I glanced back at the smoothie with disgust, made a face, then stared up at him. “You’re serious? You look serious.”
“I’m very serious.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself standing miserably on the sidewalk, glaring at Sasha. The smoothie was a terrible idea. Who on earth thought drinking liquid vegetables was smart before going for a run?
Apparently, my babysitter-slash-drill sergeant.
Also, I didn’t do this. I didn’t run. Ever. I’d never run for anything in my life—not even to catch the subway—and I certainly didn’t plan on starting now, especially not at rock bottom. What, was cardio supposed to cure alcoholism? If anything, it made me desperately crave a cigarette and cheap wine.
Annoyed, I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “This is ridiculous.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic, Valentina. This can be good for you if you let it.”
If I let it?
“You’re forcing me to run,” I shot back, annoyed. “I think I’m entitled to some drama.”
He sighed like he was dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. “I’m helping, not forcing. There’s a difference.”
“Helping me die faster, maybe,” I muttered bitterly.
“Start,” he ordered, gesturing firmly down the sidewalk before jogging away.
Dragging my feet and mentally cursing every step, I followed reluctantly. We’d barely made it two miserable blocks before my side cramped sharp enough to make me clutch at it dramatically.
“I can’t breathe!” I shouted.
“It’s because you smoke too many cigarettes!” Sasha yelled back.
Did I though? It wasn’t like I could afford them anymore. Plus, I was pretty sure it was just my lungs rejecting this unnatural punishment.
When we reached the next corner, I leaned heavily against a lamppost, panting. “Sasha, this is awful. I want to go home.”
He stopped and turned around, not even out of breath. Of course he wasn’t. “You’ve barely moved.”
“Exactly,” I wheezed. “And look where I am now—dying, in public. Running is not my thing. My body literally rejects it. I’m tired.”
“You’re not tired,” he replied flatly, approaching me slowly. “You’re lazy.”
I straightened up, genuinely shocked by the audacity. “Excuse me?”
“You have plenty of energy,” he insisted, folding his arms like some disappointed coach. “You just don’t like using it.”
“I prefer to reserve my energy for things I don’t despise.”
“And you despise running?”
“Yes,” I replied instantly. “Almost as much as I despise you right now.”
He watched me calmly, clearly waiting for me to give up my theatrics and get moving again. But I wasn’t going to play along with his little boot-camp fantasy. If he thought he could whip me into shape with kale smoothies and sunrise jogs, he was mistaken.
Instead of running, I stood there plotting. I was going to make him regret ever dragging me out of bed.
Because if I had to suffer through this, so would he.
CHAPTER 12
MARCO
