Chapter 8 Mile Eight
MILE EIGHT
LET ME TAKE YOU TO DINNER
Sweet relief. Arms stretched over my head, I arch my back and let out a contented sigh.
The action eases the tense muscles in my back.
It’s not just the stiffness from sitting in front of my computer for the last two hours, but the quiet groans of my body thanks to two mornings in a row of pre-dawn runs on the treadmill.
Before Garrett left on Sunday, he oriented me to the treadmill.
He even figured out that it’s a newer model that offers audible instruction and showed me how to access that.
I’m grateful, but right now the ache in my calves hates him for it.
Although, my body may be even more angry after our first training session this evening.
Sighing, I tap on my keyboard. It’s just after eleven, and my morning has been consumed by drafting this grant application.
If it’s approved, it will allow me to establish an access technology center on campus.
The project has been a dream since I attended Pemberly University for undergrad.
Technology is a game-changer for so many disabled people.
It opens up entire experiences once denied to us.
This costs money, though. As a private university, there are limited resources for disability services.
At least that’s what the administration claims each year when my boss submits our department’s budget.
In my experience, the needs of disabled people are often an afterthought in most spaces.
This grant will supplement our small budget to build a center beyond the two computers in our department’s waiting area and the lone volunteer who does workshops every few months.
“Hey, my diva,” Catherine announces in her sing-song lilt.
“Hey, my queen!” Grinning, I pull out the earbud I use to listen to my computer’s screen reader while working.
“I’ve got treats!” She shakes something in front of her.
The clank clank of items hitting a tin container is a welcome song in my ears. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Maple candy courtesy of Grandma Flores.” She plops down in the lone chair in front of my desk.
Clapping my hands together, I do a wiggly dance in my chair.
One of my favorite things about my bestie is our insatiable sweet tooths.
Between my bakery-owning parents who send pastries on the regular and her grandparents’ candy shop—now run by her older brother—we hook each other up with all the treats.
“So good.” Head tipped back, I moan with the first bite.
“Thought you’d enjoy a ‘Holy Shit I’m Running a Marathon’ treat.”
“I don’t think that name would fit on a label.” Laughter curls my lips.
“This is why I write novels—at least, attempt to. Leave the quippy candy names to my brother. Hector is way better at that.” She bites into one of the sweets.
I frown. “No luck pushing through the writer’s block?”
Like many English professors, Catherine has literary ambitions.
Half the department is either published or working on books.
However, most of them are academic in nature.
Studies of the Brontes impact on modern feminism, literary analysis of translated works from the antiquities and several essay collections make up her colleague’s publications.
Catherine’s work is less academic, but more important—in my opinion.
“The tension! It’s three chapters in, and they already want to smash.” Head tipped back, she lets out a dramatic whine.
Laughter vibrates in my chest. Besides a deep love of sweets, Catherine and I are voracious romance readers.
So much so that Catherine is writing a modern-day sapphic Jane Eyre retelling that explores the intersection of race, class, gender, and mental health.
Knowing Catherine, it will also serve the most delicious spicy scenes.
Give me all the layered exploration of deeper themes but toss in someone bent over a desk or pressed up against a wall. Yes, and thank you.
“Nothing wrong with a little chapter three visit to O-town.” I waggle my brows.
“Absolutely not!” She waves her finger. “What would Charlotte Bronte say? It cannot happen that quickly. As sexy as the Brontes are, Jane and Edwina Rochester can’t bang it out that early.
It needs angst. I need the readers to scream at the page.
Delayed gratification is very Bronte. Not to mention it’s oh-so-sweet. ”
“Says the woman”—I shake the open candy tin sitting between us on my desk— “whom I’m eighty-five percent positive snuck a few pieces before bringing this to me.”
“Jensen Antoinette Larsen—” she gasps. “I would never…admit to that.”
“Worst middle name ever!” I scrunch my nose and let out a chuckling groan.
She pushes her glasses atop her short black bob.
“Also, it’s my moral obligation to ensure you don’t overindulge on the sweet treats before your training session with Medical Mr. Darcy.
