Left Drowning(34)

“Five point three miles.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He laughs. “Five. Point. Three. Miles. That’s pretty damn good.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” I am shocked. And giddy. I had no idea. “It’s not like it’s a marathon, but still… . That’s not bad, huh?”

“It’s not bad at all. You should be proud. I don’t think I could run a quarter of a mile. Good for you!” Eric opens the door. “Stay with the truck, would you, in case anyone needs to move theirs or something? I’ll start unloading.”

I bite my lip. Holy shit. Two months of running and I can run over five miles? It is true that I feel stronger, firmer. That I crave the workout. Six days a week sometimes doesn’t feel like enough, and the day that I don’t run leaves me restless. When I run as far as I can and push myself as hard as possible, my entire body feels it. The ache in my legs, the nausea, the pounding from my heart, and the prickly heat that covers my skin are all addictive. Yes, it is pain, but it is pain with a purpose. Maybe the purpose is to escape, but that escape is letting me heal. I can feel it happening.

A thump on the side of the truck startles me out of my thoughts. I roll down my window. “Hi, Sabin.”

“What’s happenin’, the cakest of all my baby cakes?” Sabin’s messy hair blows in the light wind. His leather biker jacket is unzipped, and he has on only a thin white V-necked T-shirt under it. A pair of faded red cargo shorts show off legs that are stuck sockless into unlaced hiking boots.

“Aren’t you freezing? It’s snowing, you nut!” I lean out the window and wrap my scarf around his neck.

“Awww! You care! But I’m all good, sweets. This is not cold, kid. Negative fifty with the windchill is cold. Today is refreshing. You on truck duty?”

“Yup. You didn’t see Eric? He already started taking stuff inside.”

“Okay. Stand guard for any suspicious-looking fellows passing by. Oh! Like this guy! Blythe, help me!” Sabin runs off, zigzagging wildly up and down the road as Chris approaches, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Chris tucks his hands into his jeans and peers into the window. “Hi.”

“Hi, back.” We haven’t spoken in weeks, and I feel like an * just sitting in his car like this.

“Sorry about Sabin. As usual.” Before he can say anything else, Sabin tackles him in a bear hug.

“Oh, thank God, it’s just my dear brother. I thought you were an obsessed fan. Or a zombie.” Sabin kisses Chris on the cheek, noisily and sloppily, and then grabs something of Estelle’s from the truck bed. “So, Blythe? Where, pray tell, would you like this?”

I crane my head out the window. “What the f*ck is that?”

“It’s a two-foot-by-three-foot oil painting of Jesus.” Sabin holds the atrocity out to his side as if it were a top prize on a game show. “A stunning portrait, done in shades of neon, and complete with an ornate gold frame. Fancy, yes?”

“That is some ugly crazy shit.” Chris closes his eyes.

“Oh f*ck,” I say. “Seriously? Is this for real?”

“Estelle makes interesting artistic choices. Regretting your decision yet?”

“No, no, of course not.” I slump into my seat. “I’m sure this will look striking above the bed.”

“I better get this priceless objet d’art out of the snow. Back in a sec.” Sabin swooshes from the street to the sidewalk on his boots like he’s skiing, and uses the backside of the painting as an umbrella.

I am alone with Chris, and it’s hard not to stare at him now that I’m given the opportunity. There is a strong family resemblance between Chris and Sabin, but Sabin is bigger and burlier, and generally more disheveled. Sabin reminds me of a big, messy kid, while Chris has a lean, groomed, and definitely grown-up allure. Chris is put together in a way Sabin isn’t. Even when Chris’s hair falls into his eyes, as it is doing now, it is perfect. And I know what is under his layers of clothing, how the muscles in his arms and chest are insanely cut and defined. I know how he breathes when he cups my ass in his hand … .

More than those things, I know how he sounds when he talks me down from pain.

I know too much not to be affected by his presence.

The windshield is nearly covered with snow. I squint my eyes. All the giant flakes cling to one another, and none are able to survive alone.

“Hey, Blythe, listen.” Chris leans into the cab of his truck and grabs my hand, but I refuse to look right at him. “About earlier … About that night?”

“What? What about it?” I focus on the snowy glass in front of me again. Those damn green eyes of his are too compelling, and I’m afraid they’ll make me all weak and pathetic. I have a right to show him how severely irritated I am. How confused I am.

“I’m sorry. That probably shouldn’t have happened. And I didn’t mean to just … to leave the way that I did. It wasn’t you. And I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t me?” I snap. “That’s got to be the goddamn dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re way too smart to say something like that. Don’t be such an *.”

“Okay, yes. It was you.”

“Awesome. That’s great to hear.”