Chapter 10
Running Buds
Andrew
Vince picks me up right on time for our run. Honestly, I almost don't expect him to show.
I still can't wrap my head around why he offers to do this. I don't even know how far away he lives or what the drive to my place is like for him. He hasn't mentioned it. I hope it isn't ridiculously far.
The whole thing feels surreal. Vince seems like someone with a packed schedule and no shortage of people vying for his time. Why act like I'm someone important? Sure, we get along, and we have a lot in common, but it doesn't add up.
And then I hear it, the low growl of a car engine echoing through the early morning quiet.
It comes before the sight of him, rounding the corner in a shiny black 911 Porsche that practically glows under the dim streetlights.
The sound is a purr that vibrates through the pavement, a mechanical heartbeat that makes my own pulse quicken in response.
As the car approaches, its sleek silhouette cuts through the pre-dawn mist like a knife, the metallic paint catching what little light there is and throwing it back in scattered fragments across my building's facade.
I can feel the engine's deep resonance in my chest.
My stomach flips.
The Porsche rolls to a stop at my curb with a whisper of expensive tires against asphalt, its engine settling into a contented rumble that sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise silent morning.
The car is a sleek vision of wealth and power that has no business on my pothole-filled street.
Vince rolls down the passenger window, and the doors unlock with a soft click.
A laugh escapes me, sharp and disbelieving, as I reach for the door handle. The cool metal beneath my fingers feels alien, wrong. This is the most expensive thing I've ever touched.
Sliding into the passenger seat feels like stepping into a different reality.
This isn't my world. This is a car from movies, the kind parked outside restaurants where a single appetizer costs more than my weekly grocery budget.
My ride is a 2005 Land Rover I pulled from my parents' backyard, resurrected with a prayer and what feels like miles of duct tape. It runs on rust and stubbornness.
Now I'm sinking into leather that smells like money, my worn-out running shorts and faded t-shirt an insult to the pristine interior. The Porsche feels too small, too perfect, as if my very presence might somehow break it, or worse, break the illusion that I belong here at all.
"Morning," Vince says, his deep voice cutting through my existential crisis.
"Morning," I manage, hoping I don't sound as stunned as I feel.
He drives us in a calm, sleepy silence, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows through the trees as we pass. It's peaceful. Almost nostalgic.
I'm not used to changing up my routines. The last time I'd been in a car with someone this early, it was my dad driving me to school.
That thought brings a pang of sadness I wasn't expecting. My dad doesn't talk to me anymore. Said it was because of my "choices." My mom still insists he'll come around someday, but I don't believe her. She always seems to take his side, and it feels like she's made her choice too.
The memory tugs at my heart. As a kid, I'd barely been able to see over the window in his old green pickup truck, watching the trees blur past under the streetlights. Those moments had felt safe. Simple.
This car is nothing like that truck, but looking up at the sky through the Porsche's passenger window brings back the same feeling of being small in a vast world.
"Hey, Andy, you okay?" Vince's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I jolt a little, blinking. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He glances at me, his warm smile softening the sharp edges of his features. "Let me guess—you scared?"
I frown. "What? Scared?"
"Yeah, scared I'm about to completely smoke you on this run—"
I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in my head. "You're ridiculous."
He laughs, and I can't help but laugh with him. His teasing is childish, but it's also disarming.
"Thanks for doing this," I say, quieter this time.
"Doing what?"
"Driving. Coming to pick me up. It's nice of you."
He doesn't say anything right away, but then a grin breaks across his face. "Andy, I'm totally going to fucking smoke you on this run—"
I let out an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, punching him lightly in the arm. "Quit it."
The contact makes my face heat, but Vince just laughs harder, his smile wide and genuine.
For a second, I think maybe he doesn't notice my blush. But then he glances at me, his dark eyes twinkling with humor.
Yeah. He definitely notices.
I don't know if we're friends yet, and this feels a lot like a date. So had our lunch. Is this how making new friends always feels, or am I overthinking again? Socially, I'm pretty rusty. I can't remember what this is supposed to feel like anymore.
