30. Sloane #2
Eden grins. “At least you look cute. I’m pretty sure my nipples are going to bleed through this shirt by mile four.”
Todd does a double-take. “Wait, is that a thing?”
“Google it,” I tell him, enjoying the way he immediately fumbles for his phone.
It’s really good to see Todd and Bryce getting along. It was a little touch and go for a while, but Todd is a good guy, and Bryce treats Pia like a queen. I’m thrilled to have the whole gang back together again for one last run.
As we mill toward the start, I catch sight of Olivia and my mom waving from the sideline, both with matching visors and matching “TEAM EDLO” shirts.
My mom’s got a thermos of coffee and a death grip on the jogging stroller.
Olivia, for her part, looks entirely unimpressed by the spectacle and is eating a rogue Cheerio off her own knee.
The starting gun goes off. There’s a slow-motion surge as thousands of bodies funnel into the first quarter mile. Eden grabs my hand, squeezes, and we launch ourselves into the mass of humanity.
The first mile is easy—adrenaline, music, the way Eden’s laughter bounces off the sidewalk. Our friends spread out, but we keep pace together, weaving through dinosaur costumes and strollers and, at one point, a group of men dressed as the cast of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Pia is already falling behind, loudly complaining to anyone who’ll listen that her feet were not engineered for torture. Bella runs backwards for a bit, just to prove she can. Becca stops to Instagram a dog wearing a tutu, then somehow catches up. I have no idea how.
The first time we pass our cheer squad, Mom is shrieking. Olivia just shoves a fist into her mouth and stares. I wonder, briefly, if she will remember any of this, and then decide it doesn’t matter: we’ll just tell her the story a hundred times until she thinks it’s true.
Around mile twenty Eden starts to flag. Her stride shortens; her face goes pale. I know the signs—she’s about to bonk, and there’s no way in hell she’ll admit it.
“You okay?” I ask, already fishing for the energy gels in my own fanny pack.
She pants. “Yeah. Maybe. What’s the difference between a fun run and actual hell?”
“Marketing,” I deadpan, and she barks a laugh.
We slow to a walk, and for a while we just exist together, arms bumping, the city rolling by in a blur. I feel the old, familiar rush. The same high I used to get running with her after school, before everything got complicated and adult and drenched in baby vomit.
After a few minutes, Eden recovers. She picks up the pace, and this time it’s me who has to hustle to keep up.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask, huffing.
She grins, wicked and wide. “If you can’t keep up, just say so.”
Oh, it’s on.
The last stretch runs along the river, with the city skyline shining in the distance.
There are fewer runners now, just us and the diehards and the occasional costumed lunatic.
My legs are jelly, but I don’t care. I look at Eden, her hair sweaty and wild, her eyes locked on the finish line, and I feel so fucking proud I could burst.
Our friends are waiting at the final turn, screaming and waving signs.
They must’ve dipped out of the race to grab a cab to the finish line.
Pia and Todd have formed an impromptu conga line with two random grandmas.
Becca and Bella are holding a “WE’LL MISS YOU, FREAKS” banner—probably handmade at three a.m. with too much glitter.
Bryce blows the vuvuzela so loud I think I lose hearing in my left ear.
I grab Eden’s hand. We sprint the last yards together, lungs burning, hearts racing. The crowd is a blur of sound and color. At the finish, we collapse into a heap, laughing so hard I almost cry.
The gang piles in around us, hugs and high-fives and someone’s elbow in my eye. Olivia toddles over, face smeared with frosting from some post-race snack, and plants herself in my lap. She pats my sweaty cheek, then yells “Go!” at the top of her lungs.
Eden kisses my forehead, still breathless. “We did it, Bishop.”
As the finish line chaos starts to settle, Becca flops down next to us, legs splayed, and sighs. “I can’t feel my ass. Or my legs. Or my will to live.”
Bella throws an arm over her. “Worth it, though.”
“Never again,” Pia says, but she’s grinning.
Todd winks. “You say that every time.”
Bryce stretches dramatically. “Can we just get pancakes now? Like, immediately?”
I laugh at them all. They’re just as dramatic as they were at seventeen.
“You all didn’t even finish the race!” I shoot with a grin.
“We had to run to get a cab!” Bella replies.
We stumble away from the finish, a band of misfits and ex-cheerleaders and future queens, toward the world’s greasiest breakfast. Eden tucks herself into my side, kisses my shoulder, and whispers, “Thanks for making me run. Even when it hurts.”
I squeeze her back, giddy with love and exhaustion and hope. “Anytime, Sawyer.”
This is what it’s all about. Not the running, not even the finish, but the running together—the wild, stubborn, beautiful urge to keep moving forward, no matter what.
Tomorrow we’ll pack boxes. We’ll make plans. We’ll get ready for the next great mess.
But today we ran, and we loved, and we won.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.