Chapter 7 Mile Seven #2
“You do…” he huffs a chuckle. “…But I like your brand of too much. Plus, I’m looking forward to seeing if you’re able to maintain your incessant questions for twenty-six miles.”
“It’s technically 26.2 miles,” I correct, the corners of my mouth lifting.
“See, you’re already learning.” He swipes his thumb across my jawline.
The tender stroke telegraphs an almost reflexive action. Like touching me is as natural as breathing for him. The way I melt into his touch mirrors that instinct. My head knows I should pull away, but my body remains.
Blinking to clear the Garrett-induced trance I’m in, I step back. “I appreciate you doing Anker the favor by helping me train, but—”
“I’m not doing this just for Anker.”
“Why are you doing this then?”
“Because you need help, and like you said, it’s a role I’m comfortable with.”
“I’m not a damsel for you to rescue.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“I know.”
“I can find someone from that blind runners’ group where Anker met Sonora.”
“No,” he almost growls.
I tip my head up, meeting his hidden gaze with my steely one. “Why? We’re not friends. Not really. Hell, sometimes I don’t even think you like me. Training me would be torture for you.”
“I like you.”
“Sure.” I puff out a breath that resembles helicopter blades cutting through the sky.
“What makes you think I don’t like you?”
“Besides the five years of whiplash from your nice one moment total dick the next moment behavior, you called me a yappy yorkie.”
It’s official, Feisty Jensen is out to play. In the push and pull of whatever this is with Garrett, I’ve never called it out like this. I’ve certainly never shared with him the remarks I overheard him say after our first meeting.
“I never called you a yappy yorkie.”
“Yes, you did.” I poke his chest. “At Anker’s birthday five years ago, just after I met you.”
For weeks, Anker had gone on about the Attending Physician at the hospital, who’d spend his lunch breaks going over patients’ charts. I was so excited to meet the man who was helping Anker navigate his residency program.
“Fuck… I did say that. I’m sorry.” He grips the brim of his hat. “Yorkies are adorable, though.”
“They have old man faces,” I say, indignation burns in my belly. “Also, now isn’t the time to be cute. That hurt my feelings, Garrett.”
“I’m sorry, Jensen.” He places his hands on my shoulders.
“This isn’t an excuse, I swear. What I said was wrong, and I didn’t mean it.
I was just…” He sighs. “That was the first night I socialized with anyone since moving here. Hell, since Val had died the previous November. Nobody knew about her, not even Anker at the time. I thought it had been long enough—”
“Oh god, did I accidentally say something that triggered you?” My hand goes to my mouth, replaying that night.
“No. You didn’t do anything. You were perfect.”
“What?” My breath hitches.
His fingers knead into me through the sweatshirt’s thin fabric. “For the first time in a long time I wasn’t thinking about how shitty I felt. I wasn’t thinking about Val. The only thing I could think about is you.”
“Me?” My pulse thuds.
“You just burst into the room all bubbly spewing random facts about Chicago including that the brownie was invented there. All I could think about is how—”
“Annoying I am.” My mouth tugs up.
“Yeah.” A soft chuckle falls from him. “And how much you’d love the Palmer House’s brownie sundae. Then, I felt guilty. Like I was somehow betraying Val.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, though,” I say, my brow scrunched.
“I’m here and she’s not.”
The ache in his voice guts me. I just want to wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s alright. That he did nothing wrong. But my arms have no ability to heal his pain, and holding him close is like placing my hand on the hot stove. At some point, I’ll get burned.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a shit friend to you,” he rasps.
“Are we friends?” I say softly.
“I want to be… I want to be your friend, Jensen.” Releasing me, he straightens. “I don’t deserve it, but I want a second chance with you. To be what you deserve.”
The wise thing is to say no. To send him on his way and find a different guide to train with until my brother recovers.
Isn’t that what Feisty Jensen would do? The Feisty Jensen that he gets glimpses of.
If I were that Jensen, I would have said these things to him a long time ago.
I would have done a lot of things a long time ago.
I swallow down every protest whispering inside me. “I’ve researched some training plans.”
I’m not Feisty Jensen. At least, not yet.
I want to be, but right now, the desire to see what real friendship with Garrett looks like is too strong.
My head and heart are at war. For the first time, I’m going to listen to my heart, because in the past I always heeded my head’s warning to not take risks.
A friendship with Garrett may be a bigger risk than finding someone unknown to train with.
“I’ve been doing research too.” He flips his hat backwards, revealing a lopsided grin that I find far too adorable. “Shall we compare notes and make a plan?”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yes,” he says without a hint of hesitation.
I bite my lower lip. “Does guide runner services come with grilled PB&Js?”
“Perhaps…”
For the next hour, we build a training plan.
The little charge that zinged between us dissipates as we fall into comfortable companionship.
