She looked at me like she was calling a bluff. “Wasn’t sure you were serious.”
“I'm always serious.”
My eyes had already gone where they had no business going. I pulled them back before she caught it.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Lead the way.”
We ran. By mile two, I figured she’d ease back. By mile four, I was waiting for the heavy breathing and the stumble. Instead, she matched me step for step, like it was routine for her.
I kept stealing glances. Not obvious, but enough to clock the focus on her face. She ran quietly like I did. No forced chatter or trying to fill the air with pointless words. Just the sound of our feet hitting pavement in sync. Strangely, it wasn’t awkward. Most silences had weight. This one didn’t.
At mile six, I picked the pace up. She narrowed her eyes and came right with me.Stubborn.
“You really do run,” I said finally, more impressed than I meant to sound.
She smirked. “Didn’t think I could?”
I grunted. Which was my way of admitting she’d proved me wrong.
“Guess I’m not most people,” she shot back, eyes ahead.
We slowed when we hit Simone’s block. My lungs weren’t even close to tapped, but I could feel the sheen of sweat cooling on my skin. She’d matched my stride all the way in.
I leaned down, bracing my hands on my thighs for a stretch, and stole another glance. Slender frame, sure. But the kind of slender that carried curves. Hips that flared just right and an ass that didn’t quit. Damn.
She took a long pull from her water bottle, then side-eyed me. “I know you were holding back. Next time, maybe pick up the pace. I can handle it.”
I huffed out a laugh. “If I really picked up the pace, you’d be eating dust. But…” I straightened, meeting her look head-on. “You kept up with what I set. Even at that clip. A lot of men can’t even do that. So… I stand corrected. You’re not the jog-around-the-block type.”
“You set me up,” she said between breaths. “You thought I was going to quit on mile two.”
“Maybe.” I rolled my shoulders. “But you didn’t. How long you been running?”
Her smile flickered. “Started after my husband was killed. Everything that fell apart after. Some days it was the only way I could breathe: lace up, hit the road, go until my legs burned worse than the rest of me. About five years now.”
She glanced over. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hand you all that before six a.m.”
“You didn’t hand me anything. You ran through what you went through. I get it.”
Her eyes came to mine, checking whether I was just saying the thing you say. I held it, then I made myself look at the road.
“There’s a marathon in the spring,” she said. “I’ve been thinking it’s time I finally went the full distance. I’ve run two half marathons. Never the whole thing.”
“Which one?”
“Through the mountains, somewhere, I forget the name of the town. There's another one a few weeks after that. Starts and ends in Lennox Falls.”
“I’ve run six marathons. When you’re ready to train for one for real, I could help get you there.” I hadn’t decided to offer it; it was just out.
She looked at me sideways, like she was deciding whether I meant it. I let her wonder. I wasn’t sure myself.
“I should shower,” I said. “Get into my day.”
“Right.” She tipped the water bottle at me. “Well. If you ever want to run again, let me know. I’ll try not to crowd your quiet.”
I nodded, already jogging backward a few steps. “We’ll see.”
