5. Ariel Cambridge
Chapter five
Ariel Cambridge
There’s something about watching the sunrise that makes me feel as though the world is at my fingertips.
I can do anything, be anyone. It’s a new day.
A fresh canvas, ready for me to paint in whatever way I like.
On a typical morning, I’d be lacing up my running shoes and going for a relaxing jog around my quiet neighborhood.
The sun would rise over the idyllic pond.
I’d wave to Mr. and Mrs. Leapold, who drink their morning coffee on the bench together.
Their smiles and interlocked hands would renew my hope for true love.
Today, however, I’m in my car before sunrise, heading to Brock’s house. Hopefully, after a week of pestering him about sleeping in his office, he’ll be at home. I wouldn’t put it past him to be stubborn enough to stay on his futon to spite me, though.
I take a sip of my electrolyte water as I turn onto his road, wishing the liquid were coffee.
But if I plan on goading Brock into a run, I’ll need the hydration.
After combing the internet the past few days, I determined that all of the ways to help Brock relax are going to be things that will annoy him.
That’s a bonus for me, but I’m not sure how it will affect his blood pressure.
There’s only one way to find out, though, which is why I’m breaking my usual routine.
The drive to his house is shorter than I thought it would be. It messes with my perception to know all that separates our lives is a ten-minute drive. We’ve been living separately since we went off to college, our paths only crossing when Sutton was present. Until now.
I pull into his driveway and put my car in park.
His house is exactly how I pictured it: a sleek, modern bachelor-style look with clean lines and neutral colors.
The landscaping is simple, with a few flowerless shrubs lining the front.
The predictable design helps settle Brock back into the category he’s lived in for years: my best friend’s annoying twin brother.
Just because he lives close by, and I’m walking up to his door at five-thirty in the morning, doesn’t mean that’s changed.
I knock on his front door, then see there’s a doorbell, so I ring that too. Twice, for good measure. I’m not sure if he’s home, since he likely parks his fancy sports car in the garage, but if he is, I want to make sure he knows I’m here.
My gaze wanders as I wait. There are no chairs, plants, or decorations of any kind on the small porch.
Only immaculate gray concrete as far as the eye can see.
I frown. He doesn’t even have a welcome mat.
I ring the bell twice more, then a third time, because odd numbers are better than even ones.
The door swings open as the third chime echoes through the morning air.
A disheveled and decidedly furious Brock stands before me. He’s wearing sweatpants and a crumpled black dress shirt that make his brown eyes look even darker. Or maybe that’s the anger.
“You don’t have a welcome mat,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“What?” The one-word question sounds like a snarl.
“Where are your guests supposed to wipe off their shoes?” I point to my chunky white tennis shoes. “I could track dirt all through your house.”
“Why are you here?” Brock asks, his voice raspy from sleep. He rakes a hand through his mussed hair.
“We’re going on a run,” I say with a smile he doesn’t return.
“No, we’re not.”
“Unless you want your sister to get a very unfortunate wake-up call, yes, we are.”
“How is this supposed to help me?” he growls. “I barely get enough–” He stops before confessing his lack of sleep.
I raise a brow. “You barely get enough, what? Brain cells? Common sense? I already knew both of those things, but don’t worry, you can follow me on the run so you don’t get lost.” I add a hint of patronization to my tone.
His jaw clenches. I wait with a smile.
“I despise you.”
I place my palm over my heart like he delivered a sincere compliment. “I know. It fuels me. Now go get changed so I can run circles around you before I have to get ready for work.”
After another icy glare, he shuts the door in my face. The grin stretching my lips might be a sign of some kind of issue on my part, but I’ll pack that away for another time. I’m focused on Brock’s many problems right now.
A minute or two passes before he opens the door again. He’s changed into black running shorts and a matching fitted shirt. With my black tank top and leggings, we look like we chose to match. Like a couple . I scrunch up my nose at the thought.
“What’s your problem now?” Brock asks as he closes the door behind him.
“I’m in close proximity to you . There are too many issues to name.”
“Please tell me you don’t talk as much while you run,” he says, exasperated.
“If I did, you wouldn’t know, because you’ll be ten feet behind me,” I shoot back as we walk down the driveway to the sidewalk.
“Do you really think you’re going to beat me, Duke?” he asks, starting to sound more like the Brock I used to know. “I was the fastest skater in the league.”
He’s not lying. When he was in high school and college, he was a blur on the ice. I used to go to hockey games with Sutton sometimes, and it was a thing to behold. But that was years ago, and I doubt Brock’s set foot on the ice in a long time.
“Yeah, in college . Face it, Carolina, you’re washed up.” I smirk.
