“I’m okay. I’m okay.” I pushed out a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He pushed ahead a little, and I tucked behind him. The 3:45 pacer had announced at the race’s start that the wind would cost us over thirty seconds a mile. He had encouraged us to stick with the group because drafting would ease the load. I’d stuck for most of the race, but lost the pack at mile 20 when my mind wandered. I hadn’t noticed.
“Stick right there and we’ll make it,” the man called back to me.
“Thanks.” I tucked closer. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
The man ran me in and gave me a hug after the finish. He didn’t seem surprised when I burst into tears.
“You did great.”
“I didn’t, but thank you.”
“You did. It’s my eighteenth marathon, and I’ve seen a lot out here. Each one is a unique and dangerous experience.”
We pushed through the chute to receive our medals. I lost him. Instead I found Ashley and Debbie.
“You didn’t wave!”
“I didn’t see you.”
“We didn’t think so. Your face was horrible. Were you crying?”
“I don’t remember.”
I didn’t elaborate. Alex still filled my thoughts. I hoped he would leave soon. To distract myself, I concentrated on food. I ate a banana, an energy bar, and a bagel from the food tent, sucked down three chocolate milks, then found Ashley and Debbie again. They kindly drove me home and left me alone at my apartment. I shook so badly with the cold that I wanted only a hot shower and soup. I wasn’t very coherent. Alex still filled my mind.
He left when the Muirs arrived, and I finally felt at peace. Sore, unable to bend my knees, but at peace. They brought me a full meal of chicken, stuffing, vegetables, and potatoes. And two pints of ice cream.
“We won’t stay, dear. You need to rest.” Mrs. Muir fluffed the pillows and blankets, making a nest for me on the couch.
“I’m so glad you came.”
“How could we not? You were wonderful today. What an accomplishment.” She glowed.
“I was eight minutes off my backup plan.”
“In that wind! You should be thrilled. Don’t diminish this, Sam. I’m so proud of you.” The professor pulled me gently into a hug.
After they left, I curled up on my couch, watched a coupleSherlockepisodes, and ate every bite of food they’d brought—including both pints of Dulce de Leche.
Today, I limp . . .
Sam
NOVEMBER 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
When the Muirs returned from Europe this summer, Mrs. Muir brought out fabric swatches and asked me to pick my favorites. She didn’t tell me why, but now I know.
We were baking cookies yesterday when she asked me to grab a book from her bedroom. I returned. “It’s not there. Could it be somewhere else?”
“Check the guest room. I wandered through there yesterday.”
I walked down the hall, opened the door, and stopped. It’s gorgeous: pale green walls and filmy white-and-green draperies. The bed is covered in a soft floral pattern of whites, greens, and pale orange—lilies, of course.
“It’s yours, Sam. It’s everything you picked out, right?” She sounded tentative as she stood right behind me.
