The Speed of Light: A Novel(70)

I’m up earlier than I need to be, dressing methodically in my black running pants and red shirt, lacing up my running shoes. I stare at the woman in the mirror. The quiver of anxiety in my belly is expected—almost a welcome companion after nearly three decades of introversion and social anxiety, present in all my life’s milestones, from piano recitals to college graduation.

Today, the anxiety is a reminder of the importance of this accomplishment, of how far I’ve come. That no matter how uncertain my future is, no matter how much it hurt to lose Connor, if I can just cross that damn finish line, then maybe I’ll be okay.

Nikki’s reflection appears behind me in the mirror. We’re matching this morning—black and red. Our smiles match, too, determined. “No matter what happens, I’m proud of you.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Then we’re silent as we make our way through the hazy, lightening morning toward the start of the race.



The parking lot at Veterans Memorial Park is filled to the brim, and as we walk across the crunchy brown grass to join the throngs of fit, agile bodies, nerves consume me. “What if there was a blizzard or something? It’s late November, for Christ’s sake—there could be tons of snow by now.”

Nikki smiles. “But there’s not. The path’s all clear.”

“Or there could’ve been ice,” I add pointedly.

“But there’s not.” She smirks, her eyes darting to me. “It is going to be a beautiful, unseasonably warm day in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Simone. We will be fine.”

I roll my eyes. “Guess someone watched the weather this morning.”

“Damn right I did.” Nikki chuckles and links her arm through mine as we reach the crowd.

Amid the chatter around us, a voice calls out. “Mone!”

I turn, and my mom waves frantically from behind the taped-off viewing area. Behind her, Dad stands stoically—even a tired-looking Emmett rubs his eyes with one hand, the other gripping a cup of coffee. A surge of love for them—for all the chaos, for their semi-dysfunctional but fiercely supportive nature—propels me over, and I attempt to wrap all three in a hug.

“Good luck, honey.” Mom rubs my arm, smiling. “We’re so proud of you.”

“I can’t believe you guys made it.”

Emmett shrugs. “They made me come.” I smack his arm but laugh, and he grins.

“Now, if you pass out from exhaustion, I am CPR certified,” my dad says. I blink at him, terrified for a split second he’s seriously concerned I can’t do it, and doubt seeps in. But then his lip quivers, and he busts out laughing. “I’m kidding, Mone. Give ’em hell.”

“I will, Dad,” I say, turning to head back.

“Just don’t go too fast!” Emmett calls. I turn, and he grins. “I’ve got money on you coming in last place.”

“Jerk!” I yell over my shoulder, but I’m laughing when I get back to Nikki, who’s frowning at her phone. I peer down and catch a glimpse of her text.

Guess we’ll see what happens at the finish line.

She looks up at me and stuffs her phone in her pocket. I raise my eyebrows. “Claudia stationed at the finish line?” She nods, but her face is red, and she won’t meet my eyes. “Don’t tell me you are actually nervous about this.”

She looks up then and winks. “Yeah, nervous I’ve trained you so well I won’t be able to keep up with you.”

“Yeah right,” I scoff. “We both know that is not gonna happen.”

Nikki drops her smile and fixes me with a determined gaze. “We got this, Mone.” Then she smirks. “Just think about those beers Claudia has waiting for us at the finish line.”

I laugh, but she cocks an eyebrow. “I’m serious. They have Oktoberfest on tap, and I intend to chug one of those bad boys immediately after the race.”

“Well, then. We’d better run fast.”

“Damn right.”

We’re relaxed then as we stretch among the throngs of runners, the scent of sweat in the air. Still, my stomach flutters when the runners are called to the ready. I’m sure I’ve made a terrible mistake, but in one surreal moment, the race begins and we are moving forward, lost in the sea of black spandex and bright cotton, leggings and tank tops, headbands and armbands and Fitbits and earbuds.

One foot in front of the other, my legs hit the pavement, and maybe I can really do this. But soon, too soon—have we even gone the first tenth of a mile?—my muscles start to tire. My lungs gulp for air. Dammit, what about all my training? Have I improved at all?

I can’t do this—I can’t.

A nudge at my right elbow. I glance over at Nikki, who nods. “Give it another quarter of a mile.”

I nod back. Yes. Relax. Give it time. My pulse slows, and I look around at the way the morning sunshine filters through the trees, their branches waving in the breeze as if encouraging us. You can do this, they seem to say.

And soon my legs have found their rhythm. My muscles quiet; my lungs ease. My thoughts clear.

I can do this.



We slow enough at the first checkpoint to let tiny cups of water quench our dry throats and to let the encouraging words of the volunteers propel us forward.

At two miles, my knee twinges, but I’m feeling good. Nikki recounts stories about the old days in college—holding each other’s hair back when we partied too much, drinking coffee until dawn when we did actually study—and I laugh through my puffs of breath.