Chapter 1 #2
Over the last six months, Anker struck up a flirtation with a woman from a social media guide/blind runner’s group.
Running with a white cane or a dog guide isn’t ideal or safe, so visually impaired runners run with human guides to navigate the course safely.
My brother, an avid runner, has served as a guide for several visually impaired runners over the last few years.
Outside of the twenty-minute jog/walk I do on the elliptical in my apartment building’s gym three times a week, I don’t enjoy the sport like my former track star brother.
While running’s appeal is akin to a root canal for me, Anker did talk me into doing one 5K charity run with him.
It was less running and more arguing until I skinned my knee and was carried off the course. So embarrassing.
It’s difficult to turn off my brain and let someone else take control.
The entire time we’d run, anxiety pulsed through me.
It’s not that I don’t trust Anker. I don’t trust me.
What if I make a mistake and he gets hurt?
What if I can’t keep up with him and he gets frustrated? It was all too overwhelming.
“I’m surprised you’re not serving as her guide runner for the race. Isn’t marathon running peak romance to you people?” I tease.
He tilts his head. “You people?”
“Masochists,” I sass. “Seriously, what if Sonora is the future love of your life? Serving as her guide for the marathon, combined with the Larsen male love prophecy, is Hallmark-level romance.”
“First, you don’t just guide-run a marathon at the first meeting. You know better than anyone that it takes time to build that trust. Hell, I’ve been your brother for twenty-nine years, and we didn’t make it to the one-mile marker.”
I roll my eyes. “Second?”
“Maybe you should test the theory that it’s just the Larsen male line that finds love at a marathon the year they turn thirty.”
“That sounds as appealing as a body scrub performed by a porcupine.”
Not only would running a marathon be my own personal version of hell, but I am not a devout believer in this little family myth. It’s swoony to daydream about, but even my romance novel-loving brain doesn’t put much stock in it.
“Come on. You don’t turn thirty until next year. That’s more than enough time to train,” he says.
“You have to, like, qualify for the New York City marathon. It’s at least a two-year commitment—”
“It doesn’t have to be New York. You can run any marathon. The Seal Beach one next October doesn’t require any pre-reqs. You can just register. Not to mention, even if it was the hospital is one of the sponsors, so I can pull strings.”
“Sure.” I draw out the word with an eyeroll. “And are you going to be my guide and train with me?”
“Pass… Garrett can do it.”
“Hard pass!” I grimace. “The only marathon I plan to do is binge-watching Bridgerton.” I tip my head back and let out a squeal. “You’ve not lived until you’ve listened to the descriptive video of that carriage scene from season three.”
“Really?” He leans forward, his tone conspiratorial. “Is there descriptive porn?”
Of course Garrett picks that moment to return to the table with our drinks. “Seriously, the conversations you two have,” he groans. The glasses make a hollow clunk as he sets them down. “Jensen, your soda is at three o’clock.”
“Thanks.” Palm flat on the table, I slide my right hand to where three would be if the space were a clock and wrap my fingers around the cool glass.
Stop it, butterflies! And this is why I like Garrett. He always tells me the course’s landscape so I can navigate easily. Items on tables. A room layout. This week’s ice cream flavors at Marie’s Scoops. He somehow does it without being asked or making me feel like an imposition.
It's adorable. It’s also infuriating. No matter how much he annoys me, he does something like this, and my heart does that stupid pitter-patter thing.
“So, how does this audio porn work, anyhow?” Anker sounds bemused.
“It’s called erotic audio.” I shake my head. “It’s just a voice actor that walks you through a scenario.”
“Like deep-voiced men who talk you through sexy times and call someone a ‘good girl?”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “Sometimes.”
“Fascinating…”
“And this is like a thing?” Garrett’s question oozes with dismissiveness.
“It’s huge, Garrett… Though that’s something a woman has probably never said to you.”
A loud laugh belts out of Anker.
I can almost picture Garrett’s scowl. Well, what I imagine it looks like.
Thanks to the few times we’ve done human guide, I know he’s tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build.
His always-present five o’clock shadow, green eyes, and short chestnut-colored hair are what I’ve put together between my limited vision and others’ descriptions.
“Smartass.” His mouth’s upward curl is audible in Garrett’s humor-laced mutter.
Grinning, I go on, “Erotic audio is a big deal. It appeals to those of us who tend to be more imaginatively or auditorily stimulated.” I lift my glass to my lips and take a self-congratulatory sip. The cool drink fizzes in my throat.
