Chapter 10
Sloane
Istarted setting my alarm when I moved back home, just to keep some semblance of normalcy.
I didn’t want to be sleeping in until midday…
those days are over. So, imagine my surprise when I didn’t hear the blaring siren of my alarm.
Instead I woke to birdsong, and instantly I knew it was later than usual, but actually that’s okay today because I feel great.
I’m not even going to stress about how my alarm magically disappeared.
My brain is fizzing with the aftershocks of yesterday, like my neurons are soaked in caffeine. The ceiling is dancing with light reflecting off the pool. It looks like the sky…like a place where good things happen.
I do a full inventory of my body. Limbs accounted for and heartbeat normal, chest cavity not caving in under panic-induced pressure.
The anxiety is still present, and I know it always will be, but it’s background static—there, but not dictating my every move.
It’s so weird I actually laugh out loud, which triggers a second, startled laugh. Is this what a good morning feels like?
I’ve felt better for some time, but after yesterday’s impromptu pool party, I feel…well, complete. I feel like me again.
I reach for my phone. There are no messages, no missed calls from Eden or Becca or Bella. Just a text from my mom, time stamped 2:03 a.m.
Mom
Hey sweetheart, hope you’re ok, late night ice cream if u want :)
I missed it because Eden and I talked until nearly midnight, then I lay awake, replaying the entire conversation until the words ran together and I drifted off mid-thought.
I never used to sleep well after “emotionally significant events,” but apparently the universe has decided to give me a pass this once.
You
Wide awake a plotting, planning silence. By the time I’m finished I’ve got a rough timeline in my head. First I need to research licensing and build a website. Second, see if anyone in town actually wants a personal trainer or sports physio.
I rinse my plate, refill my coffee, and head back to the pool house with a sense of purpose. On the walk, my phone vibrates—a text from Eden. It’s a link to a charity run for the local LGBTQIA+ center in town, along with a message.
Eden
I said we’d start slow, didn’t I? Join me? No pressure if you’re not up for it. But I hope you are.
I grin so hard it hurts my face. Forced exercise is where we began…it’s where we are comfortable.
I reply before I have time to question it.
You
I will absolutely be there. Let’s get the band back together. You, me, and whoever else can be bribed with rainbow wristbands and post-run milkshakes from Benny’s.
Within seconds, Eden’s typing bubbles bounce up and down.
Eden
I’m bringing the world’s ugliest sneakers, don’t judge. It’s Bella’s fault! Also, what’s our team name? Runner puns required!
If there’s one thing my brain is good at, it’s sorting chaos into categories. But rather than go full Type A, I let myself enjoy the playful volley. I do an internal squeal when Eden adds me to the group text chain. Eden, me, Becca, Bella, Jenna and even Pia.
You
Team name ideas: Sweatual Healing? Toe-riffic? Can’t Even Run Straight? Open to suggestions.
I giggle to myself as I watch the others type their responses. Bella chimes in immediately with Runner-Up Gays. Then Becca: The Bi-athloners. Eden’s is my favorite: Don’t Stop Retrievin’. She’s such a nerd!
The event’s not for three weeks, but already there’s a pre-run pasta dinner scheduled at my place. I’m more than happy to host. I think I owe them all a few home-cooked meals.
I text Eden privately to say thanks for the invite. It means a lot. She replies with a winky emoji and a rock on hand sign.
My chest grows warm, a weird combination of pride and nostalgia. I file it away for later, along with a few more outlandish team names. Les-bionic Sprinters is a dark horse contender.
The afternoon is one long, caffeine-fueled productivity session. I watch YouTube videos, draft a first-pass business plan, and buy a cheesy motivational poster that says, “Progress Over Perfection.”
Eden will find it funny.
Mom brings by lemon bars and pretends not to hover. I let her, just this once. It’s nice to have someone invested in the idea as much as I am.
At dusk, I trade work mode for leggings and a playlist. I run the trail up to the lookout, keeping an easy pace and checking in with myself at every turn. No panic attack. No spiraling. Just a little soreness in my calves and a sense of I did it, at least for today.
I imagine a future where this isn’t remarkable, where I can tell Dr. Chen about my “boring” week and mean it. Where I wake up to birdsong, eat eggs with my mom, plan impossible things with people I love, and don’t always feel the shadow waiting to yank the rug out.
When I get home, my phone is waiting with one more message. It’s from Becca. I can’t describe how good it feels to see her and the rest of my friends’ names popping up on my phone screen again.
Becca
Okay, but like…are we doing coordinated outfits? And don’t say no because you KNOW it will be fucking epic!
I send back a video of me in the blue henley I’m wearing, flexing my moderate guns.
You
Training starts now. See you at the finish line.
She responds with a row of rainbow hearts and a single word: Legend!
I laugh and toss the phone aside, then stand for a long time at the window, watching the pool light dance across the ceiling. It’s beautiful and ordinary and enough.
The next week passes on a low, happy hum.
I plug away at research, surprising myself with the rabbit holes I’m willing to go down about small business strategy and insurance options.
I print out a blank calendar and start mapping out goals.
Mom gets excited and starts mailing me inspirational TED Talk links, which I ignore, but it’s sweet.
Every day I run, ticking off training for the charity event.
No one expects us to win. That’s not the point.
The group text thread is my new lifeline.
It’s all memes and strategic shitposts, but under the jokes there’s this thrum of support I haven’t felt since before everything went sideways.
Even Pia, who I honestly thought would murder me the second she laid eyes on me again, offers words of support and acceptance.
Eden is captain by default, even though she claims not to believe in hierarchies. She sends out training playlists and motivational GIFs with increasing frequency. I have to admit Eden’s confidence is catching.
It’s also hilarious when I think back to how she fought exercise with everything she had back in high school. The pouting and sulking. The time she could barely walk the distance from her house to school.
Now she’s knocking out charity runs like she was born with running sneakers attached to her feet.
The night before the run, Eden invites us all over for a “strategy session.” Which really means we’ll carb load on snacks and come up with team chants.
Mom offers to drive me because I think she’s secretly hoping Eden will offer to bring me home, or I’ll stay over. My mom hasn’t been very subtle lately in her hopes that Eden and I will work things out romantically.
Eden’s place is a third-floor walk-up that smells like cold brew and thrift store candles. It makes me a little sad because I thought it would be me and her living together in this kind of apartment.
Eden is waiting at the door when I arrive, a rainbow bandana already knotted at her forehead, and an oversized band muscle tee.
Bella and Becca are snuggled on the couch, sharing a giant bag of Doritos.
I give them a little wave, suddenly aware I’m the only one who brought bottled water and not something in a twelve-pack, but no one calls me out. Instead, it’s a chorus of “Slooo-ane!” and awkward group hug energy.