Wouldn’t want you to puke your guts out in front of one of the men you’ve sworn off but somehow got yourself more entangled with by running a marathon with him. ”
“First, I am only training with Garrett. He’s just a substitute until Anker recovers.” I point to my right wrist. “Second, I have a plan. Each time I have inappropriate feelings for Garrett, I’m going to snap this rubber band.”
“Are you trying to Pavlov’s dog your crush away?” She guffaws.
“Sort of… I want to rewire my brain about the men I choose, and while I’m working on that with Dr Nor, this will help me check those impulses.”
“And this is something Dr. Nor recommends?”
I pick up another piece of candy and lean back in my chair. “Not exactly. Since I was supposed to be in New York for Anker’s race this week, our regular appointment isn’t until next week. So, I’m improvising.”
She reaches across the desk and threads our fingers.
“Take this with a grain of salt from a woman who maintains a borderline inappropriate emotional affair via texting with her high school crush; if at any point training with Garrett isn’t good for you, walk away.
I like Garrett. The sometimes broody male main character energy aside, he’s a good guy.
Anker and your birthday party reinforced that for me. ”
With just a few weeks between my birthday and my brother’s, we’ve held joint parties for most of our lives.
It was easier for my parents, but I also think it was a little to make me not feel so bad about my parties not being well-attended the few years we held separate ones.
That holds true even today. My brother hosts at his place, and outside of Catherine, my boss Andrew and his husband, and one or two random people, the party is full of my brother’s friends and colleagues.
“What did Garrett do at the party?” I ask.
“Miles brought pineapple champagne that I am positive he’d snagged from the English department’s back-to-school Hawaiian-themed mixer they’d had a few weeks prior.”
“But I drank the champagne he’d brought me for my birthday.” My face twists in confusion.
Garrett offered to open it and brought me a glass. There’s no way it was pineapple. I have a rare allergy to pineapple, kiwi, and papaya that causes mouth irritation and skin rashes. None of which happened after the two glasses I had consumed.
“Except you didn’t. I saw Garrett dump it down the drain before he poured you a glass from a different bottle. You know…the kind that wouldn’t result in you going to urgent care on your birthday.” She shakes her head. “Miles really is the worst.”
“I technically met him because of you.” I smirk.
“True, but I never endorsed him. The Wickham and Willoughby types may be fun for a bit, but they are no good for your heart.”
“Or overall health, apparently.” I blow out a long breath. “I didn’t know Garrett did that.”
She shrugs. “I don’t think he realized I’d spotted him doing it, but I’m not surprised. He always has your back, which is why I am both unworried about him being your running guide and also terrified. While I know Garrett would never hurt you, it doesn’t mean you may not still get hurt by him.”
Deep in my bones, I know she’s right. Garrett would never intentionally hurt me.
At least, not in the way other men have.
It doesn’t mean I can’t still have my heart broken.
Not by him, but due to this crush. It’s why it’s called a crush, because unrequited feelings have the power to break us into a million pieces like a boot coming down on a glass. I know this better than anyone.
“Just take care of yourself,” she murmurs.
“I will. I promise.” My mouth ticks up. “You’re a good friend, Catherine. I’m lucky to have you in my life.”
She clicks her tongue. “Could you mention that to the hiring panel before my interview next week?”
“Hiring panel?” My eyes go wide. “Did you get an interview?”
“Yep.” She stands and shimmies.
“What!” I jump up, rounding the desk to hug her. “Look at you, Ms. Future Associate Professor!”
Since getting her doctorate three years ago, Catherine has been an adjunct at Pemberly and at two nearby community colleges. Academia is notorious for its difficulty to land adjunct positions, let alone full-time gigs like the associate professor one my bestie is up for.
“I have to get the job first.”
“Details.” I swat the air. “Do you want to do a mock interview this weekend? I do a mean stuffy male English professor impression”—I pitch my voice low— “Dr. Flores-O’Brien, how will your literary badassery translate to the classroom?”
She snorts. “God, you sound like Dr. Reynolds. Never do that again!”
“What? You don’t find it sexy?” Batting my eyes, I prolong her torture with my terrible impression.
“I need a new best friend,” she groans.