"Just barely," he replied.
I shoved my phone in my pocket. "Better than not."
The door swung open and Acevedo stepped through, his surgical gown billowing around him. "Come on, losers," he yelled, slapping his hand against the doorframe. "We're going running."
"I don't run," Stremmel groused. "Not intentionally."
"It's a good thing I'm not giving you a choice," Acevedo replied. "Let's go. Up. Both of you. I can't take all this pissing and moaning."
"The beatings will continue until morale improves?" Stremmel asked.
Acevedo waved him off. "Sweat is the solution to many things."
I pulled my phone out again, glared at it when I found no new messages. Nothing in the past minute. "Sweating isn't saving the day."
"This? From you?" Acevedo cried. "If there's anything you believe in, it's a good, long run. What happened to you, Hartshorn?"
"Lost myself looking after an asset," I said, mostly to myself. Then, louder, "Yeah. All right. Let's hit the pavement."
Acevedo brought his hands together in a loud clap, saying, "Yes. That's what I'm talking about." He pointed his clasped hands at me. "I'm giving you ten minutes to suit up and meet me across the street. We'll start at the park and follow the Charles into Cambridge and back around again. Ten miles. Twelve if we push it."
"That sounds like a death march," Stremmel grumbled. "No offense but I'm going to accidentally forget to meet you there."
"God help me, Stremmel, you're running," Acevedo replied. "You need to burn off some of your bitter."
Stremmel banged his locker shut and turned a well-practiced glare toward the neurosurgeon. "I've tried that. Burning, drowning, strangling. Every way you can kill a witch, I've tried it."
I headed toward the door, beckoning for Stremmel to join me. "It's no use," I said. "We're doing this. If we're lucky, we'll be too tired to be miserable later."
He followed but asked Acevedo, "Where is your wife? You wouldn't be doling out corporal punishment if that spitfire was at home."
"And how long is she gone?" I asked.
"New York," he replied. "Lucky for you two, she gets home tomorrow afternoon."
Stremmel nudged me with his elbow. "These motherfucking married people," he grumbled.
I tried to protest. To offer another explanation for Acevedo and his exuberant concern for dragging us out of our foul moods. But I didn't have it in me this time. I wasn't sure I had much of anything left in me.
I wasn'tcertain but it seemed like Acevedo ran us all the way to the state border and back.
This was a perfect night for it, light until nearly eight o'clock, clear skies, warm but not humid. And everyone was out. If Stella and I hadn't fallen apart—or whatever happened—we would've been relishing in summer's arrival and following the path along the river with everyone else tonight. We would've walked and talked, and she would've bought an ice cream cone or two and I would've watched her eat them.
But Stella wasn't here and Acevedo taunted us better than a drill sergeant. After two months with little more than brisk walking as training, every mile felt like five. And Acevedo was right about the sweat doing us good. Or doing me good. Stremmel muttered something about moving back to Los Angeles if anyone conscripted him into another half marathon.
As I shuffled toward my apartment, my shirt soaked through and my muscles numb, I cursed Acevedo for plotting a course that forced me to think about Stella. But then another thought niggled loose. What if it wasn't Acevedo's fault? What if everything in this damn world reminded me of Stella? Even the street outside my apartment was built on interactions with her. I didn't want to move but I couldn't manage sucker punches like this one on a regular basis.
And dammit, it smelled like her. Not her hair or her skin but things I'd come to associate with her. Spice and garlic and herbs. It wasn't the typical cauldron of city scents. No, it was like an apparition, one rising from my building and leading me into temptation.
That was, if composing and deleting texts while watching the baseball game on mute to save me from imagining the way Stella would call the plays constituted temptation. It probably qualified as self-destruction or at least a healthy dose of mental torture.
Stremmel led the way into our building and said nothing more than a chant of "Fuck" as he climbed the stairs to his third-floor apartment. I waved to him as I unlocked my door, tried to ignore the rich, heavy aroma around me. It was my imagination, I was positive. Scent imprinted itself on memory and I'd never forget the night Stella came to me when I was sick, all fierce and defiant about chicken soup.
I laughed at that as I opened the door. Stella wasn't chicken soup. She wasn't the standard option. She was surprising and a bit strange. Unexpected in every way. She was complicated too. Her history was loaded with disappointments and she distanced herself with sweetness and smiles, using that warmth as a shield to keep everyone at an arm's length.
And she was here, in my apartment.
I leaned against the doorway into the kitchen, a little dizzy, a little dazed, my muscles pushed past the point of fatigue and still aching in the places where I broke for her. I wanted to stand here, wanted to stare as she chopped vegetables and force my brain to confirm this as reality. But my body wasn't sure about staying upright. I had to brace my hands on either side of the door to keep from sliding to the floor.
