Chapter 12
MILE TWELVE
SEE HER RUN
Ishimmy into a pair of bright pink yoga pants in the stall in the bathroom down from my office.
It’s week three of my marathon training, which still blows my mind.
Four days a week, I’m up by five-thirty to train before I get ready and head to work.
Twice a week, Garrett and I hit the soccer field’s track to continue the base-building phase of my training.
Unlike the base-building he’d done the first time he’d trained for a marathon four years ago—thanks to my brother prodding him into it—we have to develop a language.
It's not just him or me on the track. It’s us.
Now, talking isn’t as much of an issue since we haven’t jogged yet.
Our sessions have been power walking, and we’re up to two miles.
Once you toss in panted breath from running and the loudness the other runners describe at the race, our communication will need to be quick and, sometimes, done non-verbally through tugs of the rope that tethers us.
All of this on top of running 26.2 miles. On my solo treadmill sessions, I toggle between power walking and slow jogs, and I’m only up to 2 miles. Though it tips towards power walking most mornings.
Are you allowed to walk a marathon? Oh god, how long will that take!
Frowning, I tug on a hoodie and then scoop up my tote bag with my work clothes and head to my office. Garrett is meeting me there before we head to the track.
It’s almost alarming how comfortable I’m getting with him showing up at the end of the workday.
I should go back to taking the bus after work.
After three weeks of getting up to work out and stretching—thanks to the little reminder he put in our shared calendar—I’m getting used to the ten fewer minutes of sleep.
I can pretend that the ride is about getting me home sooner, free use of his car’s butt-warmers, and whatever story I’m telling myself to justify prolonged exposure to Garrett beyond our training.
The truth is, I like the time we spend together each day.
He grumbles about whatever little item I added to our joint calendar for the day.
Today was a task to Craft a poem about Ditka.
His Seriously, Jensen? text at 10:09 a.m. confirming his receipt, caused a happy thrill to zing through me.
An hour later, he texted that poem.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I have a cat named Ditka,
Who has smelly poo.
The banshee-like laugh that chortled out of me startled my boss, Andrew. I like it when Garrett lets his goofy side out. It’s not like I’ve never seen it before, but the more time we spend together, the more he’s letting himself out to play.
Our daily walks from my office and ride to my apartment are sprinkled with teasing comments for each other.
It’s also full of just chatting about our day, our training, or random stuff.
Like the recipe his mom sent for him and his siblings to cook this Sunday, or the reading that Kayla, Catherine, and I are going to at Heartbound Bookshop tomorrow night.
“Hello, Jensen… Or should I say Sporty Spice in that getup?”
I stop at a caramel-smooth English accent. The male version, not Kayla’s lyrical tenor. She and Catherine pop into my office daily now, to whisk me away to grab a latte, ensuring that her voice is imprinted in my auditory catalog.
“Hello, Miles,” I sigh, adjusting the bag on my shoulder and continuing my stride back to my office.
“I see you are still ignoring me, then?” He says, jogging up beside me.
“I just said hello, didn’t I?”
“Because three weeks of my messages on unread screams dialogue.” A sloshed breath washes away his snarky tone. “I suppose I deserve it.”
“Yes, you do.” My mouth forms a firm line.
“You’re right… I do.”
The sorrowful ache in his voice causes my mouth to droop. While I know Miles isn’t appropriate for me, I don’t want to hurt him, especially after Kayla said he was devastated. He’s come up a few times when she’s mentioned that he asks about me or that he’s been extra mopey lately.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my steps ceasing.
“No.” He places a palm on my shoulder. “I’m the one who is sorry. The last few weeks have given me perspective on how I treated you. I was a bit of a bastard.”
“You weren’t a bastard per se. Just selfish.”
“Ouch—” he presses a hand to his chest “—but accurate. The truth is, I enjoy our friendship, but I also rather enjoy kissing you. I didn’t want to lose both. Your friendship or—”
“Kissing me.” My brow puckers.
He rubs his nape. “Hence, me being a bastard.”
“At least, you’re an honest one.”
I want to be angry at him. It seems like the appropriate thing to do here, but I can’t muster it.
Whether it’s the remaining flicker of the torch I’ve carried for the last ten months, or just not wanting someone to be upset, I’m not sure.
What I am sure of is that, whatever way you slice it, he never made me promises.
Sure, we kissed, flirted, and went out periodically, but neither of us broached the subject of being more. Because I just waited for him to declare his feelings like in one of my romance novels, rather than asking for what I want.