He teases me about my collection of novelty mugs, and I tell him I don’t take style advice from a man dressed like sporty Wednesday Adams in all black athletic wear.
Pressed up against him—thanks to my not-Garrett-sized sofa—a smile curls my lips watching him drink from a penguin shaped mug while I drink from a polar bear cup I got at the aquarium.
We compare our notes. Mine are on my laptop and his on his phone. It appears we found a lot of the same plans. We choose a program broken into three phases.
The first three to four months will focus on base building, helping me gradually develop my ability to run longer distances.
Phase two is training for a half-marathon.
The last four months will focus on the big show—an actual marathon.
Each phase comes with me running races to help me get comfortable with the racing environment.
All our training will culminate next October, just under twelve months from now.
Depending on the phase, I’ll be training three to five times a week.
Garrett and my schedule won’t allow us to always train together.
We settle on Wednesdays after work and Sunday afternoons, allowing me to keep my lazy Sunday mornings and him to attend dinner with his family.
The rest of the week, I’ll train solo on the treadmill in my building’s gym.
“I’m creating a shared calendar for our training, which I’ll e-mail you,” Garrett says, tapping on his phone.
“Ooh, a shared calendar. Can I put other things in it for you to do?”
“No,” he grunts.
“Boo!” I pout but decide I’ll do it anyway.
Perhaps I’ll set up a daily reminder for him to smile more. There will certainly be a reminder for him to eat lunch, because Anker has shared that most days, Garrett skips it to work with residents. The possibilities are endless.
“I’ve also emailed some links to articles, guides, and videos on stretching and conditioning activities, and other things that may help you in your training.”
“Other things?” Head tilted, I lift one eyebrow.
“Meal plans—”
“Ugh…” I groan, tipping my head back. “Is marathon running just your elaborate plot to get me to eat more vegetables?”
“You found me out. I orchestrated Anker’s injury to Svengali this entire situation to get you to eat broccoli,” he deadpans.
“Dastardly.” I poke his side and then pull up his e-mail on my laptop.
“The meal plans will help give you the right energy and nutrition needed to do this. Don’t worry, you can still have your lattes.”
Opening the attached document labeled Suggested Meals in my email, my screen reader begins to read the document. It’s similar to what I know Anker does while training.
“One a day!” I whine, at the little note about limiting me to one latte a day. “You made that one up.” I elbow Garrett.
“You consume far too much sugar.”
“It keeps me sweet.” I kick his shin.
“Nearly diabetic,” he mutters.
A furrow dips my brow. “Guess I shouldn’t complain. All this running and forced starvation will help me lose my snack pouch.”
“This meal plan is hardly starvation—”
“Let me be melodramatic for a minute, you’re taking away my lattes.”
He shakes his head. “What is a snack pouch?”
“My belly.” Sighing, I pat my stomach. “At least, this will help me get a nice bod.”
“You already have a nice body.”
What? I don’t look at him. I don’t even know how to look at him right now.
He thinks I have a nice body? It’s not as if he hasn’t seen parts of me.
We’ve been to the beach together. Though I’m more the full coverage tankini with a coverup type than the sexy swimsuit clad girls who seem to appear just to flirt with Garrett or Anker.
“I…” he coughs and shifts on the sofa beside me. “My suggestions aren’t about me wanting you to change how you look, it’s about keeping you healthy… Keeping you around for a long time.”
I really don’t know how to look at him, so I keep my gaze forward. Somehow this feels more meaningful than just him liking my body.
Don’t be stupid. I shake off that thought.
Of course, he worries about my health. For a man who’s had a big loss, it’s understandable that he’s extra sensitive about doing what he can to keep the people in his life safe.
That includes making them eat their veggies, and browbeating them into an only one-a-day latte habit.
Twisting toward him, I meet his gaze. “Can I have two lattes on special occasion days?”
“You can have whatever you want. These are just suggestions. I’m not in charge.” He gestures at himself.
“But you are my guide.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m in charge. This is a team. A partnership.” He pats my arm.
For the first time, this doesn’t seem like he’s doing me a favor, or being a good friend to Anker. We’re in this together. Each of us is running this for our own reasons. I know mine, but what are his?
“Why are you being my guide?” I fiddle with my sleeve.
“Because that’s what friends do.”
“This goes beyond just wanting to be a better friend. Why? What do you get out of this?”
“Real friends do,” he murmurs.
Besides Catherine, I’ve not had a real friend.
One that doesn’t have an angle. One that won’t just leave me behind.
I, especially, haven’t had a male friend that fits that bill.
If I’m going to do this—not just train with Garrett but have a second chance at a real friendship—I need to be open to the possibility that he may be a real friend.
“You’re right.” I nod. “Here’s to real friends.” I raise my mug in a toasting gesture.
Grinning, he taps his mug against mine. “Friends.”