“What?”
“The navy. Very adventurous. Next thing I know, you’ll be sporting stripes.”
“Don’t push it, sweetheart,” he mutters, but his shoulders look a little less tense. Winning as far as I’m concerned.
The horn sounds, and we’re off. I fly through the first obstacle, a tire run, while Jeremy seems intent on placing his feet with studied precision.
“Pick up the pace, Winslow!” I shout while the other teams pull ahead.
Following the order, he promptly catches his toe on a tire rim and stumbles forward, somehow managing to right himself with a graceless lunge. I grab his arm and haul him through the last few tires, and we sprint to the next station: a hula hoop hop. Each partner has to jump through a series of hoops laid on the ground without touching the edges.
I clear them in seconds. Jeremy, who has the upper-body definition of an underwear model and the lower-body coordination of a baby giraffe on roller skates, clips every single one, no hint of spatial awareness.
“Just step over them!”
“I’m trying. They’re moving.”
“They’re on the ground, Jeremy.”
He makes it through on sheer determination, and we move to the egg-and-spoon relay. One partner runs the first half, transfers the egg, and the other runs the second.
I complete my leg without dropping it, gaining some ground on the competition in the process. I hand the egg to Jeremy with a look that says, “If you drop this, I will never let you forget it.” He takes the spoon with both hands, steadies the egg, and starts walking. The other teams sprint by him.
“Run, Jeremy,” I shout like he’s Forrest Gump.
“If I run, the egg falls.”
“If you walk, we come in last again.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the egg as he smiles. “I’m okay with last.”
He walks the entire course at the speed of a man enjoying a Sunday stroll, and when he crosses the finish line—a full thirty seconds behind the fourth-place team—he holds the intact egg up like a trophy.
“Didn’t drop it.”
I burst out laughing, and he grins at me. He doesn’t care about winning. He’s simply happy to be here with me, terrible at camp games and loving every minute. And once I allow myself to shed a lifetime of trying to measure up, stuffing the shadows and secrets in the dark basement of my soul, I feel exactly the same. Happy without qualification.
The final obstacle is a cargo net climb. Someone has strung a wide net between two tall wooden posts. Another beam is attached horizontally at the top, where you swing your legs over and climb down the other side. Both partners have to complete it.
Jeremy goes first, and for the first time all day, he’s in his element.
“My trainer is a big fan of pull-ups,” he tells me with a wink. Then his hands grip the rope, and his body rises in smooth, powerful movements, his arms flexing under that navy T-shirt. I temporarily forget we’re at a family-friendly event, and glance over to see the college-age girl staring, her jaw gaping open. I guess lumberjack dad energy is her thing, too.
He scales the net in what feels like seconds, swinging his legs over the platform and looking down at me with a grin, then descending not quite as gracefully, but in record time.
He high-fives me as soon as his sneakers hit the ground. “Your turn, boss.”
I grab the net and pull myself up. The first few feet are fine, but by the halfway point, my arms are shaking, and sweat is making my palms slip on the rope. I can run five miles before dawn, but upper body work—other than what it takes to lift a standing mixer out of the cabinet—isn’t really my thing. When I reach for the next rope, my hand slips, and I slide back two squares with the net swaying beneath me.
I try again and only make it one square higher before my arms give out, and I drop back to where I started the second attempt.
Members of other teams scramble past me, shouting words of encouragement. I can hear clapping and friendly shouts from the sidelines, and my face burns with heat. I was so condescending to Jeremy, but I’ll be the reason our team won’t finish.
“Can I borrow your personal trainer?” I call down, forehead pressed to the ropes because I’m too humiliated to look at him.
The joke falls flat to my own ears because the embarrassment is real.
“You can do this,” he shouts.