Not asking for what we want guarantees nobody ever says no. Dr. Nor’s words from last night’s session tap inside me like someone knocking at a car window to get your attention.
My shoulders slump. “Neither of us made promises to one another. I’m an adult and I made my own choices.”
“As did I. I’m sorry if my actions toyed with your emotions in any way. Truly.” He grips my upper arms, kneading his thumbs into me through my sweatshirt. “The last thing I ever intended was for you to feel hurt. I care about you, Jensen. Can we start again?”
“I don’t want to be friends who kiss,” I say, tipping my head up to meet his stare that I know implores me to say “yes.”
“Neither do I.” He steps closer, his timbre low and seductive.
My breath catches. “What are you asking?”
“I’d like to be more. To give us”—he raises his hand and caresses my cheek—“to give this a real shot.”
My stomach twists. For months, I’ve daydreamed about Miles Calloway saying this to me. For me to not just be the girl pining, but to be the girl.
“I’m on sabbatical.” I shake my head, breaking the momentary trance.
“What?” he says, bemused.
“I’m not dating anyone. Not right now. Not for…” I look down at my sneakers, which have gotten more use in the last three weeks than in the last six months. “Until October.”
“October… As in next year?” he says, aghast.
I step back, breaking our physical connection. “Yeah. I’m focusing on me and the marathon.”
“Kayla mentioned you were training.” He cocks his head. “So, you’re really doing that, then?”
“Yeah.” I wave at myself. “Hence the Sporty Spice getup.”
“And you’re not dating until then?”
This romantic sabbatical is about making different choices. A month ago, I would have said yes to Miles. Just like I did with Chase. I’d happily scoop up the crumbs he offered, believing that’s what I deserved.
Through this, my hope is to gain perspective on what I want, on what I deserve. Once I have that, I won’t accept anything else. At least, that’s what I hope.
“Correct.”
“And that’s it, then?” he says, his tone somber.
“We can be friends.” I clear my throat. “Just friends. No kissing.”
“Ever?” he murmurs.
“I don’t know.”
It’s an honest answer. At the end of this, I may find that Miles is who I want. I may find out that he’s not. It may be nobody at all. What I do know is that if I follow old patterns, I’ll have the same results—a broken heart.
“I understand if that’s not right for you, but it’s what’s good for me. I won’t give you false hope, though. All I’m offering is friendship,” I say, my shoulders squared.
He nods, seeming to take in my words, before he speaks, “Friendship then. I’m putting out my hand.”
A small smile curls my lips at his verbal cue. It makes me think that there is a possibility of an actual friendship with Miles. His use of visually impaired person etiquette is a new development.
I accept Miles’s hand. “No kissing.”
“No kissing,” he repeats with a cheekiness.
“I mean it.”
“We’ll see what happens by next October,” he teases.
I roll my eyes.
“You know I’m a shameless flirt, even with my friends.” He releases my hand. “But you’ve set your boundaries, and I’ll comply. Though I won’t pretend that I’m not on bated breath about what happens at the end of this sabbatical.”
Me too.
With a goodbye to Miles, I head back to my office. The moment I open the door, Garrett’s silky bass drifts from Andrew’s office. Andrew, my boss, is the only one with an actual office. My space is an alcove off the small lobby.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want it to be an imposition,” Andrew says, his Midwest twang almost musical.
“It’s not a problem,” Garrett says.
“My daughter will appreciate your guidance. She’s considering being pre-med.”
So sweet, I mouth to myself. Waves of warmth fizz inside me like sparkling wine. Is Garrett agreeing to be a mentor to Andrew’s daughter?
Andrew has met Garrett a few times since he’s been picking me up after work.
I’m not surprised by Andrew asking Garrett to mentor his daughter.
He’d do anything for his children. As delighted as I am about this, I’m also not surprised by Garrett’s agreement.
It’s just who he is. Giving. Self-sacrificing. Thoughtful.
“There you are.” Pretending I wasn’t just eavesdropping, I push into the open office and shoot a sassy look toward where Garrett sits in one of the chairs across from Andrew’s desk.
“If you checked your messages, you’d know I was here.” Garrett’s tut is humor-laced
“Then whatever would you nag me about?” Chin raised, I flash a haughty expression
“I’m sure I could find something.” He rises, amusement radiating from him.
Andrew huffs a laugh. “God, you two sound like me and my husband.”