“Who knew an entire world of verbal porn existed?” Anker puffs a breath.
“Your sister apparently knew.”
“Ugh, don’t want to think about that.” He clicks his tongue. “You know, Garrett, if doctoring doesn’t turn out for us, we may have backup careers as erotic vocal actors.”
“Don’t you dare!” I cover my face with my hands.
The idea of my brother as an erotic vocal performer makes me consider canceling my Pillow Talk subscription.
As frustrating as Garrett is, I’ll admit his timbre is similar to some of my favorite male voice actors.
His “hot guy” voice was what first attracted me.
Its deepness almost rumbles through me when he speaks.
Garrett’s judgy remarks and dismissiveness about—well everything related to me—should snuff out my attraction to him. He’s all Mr. Darcy before Lizzie visits Pemberly, with no sign of transitioning from prejudicial grump. Yet, I’m still attracted to him. Seriously, what is wrong with me?
Garrett clears his throat. “And you listen to this?”
That way he says “you” reeks of his trademark “Jensen Judgment.” The question is reminiscent of a head pat accompanying an “Oh, you poor, sad, lonely woman with your dirty audios.”
Screw that! My audios may be dirty, but I’m not sad. It’s healthy. It’s empowering.
“Don’t answer that!” Anker’s interruption is half-groan, half-laugh. “The existence of audio porn is one thing, but knowing my sister’s phone is full of it may be too much.”
A throat clears. “Audio porn, Jenny?”
That familiar smooth English accent sends a jolt of embarrassment up my spine.
“Miles… Hi,” I breathe. Oh god, did he just hear that?
“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets me with a chaste peck on my cheek.
“Hey… Hi,” I repeat with a wince. Brushing my hair behind my ears, I shift in my seat. “I thought the English Department had its midterm mixer tonight.”
Seriously! I bite the inside of my cheek in mortification. It sounds like I’m keeping tabs on him. In my defense, I only knew this because my best friend Catherine is a fellow adjunct professor in the department.
“Those things are dreadful. I bounced.” Miles leans close, his hot breath scented by alcohol. “And I’m glad I did because I’d much rather hear about this audio porn.”
Kill me now!
“It’s erotic audio.” Garrett’s interjection is curt.
“Erotic? Scandalous… And from our sweet Jenny. Tell me everything,” Miles purrs with all the swagger of a rogue from an Austen novel.
While Garrett is all Mr. Darcy, Miles is Willoughby territory. He’s charming, carefree, and always makes me smile. With him, I never doubt that he likes me. It’s just unclear in what way he likes me—friend or the something more that I so desperately want from him.
Anker coughs. “Jenny?”
“Miles calls me Jenny.” I nibble on my lower lip.
“Why?”
Miles drapes his arm over my shoulders. “Because our sweet Jensen here has Jenny Wren vibes.”
“Jenny Wren? From Dickens?” A pinched brow is audible in Garrett’s question.
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat.
Besides my annual A Muppet’s Christmas Carol watch with Anker, I’m not much of a Charles Dickens fan.
Give me the swoon of Jane Austen or the angst of Elizabeth Gaskell.
The only thing I know about Jenny Wren is that she’s a character from Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.
I could just Google it, but part of me is scared to know what those vibes are.
They may keep my relationship strictly platonic—minus the mini make-out sessions—with Miles, and I don’t want to lose the last flicker of hope for more with him.
Shifting in my seat, I change the subject. “So, you bailed on the department happy hour?”
“Naturally. A bunch of out-of-touch scholars droning on about the death of literature. A few of us skipped out.”
“Is Catherine with you?”
He scoffs dismissively. “No. Presently, she’s playing up to our department head.”
After four years as an adjunct, Catherine is vying for an associate professor gig. For my bestie, who adjuncts at two other universities, this will offer her higher pay and a tenure track.
“And you didn’t want to kiss up to Professor Bay-Cheng?”
“I prefer the freedom that an adjunct position affords me. Nothing tethering me. I can just pick up next semester and teach somewhere else or backpack around the US writing about my experiences, if I want.”
“Just like Kerouac,” Garrett drawls.
“Exactly!” Miles pounds his fist on the table, seeming not to catch the thinly veiled ridicule in Garrett’s comment.
But I do and purse my lips. Most people may be blind to Garrett’s mockery-filled undercurrent, but with him, I have perfect vision. Since their first meeting over the summer, it’s clear that Garrett doesn’t just dislike Miles, but he has zero respect for him.