Chapter 12 #2
“If we were married, at least I would have gotten cake, instead of just Garrett’s award-winning personality,” I pretend to pout.
“I messaged my proposal, and you didn’t read it, so you lost out on cake,” he quips.
“Be still my ever-beating heart. Proposal via text message is peak romance.” Hand on my forehead, I mock-swoon.
Andrew chortles.
“Come on, sassy mouth, we’ve got work to do.” Garrett spins me and ushers me out of the office with a bump of his chest against my back.
“So bossy.” A grin—that I know matches Garrett’s from the laughter in his tone—kicks across my face. Making this man smile will never cease to be my favorite high.
By the time we make it to the soccer field, the sun has set. Soft light from the lamp posts circling the track cut through the velvet darkness settling onto campus. The soundtrack of crickets, the slap of sneakers from a few other runners on the track, and distant chattering twines around us.
“I thought we could ramp it up a bit today,” Garrett says, unspooling the rope and handing me one end.
“Shall we do a piggyback for the two miles?”
“If you want, but I don’t know if your back is strong enough.”
“Ha!” I tip my head back and laugh. “Someone has all the jokes today.”
“I’m in a good mood.”
I can almost feel that lopsided grin flexing at the corners of his lips. More and more, I visualize every facial tick, twitch of the mouth, and lift of his eyebrows. Over the years, Garrett’s vocal profile has become like music. Each note sings me a different song.
“Why are you in a good mood? Did you sacrifice a resident to the medical gods or something?” I tease.
“Just in a good mood, sassy girl.” He tugs on his end of the rope. “I’m thinking tonight we jog.”
“Now, I know you really have jokes.” I give the rope one long tug, indicating my disagreement.
He gives it three quick tugs, which is our sign for keep going. “You got this. We’ll go slow, and nobody expects you to jog the full two miles.”
“What if I expect me to?” I run my fingers along the rope wrapped around my palm.
“Expectations can be dangerous. We can’t control that what we want will happen,” he says, his hard swallow is audible.
A furrow dips my brow. “Do you not have expectations for your life?”
“Just hope,” he murmurs.
“What do you hope for?”
“For time with the people I care about.” His words are scratchy like a rickety bridge that will break with just the wrong amount of pressure.
Time. The sadness underscoring that single word causes a dull twinge in my chest. I can’t imagine what losing someone you love is like.
Anker’s accident is the first time anyone I love has ever been hurt.
What must it be like to not just lose someone you love, but carry the burden of knowing it could happen again?
Like Garrett says… Expectations are dangerous.
You expect the people you love to always be there, and there’s no guarantee of that. No matter what you do.
I tip my gaze up to him. “I’m going to do something, and if you need to say turnip, I’ll understand.”
Using the rope, I pull myself closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist. For a moment, he stiffens but then folds his arms around me. Head pressed against his chest, we just remain like that. The rhythmic cadence of his heart hums in my ear. Each thump is a soothing lullaby.
Friends hug. That’s what I keep telling myself as I burrow just a little deeper into him.
Chin rested atop my head, he just holds me.
This is for me as much as for him. I can’t take away his fear of losing the people he cares about.
All I can do is be there with him. I can’t fix him, but I can offer comfort.
I can just hold him, and somehow that knowledge lessens the ache of helplessness.
“You always take care of people.” He breaks the silence cocooning us. “It’s like you setting up a reminder for me to eat lunch every day, or you helping Catherine prep for her next round of interviews. Hell, even this marathon training. You’re doing it to help your brother.”
“It’s just a hug,” I whisper.
“Sure.” He releases me. “Ready?”
Adjusting my glasses, I step back. “Yeah… Let’s hope I don’t fall on my face.”
“I won’t let you.” He tugs three times on the rope.
The flutter in my chest is proof of that. It also confirms that even if I did fall, he’d catch me. Only falling on my face isn’t what I’m worried about at this moment. It’s that, no matter how many times I flick this rubber band on my wrist, this crush may never go away.
Tethered by the rope, we start our training.
As always, we start slowly, eventually speeding up to a power walk.
This pace allows our muscles to wake up, but also for Garrett to position us at the track’s outer ring.
It’s something other runner/guide duos recommend.
It tends to be less clustered and allows you to only deal with other runners on one side of you, versus both.
Eight laps equals two miles. That’s just over one hundred and four laps to make up the 26.2 miles we’ll do in the marathon. Technically not we, since Garrett is just the substitute guide runner for me to train with until Anker recovers. Somehow, I keep misplacing that nugget of information.
“Ready?” Garrett says, three tugs accompany his question.
“I’m not, but let’s do this.”
This is the first time I’m jogging with a guide. In the solo 5K I attempted and failed at with Anker, we never jogged. Garrett and I have only power walked. Somehow, jogging is more terrifying. It’s like riding a bicycle downhill. There are brakes, but you still may hurt yourself or someone else.
“We’ll go slow,” he assures.
Nodding, I tug twice on the rope. We start slow.
Though I wonder if Garrett is even actually jogging and not just walking fast. He’s at least a foot taller than me, which means for every one step he takes, I take two.
Not to mention my three weeks of more dedicated physical fitness don’t compare to his years of athletic prowess.
Just like Anker, Garrett was a college athlete, having played rugby, and has maintained his fitness levels after.
“Doing okay?” he asks as we round the third lap, having run the last two.
“Uh-huh,” I say through panted breath.
It’s only half a mile, but the sense of accomplishment battles with the doubt that I am going to be able to jog any further. My muscles groan, and sweat trickles down my spine, while athletic Mr. Darcy’s breath remains steady. So annoying.
“Listen to your body,” he says.
Right now, my body wants to kick him. How is he able to have a conversation?
“Slow when you need to. This is a marathon, after all.”
I roll my eyes at his cheekiness. “Aren’t I…supposed to push through? You know…find that runner’s…high?” I pant.
“And you will. We’re just base building. You have to learn your boundaries before you push past them.”
“Is that more of your…self-help stuff like telling…the…bag?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles.
“Fine.” I give the rope a tug to indicate I need to slow down, and we do.
While I understand one needs to walk before they can run—literally in this case—frustration fires awake within me.
It may be unreasonable to snap your fingers and just be able to run an entire marathon after three weeks of training…
but call me Ms. Unreasonable. I want to be good at this.
I don’t want to fail Anker, Garrett, or myself.
“It was only half a mile,” I mutter.
“Half a mile more than you jogged on Sunday.”
“We only power walked on Sunday.”
“Exactly.” His unmuffled voice telegraphs that he’s looking over his shoulder at me. “Remember, it’s a marathon. Not a sprint.”
“Are you just going to quote inspirational pillows now? Is that, like, your thing?”
“Live, laugh, love, my dear Jensen.” An audible smile accompanies his dry snark.
“I’m too breathless to laugh!” I laugh nonetheless.
“Let’s power walk half a mile and then jog another half mile to wrap.”
I tug the rope in agreement. “Okay.”