“Nothing,” I say. “Everything’s fine as long as you’re here.”
She leans her head against my shoulder, casual, comfortable, and utterly unaware of what it does to me. I’m hyperconscious of her warm, soft weight against me. I could stay like this forever.
“I’m here,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I close my eyes, drinking in every moment of this heaven. As long as I have Mina, nothing else matters.
She shifts slightly, and I have to fight the urge to wrap my arms around her and never let go.
4
Mina
The runners come around the final bend, and I’m screaming so loud my throat burns.
“Come on!” I shout, both hands cupped around my mouth. “Come on, Cristiano!”
There are three of them in front of the pack, neck and neck. Cristiano in the middle lane, long legs pounding, his face a mask of fierce determination. There’s a stocky blond boy on his left and a tall, lanky runner on his right. Fifty meters to go, and they’re so close I can’t tell who’s ahead.
The crowd roars around me. Parents are calling out, students are stomping the bleachers until the whole structure shakes. The St. Peter’s section is a sea of burgundy and gold, everyone on their feet, and I’m right there at the railing near the finish line, leaning so far forward that I might topple onto the track.
Forty meters.
The blond boy surges. Cristiano matches him stride for stride, his jaw clenched, arms pumping.
Thirty meters.
The lanky runner makes a move on the outside. All three of them are flying now, their legs eating up the track, and my heart is in my throat because I can’t tell who’s in the lead.
“Come on, Cristiano!”
Twenty meters.
He pulls ahead. Just barely. Just a breath.
Ten meters.
Five.
Cristiano lunges forward and crosses the finish line first.
The stadium explodes in cheers. I’m jumping up and down, screaming and laughing for no reason except that he did it, he won, he actually won. The whole St. Peter’s section is chanting “MON-TO-NI! MON-TO-NI!” and it’s pure, beautiful chaos.
Cristiano staggers past the finish line and bends over, hands on his knees, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Then he straightens up, still breathing hard, and scans the crowd.
I’m jumping up and down, applauding and calling his name.
He looks at me with something bright and grateful in his eyes, like I gave him a gift just by showing up.
And then he’s moving. Not walking, but running straight through the chaos of celebrating runners and coaches. He vaults the railing—actually vaults it, one hand on the metal bar—and lands right in front of me.
He snatches me up in a hug, lifting me clear off my feet, and suddenly I’m in the air, his arms tight around my waist, spinning once before he sets me down.
I grab his shoulders for balance, laughing and breathless. I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. “Cristiano! You won! You were amazing!”
His face is flushed from the race, and his eyes are so bright, so alive. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and his modesty and serenity in the face of my jumping about and screaming makes me want to impress on him how wonderful this moment is.
