The Fastest Way to Fall(102)

62





I PACED BACK and forth in front of the registration tables, which were abandoned by the volunteers and covered in administrative flotsam. I glanced around and shoved my hands in my pockets. This was such a big mistake. My grand gesture had seemed like a good idea when I planned it. I was going to meet her at the finish line and tell her all the reasons I didn’t want to live without her. As I stood in the early-morning sun alone, debating what to say to Britta, it seemed like a colossal mistake.

When I asked for a bouquet of sunflowers, peonies, lilies, ranunculus, tulips, and dahlias, the florist gently informed me they didn’t go together. When I explained I needed to tell a woman I thought she was classy, bold, unique, cheerful, and smelled awesome, I earned a touched—if confused—grin from the woman. “Good luck,” she’d said, handing over the wrapped bundle.

I glanced at the bouquet sitting on the table in the sun and questioned the decision. The florist was right; the flowers were a mess all together.

“Hey, man.” Cord strode toward me from the volunteer tent, Pearl at his side. They both wore the staff T-shirts Mason’s team had designed for the race. “You made it.”

Pearl rolled her eyes and nudged Cord’s arm. “Where else was he going to be?”

She ribbed him more than she used to, and he wasn’t as quick to look away when she caught him looking at her.

I needed to focus on my own love life, though. “Did you give her the note? Tell her about the job? Did she say anything?”

Cord nodded, leaning against the table, one ankle crossed over the other like a smug bastard.

“And?”

“And . . . she listened.”

“You’re such a jackass sometimes.” Pearl rolled her eyes again and looked back to me, her expression softening. “She didn’t believe us at first, like you predicted, and I got the impression she would rip open your note as soon as we walked away. Girl kept looking over our shoulders for you.” Her eyes fell to my clothes, and her smile straightened into a disdainful line. “Um, what are you wearing?”

I’d chosen a plain red T-shirt and gray track pants along with my favorite running shoes. “Not good?”

“It’s a little casual, isn’t it?”

“She’ll feel self-conscious if I’m in a suit and she’s in her running clothes.” Maybe I should have worn a suit. Maybe I should have planned to talk to her in a private moment without three hundred sweaty strangers around us. “Won’t she? Should I go change?”

Cord clapped my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you this nervous. Calm down, buddy.”

“You know how my last grand gesture went.” For the first time, I remembered my failed proposal to Kelsey without wincing and reaching for my pocket out of habit. Her dumping me had saved me from a lifetime of second-guessing everything.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” Pearl said. “And that woman is clearly in love with you. She’ll think you’re hot no matter what you’re wearing.”

“?‘Hot’ is a bit much.” Cord’s smile betrayed his mock indignation before he turned his eyes back to me. “You gave her your shirt. The one with your number on the back?”

Britta had worn it home the day we got caught in the rain, and I’d told her to keep it after she said she’d fallen asleep in it. I loved having something of mine close to her while she slept. “How did you know I gave her my shirt?”

Pearl and Cord exchanged a look. Cord shrugged. “She’s wearing it.”

My chest swelled as a grin swept across my face. I’d told her compression gear and tight-fitting clothes were best, but damn it if her in my shirt didn’t make me feel ten feet tall, my old number on her back. I grabbed the bouquet off the table.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s get to the finish line.”





63





I WILL NOT pass out. I will not pass out. I will not pass out . . . yet.

I glanced down at my running watch. One more mile.

Claire and I had started together, shuffling along at the back of the crowd. At first, I was content to stay with the other slow runners. Once we got going, though, I felt boxed in. Wes had pushed me to go a little farther and a little faster every time we trained, and soon I found myself passing people. Claire matched me step for step, and though we didn’t speak, I enjoyed having her next to me. I was reasonably sure she’d call for help if I passed out. Even if she didn’t, I’d kept up with her, and the foregone conclusion she’d come out on top wasn’t so foregone. I went around a woman in her seventies and then two middle-aged men and through a trio of teens. My heart leapt with every person I passed, and I expected someone to pop out and say, Hey! Get back to the end of the line. You can’t cut it up here.

No one did, though, and the first mile flew by.

After mile two, I stopped passing people, so I had to focus on something else. Music from my carefully orchestrated playlist flowed through my earbuds, and I remembered Wes handing them to me on the first morning at the gym. I smiled as I pictured the crooked grin on his face when he hit play, and remembered how I’d forgotten to feel self-conscious for just a minute on the treadmill.

Halfway through mile five, my breath came heavy and sweat poured down my body. Wes’s shirt was soaked, and I almost regretted wearing it. My feet hurt, my body ached, and I was sure someone had turned up the temperature to something rivaling mid-July instead of September. Why did I agree to this? Several of the people I’d passed earlier moved forward—a little stab of failure hit me in the gut every time someone pulled ahead of me.