He chuckles as he grabs his ankle and pulls it behind him in a quad stretch.
His leg muscle flexes with the movement, showing that maybe he’s not as washed up as I teased him about.
I tear my gaze away before he can catch me staring and stretch myself.
We both do a few high knees to warm up, then I look at him.
“There’s a cul-de-sac at the end of this road.” He points, and in the distance, I can see the rounded curve of homes. “First one there and back wins.”
It’s maybe half a mile in total. I run at least five miles most mornings, though not at the break-neck speed I imagine I’ll need to keep up with Brock.
I nod. “Deal.”
We position ourselves. I didn’t plan on actually racing Brock, but now that it’s happening…
determination sets in. I’m not sure what my odds of winning are.
Sure, he looks in shape, but when has he had time to work out with all that he does?
And I bet he focuses on weight lifting over cardio. I square my shoulders. I’ve got this.
“Wait,” Brock says, breaking my concentration. He grabs my upper arms and moves me to his left, so he’s the one closest to the road. The warmth of his palms on my skin, combined with the unexpected gesture, has me feeling disconcerted.
“Are you trying to throw me off?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says in a flat voice. “You caught me. I moved you away from traffic because I wanted to throw you off your nonexistent game.”
“ Nonexistent –”
He cuts me off. “On go.”
I huff and get in position again.
“Three…two…one, go!”
I take off. The early morning breeze blows back wisps of hair framing my face. I keep my eyes ahead on the rising sun above the quiet neighborhood. Brock suspiciously keeps pace with me. I expected him to fall back or push ahead, not stay right next to me. I push myself harder.
My eyes cut to Brock. His gaze is straight ahead, his jaw sharp and set.
It doesn’t look like this is difficult for him.
He glances my way, and I jerk my head back forward.
I think I hear him let out a laugh as I work to gain some ground on him.
I should probably pace myself, but I don’t know anything about racing.
I started running in college as a way to center myself before the day began.
There was no competition. Occasionally, I try to shave a few seconds off of my time, but nothing that requires me to push myself to extreme lengths.
I enjoy my lead for a moment, relishing in the fact that this isn’t even my full speed. We round the cul-de-sac with Brock a step behind me.
“Like I said, washed up,” I call over my shoulder. I can’t resist taunting him a little. Maybe if I bruise his ego enough, he’ll realize he’s not right about everything and listen to me when I help him.
He doesn’t say anything in return. He stays a step behind me, much too close for comfort, until we start to close in on his house.
Then he speeds up, back to being shoulder-to-shoulder with me and taking the side closest to the road once more.
I crank up my speed, forcing my lungs and legs to work overtime and get me back in the lead.
Brock starts to pass me in spite of that.
He looks as though it’s easy. Has he been holding back this whole time?
There’s only one way to win now, and it’s not going to be playing fair. I make sure no cars are coming before I knock my shoulder into him. He stumbles to the side a little, laughing.
“Really? So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asks through labored breaths as I pass him again.
My car gleams like a shining beacon beneath the rising sun. Just a few more steps and–Brock bumps into me, launching me into the grass of his front yard. I lose my footing and hit the ground. It’s not a hard fall. My pride is hurt more than anything else.
I watch as Brock passes the ‘finish line’ with raised arms.
He turns around to face me with a smile. I lean back on the grass to catch my breath as he jogs over.
“You all right, Duke?” He drops down to the ground beside me.
“Just–peachy,” I say in between deep breaths.
“So what were you saying earlier about me being washed up?” he teases as he lays down next to me on the grass. His arm presses against mine.
“Congrats, you cheated and beat an average runner. I’m sure the entire hockey world is dying for you to come out of retirement.”
He laughs. My lips twitch at the sound.
“I can’t believe you’re calling me a cheater when you tried to push me into the road. What if I had gotten hit by a car?”
“A girl can dream,” I mumble.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a villainess?”
I smile. “No, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “You would.”
We fall into silence. Streaks of peach, pink, and blue paint the sky above us.
Birdsong floats on the breeze like music notes.
My breathing slows. That feeling of newness and endless possibilities rises in my chest. This may not have been my normal routine, but it was fun.
And if it helped Brock loosen up a little, then it was worth it.
I let my head loll toward him. His gaze is set on the sky, but his brow is furrowed instead of relaxed.
I’m about to ask him what he’s thinking when he says, “I should go get ready for work.”
My hopeful morning sours. So much for thinking this helped. He can’t go five seconds without thinking about work.
“Yeah, me too,” I say in a tight voice, then push myself to my feet. “See you later.”
I walk to my car feeling more defeated than when I watched him beat me.
I sigh. This is going to be a long journey.