.
Logan glances around at the crowd of onlookers. Then he shouts, “She said yes!” and the crowd cheers, claps, and whistles.
He reaches over and swipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I smile up at Logan, my biggest rival who has turned into my greatest cheerleader and the love of my life, and I whisper, “It was always you.”
Logan leans in, placing his mouth near my ear again so only I can hear him, and he says, “And it will always be you for me, Pennington. Always and only you.”
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