Just One of the Guys(32)

Then I see him. Mr. New York Times! The cheekbones, the hair, the six-feet-two-inches of male perfection—shit, where did he go? Craning my neck, standing on tiptoe, I still can’t see him. Damn it! Aside from Trev, that man is the first guy who’s done it for me in ages. I need to meet him. I need to.

“Hey, Chastity!” It’s Angela. “Oh, wow! Love your shirt,” she continues. “That’s my favorite movie. In fact, I have a life-size cutout of Legolas in my office at home.”

“I think that’s sad,” I say. “Because Aragorn is much hotter.”

She laughs. “No, he’s not. And Legolas is so much cooler. Remember that flip thing he does onto the horse?”

“Onto Aragorn’s horse,” I remind her. “Aragorn saved Legolas’s ass.”

“You guys are such losers,” Pete from advertising says from behind us. “Really. Do you play Dungeons and Dragons, too?”

“Not anymore!” I say.

“Not for days,” Angela echoes and we laugh.

“Are you girls walking or running today?” Pete asks.

“I’ll probably walk,” Angela says.

“If I ran, I’d probably die,” Pete admits affably. “Walking is bad enough. Ten miles! Crap! What about you, Amazon Queen?” Pete takes a minute to scan my frame and smiles appreciatively. “I’ve always been drawn to domineering women.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Pete,” I say.

“I want you to hurt me,” he says. “Oh, there’s my wife. Pretend we’re just coworkers.”

Pete’s wife, whom I’ve met a couple of times before, rolls her eyes. “As long as the life insurance is paid up, I don’t care what you do, hon. Have fun today, you guys.”

“Where’s the rest of the Gazette Gazelles?” I ask.

“Over there,” Angela says, gesturing. Sure enough, my coworkers—Penelope, Alan Graytooth (I can’t seem to get that nickname out of my head), Danielle and one of our freelancers, whose name escapes me. Lucia, clad in bubblegum pink, stands close to Pen. She’s holding hands with a tall, thin man wearing very tight, black running pants and a bright yellow shirt.

“I see Lance Armstrong has joined our group,” I murmur.

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met,” Angela says as we walk over to the group. “Ted Everly, Lucia’s fiancé.”

“Ah,” I breathe. “At last. The man, the legend, the bear.”

“Hello! Hello, everyone!” Penelope calls. She’s wearing an oversize T-shirt that says “Eaton Falls Gazette—Committed to the Cure” and yoga pants. “The race starts in about ten minutes, so let’s get over there!”

It’s a beautiful, clear day, with a light breeze off the river—perfect for running. We walk over to the start line with hundreds of other participants. I do a few stretches to warm up, and Penelope frowns at me. “Everyone, do what Chastity’s doing,” she says. “Chastity, you’re a bit of a jock, aren’t you? Show us a few good stretches.”

“I prefer the word ‘athlete,’ Pen,” I say. I demonstrate basic runner’s stretches, isolating all the major muscle groups of the legs, h*ps and lower back.

“Teddy Bear and I do Pilates,” Lucia announces. “We don’t need these.”

“Hi, Teddy Bear,” I say as I loosen up my ankles. “I’m Chastity O’Neill.”

“So I’ve heard,” he mutters. “Nice to meet you.” Judging by the expression on his sharp-featured face, it’s as nice as, say, drinking poison, or severing one’s finger just for the fun of it. Well! He seems perfect for Lucia, whose hair is sprayed into a spun-sugar cloud of Doris Day blond. Her lips are deep red, her mascara visible at twenty paces.

The mayor of Eaton Falls gives a little speech, thanking the sponsors, getting us revved up. I look around for Mr. New York Times, but I don’t see him. There are hundreds of runners. I do peruse the crowd wearing EF Hospital T-shirts, but I can’t make him out. That’s okay. I’m still pretty excited. Dad and Matt definitely are running today—it gives me a thrill of pride that my father can still do ten miles—and I think Mark was planning on it, too, and possibly Tara, who ran track in college. But the rest of the O’Neills will be positioned at some point along the course, ready to cheer on the runners and possibly spray us with a hose.

The starting pistol is fired, and off we go with the rest of the crowd. With the walkers. The runners lope up ahead, and my feet itch to join them. The EFG staff walks briskly, but it’s not the same. I jog almost in place next to my coworkers. “Anyone feel like running a little?” I ask. Pete shoots me a glare. “Except for Pete?”

“I may have a slight lung condition,” Penelope says, patting her chest fondly. “Chronic bronchitis, possibly walking pneumonia. I was worried about TB, but my skin test was clear.”

“Ange? Want to run?” I ask.

“Um…not really, Chas,” she admits.

“Okay,” I sigh, circling our group. Lucia and Teddy Bear do not deign to look at me, simply pump their arms in rhythm and heel-toe, heel-toe with vigor.

“Chastity,” Penelope says, “if you can run this course, go for it! It’ll make the paper look good. Go ahead, go ahead.”