After high school, I sink into isolation so deep it feels like a different lifetime.
Back then, I go on dates that never work out, eventually giving up entirely.
Then come ten years of shutting myself off from everyone.
.. avoiding friends, ignoring family, spending weeks at a time holed up in my room.
I'm not letting myself go back there again. Not ever.
Vince turns left at the light, passing a sign that reads Warner Park.
"We're here," he says casually, pulling me from my thoughts as he smoothly maneuvers the Porsche into a parking spot that seems too small for the car, yet he makes it look effortless.
The engine cuts off with a final, satisfying purr that leaves a sudden vacuum of silence in its wake.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the trees, the world outside the car slowly coming into focus.
Warner Park stretches before us, a vast expanse of greenery bathed in the soft glow of dawn.
Vince kills the headlights, plunging us into deeper shadow, and I realize how intensely I'd been staring out the window, lost in the maze of my own thoughts.
He's watching me, I can feel it, his gaze heavy in the confined space.
When I finally turn to meet his eyes, there's something unreadable there—amusement, maybe, or something deeper I can't quite figure out.
"Ready to get smoked?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The challenge hangs between us, electric and charged.
I roll my eyes, but I can't suppress the smile that tugs at my lips. "In your dreams, old man," I shoot back, the words coming out with more bravado than I actually feel. My muscles are still tight from yesterday's yoga session, and I haven't pushed myself this hard on a run in weeks.
"Old man?" The words hit him like a physical blow, his chest puffing out in mock indignation. His eyebrows climb toward his hairline, creating dramatic valleys in the smooth skin of his forehead. "I'll have you know I'm in my prime."
"I'll go slow for you," I assure him, my fingers curling around the cool metal of the door handle. The mechanism clicks open with a satisfying sound.
"You're getting a little too comfortable with me—" he starts, but I've already pushed the door shut, the solid thud cutting off whatever lecture he had planned.
The cool morning air rushes in to greet me, sharp and invigorating against my skin. A smile spreads across my face as I begin my stretches, the familiar burn in my hamstrings a welcome anchor to reality. Through the tinted window, I can see Vince watching me.
The first mile is easy, just the rhythm of our shoes on the path and some light conversation.
The asphalt trail winds through the park, flanked by towering oak trees whose leaves rustle in the gentle morning breeze.
Our footsteps fall into an almost synchronized pattern, a steady cadence that becomes a sort of meditation.
Vince asks about my yoga practice, his questions surprisingly insightful, and I find myself opening up more than I intended, describing the flow of sequences, the importance of breath, the way it centers me when my mind spirals.
He listens intently, his occasional comments thoughtful and engaged, not just polite filler.
The sun begins to rise, casting long shadows across the path and painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that catch in his hair when he turns to look at me. Then I do the thing I always do when I get too comfortable: I ask a question I probably shouldn't.
"Hey. Can I finally hear the marriage story?"
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Vince pants slightly, our pace picking up as the trail curves around a small puddle.
I grin, pushing myself to keep up. "Nope. You promised unimportant conversation, and I'm cashing in."
He shakes his head, but there's a smile playing on his lips. "Fine. But if I trip and fall, it's your fault."
"I'll catch you," I say without thinking, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Vince's stride falters for a half-second, just enough to throw off our rhythm. He recovers quickly, but I notice. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Andy."
The sun has climbed higher now, filtering through the canopy above and painting dappled patterns on the path ahead. I can feel the burn in my thighs as we run.
"Kaitlynn and I..." he starts, his voice measured. "We were high school sweethearts. Married at seventeen."
My eyes widen. "Seventeen? That's young."
"It's Minnesota," he shrugs, as if that explains everything. "Half my friends did the same. Lived with her parents, had Malia and Tina back-to-back. Started our family before we could legally buy a beer."
We reach the top of the trail, and he slows to a jog, gesturing toward a bench overlooking the park. I follow, grateful for the brief rest as my lungs protest the exertion.