Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up the magnification feature. Most of the way I interact with the world is through auditory or tactile means, but sometimes in situations like this, I can tap into my remaining vision through magnifiers to figure things out.
Squinting, I try to make out the various power walk/running options on the screen. Between the glare and the screen’s poor contrast, it’s hard to read. After staring for a few minutes, I think I’ve figured it out and tap what I believe is a twenty-minute no incline option. My understanding is that most marathons tend to be flat, including Seal Beach.
Hands curled tight around the rails that run along the treadmill’s sides, I start to walk with the roboticthree, two, one, startthat sounds from the machine. If they can have that verbal output, it would be nice if they had it for the rest of the treadmill’s features. It starts off slow—my muscles fire awake and hips sway just a bit to the beat of the pop music playing in my earbuds.
Still, I hold on to the rails and concentrate on staying to the center of the belt. It’s hard not to sway to the left or right. Without the cane, the rails are my only way to anchor me to where I’m supposed to be. The entire time, my heart thuds in my chest. Not because this is particularly taxing. It’s barely a fast stroll. Fear thumps inside me, nonetheless.
I’ll feel more comfortable once I’m better oriented to the machine to ensure I make the correct selection.Note to self, get Catherine to help orientate me to the machine Tuesday after yoga.
As the machine begins to speed up, tension spools tight in my muscles. My slow pace notches up to a power walk. It’s not anything I can’t handle, but I hit the stop button anyways. I don’t want to risk a visit to the ED. One Larsen sibling busted up is enough for my parents, who fly back on Wednesday.
My brother insisted they remain in New York to do all the things we’d planned—minus cheering him on at the race. With the holidays being our parents’ bakery’s busiest time of the year, this is their last chance for respite until January’s brief reprieve.
“How am I going to do this for 26.2 miles?” I whine as the machine comes to a complete stop. Head shaking, I climb off the machine and move to the elliptical. I may have failed on the treadmill, but at least I can get the twenty-minute power walk/jog in for now.
I hit two miles on the elliptical. I’ll take that as a win. The thought of power walking—let alone running 24.2 more miles—radiates an ache in my calves. How can I do this? Why am I evendoing this? Anker didn’t even ask! He gave me a way out, but here I am.
I want to blame my ridiculous offer on the mix of emotions from everything that occurred in a twelve-hour period between Thursday night and Friday morning. A big part of me wants to back out, but Anker’s gratefulness yesterday morning, after I stayed at his place just in case he needed anything, solidifies my resolve to do this. It’s such a flip of the script for me to be the one looking after him. I don’t want to fail him.
I also don’t want to fail myself. Inside me, a tiny voice whispers, “What if the Larsen lore is real?” Not in the sense that fate will magically poof the love of my life into existence if I run a marathon next year, but that this is the step into charting a new course. Part of the work I’m going to do with Dr. Nor is to learn what causes me to make these same choices about men, friends, and so many other things. Past Jensen would never volunteer to run a marathon, but here I am, doing it. Maybe by doing something that breaks the mold of who I think I am, I can break other patterns.
Sighing, I grab the sweatshirt from the end of my bed and pull it over the tank top and leggings I changed into post-shower. My wet hair is tied into two long braids.
I raise my head at a loud knock at my door. “Hello? Who is it?” I say, reaching the door.
“It’s Garrett.”
“Garrett?” Face scrunched, I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.
His large frame takes up the entire entryway. The brim of his black cap shadows his face, but the hint of a smile flashes. I drag my eyes down his form. The unzipped hoodie reveals a black T-shirt stretched over his broad chest. His muscular calves are on full display between the hem of his shorts and the tops of his sneakers.
“Jensen,” he says, the heat of his stare rolling down my body, over my hoodie, to my bare feet, and back up my figure before he clears his throat. “Nice sweatshirt.”
Crap!“Sorry. I should return this.” I fiddle with the sleeves of the sweatshirthe’dleant me the other night. I don’t know why I chose this one to wear today. In my defense, it’s super comfy. Even if right now my cheeks flush from embarrassment.
“Keep it. It looks good on you.”
And cue the stomach swoops.This is why I can’t be around this man. One compliment and I’m sure there are hearts in my eyes like a cheesy cartoon character. No good will come from prolonged interaction with him.
“Thanks… It’s cozy.” I shift foot-to-foot. “How’d you break into my building this time?”
“Sincesomeonedidn’t answer my text or call, I had to get creative.” A teasing smirk plays in his words. “I held the door for a woman with a stroller and then slipped in behind her.”
I lean against the doorjamb. “Playing the Good Samaritan again to break and enter.Ruthless.Perhaps I should tell the building’s manager to be on the lookout for you.”
“PerhapsIshould have a chat with them. With how easily I got into this building, I do worry about its safety.”
I shake my head. “Are you here to test the security of my apartment? Shall I lock the door and time how long it takes you to break in?” I sass.
“Cute.”
“That I am.” I bat my eyes.
“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone borders on playful exasperation.
“Asking permission to enter? Maybe you are a vampire after all.” With a flick of my wrist, I step to the side. “You may enter.”
“Vampires only need permission once, and you already gave it to me.” He steps close, the warmth of his body licks my skinlike flames from a bonfire that threatens to burn. “Or did you forget I was here two days ago?”
