Page 123 of Okay, Cupid

He smiles at me. “Good. I’m glad that he has you. Now the question becomes, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just hope he can forgive me.”

“Give him a little more credit than that.”

“You think so?”

“You managed to break both of our hearts in the span of like an hour,” Cal jokes. “If I can get over it, so can he.”

I don’t want to laugh about the moment, because despite Cal’s words, I feel like he can’t really be over it. It’s only been a few days, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that heartbreak is something that sticks with you. I guess without the pain, you can never appreciate the relief, that swell of emotions, the way your stomach flutters when your favorite person smiles at you and only you, the sound of their laughter in the hallways, the things that remind them of you.

It’s a part of a life that I’m ready for.

Finally.

It feels painful to say goodbye to Cal.

Because this is it. This might be the last time I ever see him and remember who he is. I don’t want to let him go, because letting go of him means letting go of … everything. All of it. Letting go of him means that I’m letting go of Leah and Richard, of being a Cupid, of this weird, promised future.

But I refuse to budge. I refuse to not think of myself any longer.

I hug Cal as tightly as I can.

“I have to go, Cal,” I say softly.

“I know.” He pulls me in close. I love Cal; I love him so much. And the idea of never seeing him ever again makes me want to scream, but I don’t.

“I love you,” I tell him.

“I love you too.” He breathes slowly before his grip around me relaxes. “Now … go get him, tiger.”

I twist, jumping off the seawall, and I start walking. And walking.

I peer over my shoulder at Cal, who sits there, watching me. He gives me a short wave, and I smile back at him.

And then …

I run.

I run down the street, to the nearest bus stop, my chest heaving, the air cold enough to make my throat hurt as it pours in and out of me like water. And when the bus comes by and I see the bright orange NOT IN SERVICE lights that gleam off the front, I start to run again.

I run, and I run, and I run.

I run until my ankles start to hurt and my thighs burn. I run until I’m doubled over in front of the combination KFC and Taco Bell on Sixteenth. I run past this elderly Korean couple, apologizing as I almost bump into both of them. I run past this crowd of people lined up outside Dragon Beaux. I run past the people getting drunk on the outdoor patio. I run past the bookstore that’s closing for the night, past the dimmed lights of the dentist’s office. I run past Park Presidio Boulevard, narrowly avoiding cars as they screech to a halt in the middle of the intersection, the drivers yelling at me as I try to apologize.

I run the entire way down Geary, past the smells of the seafood markets and the grocery stores, the dessert cafés and the Indian restaurants. I run and I run and I run until I feel like I’m about to pass out, until the sweat feels so cold and gross on my body as my systems try anything and everything to cool me down.

I run until I reach the lawn of Hearst, resisting the urge to fall onto the grass just to catch my breath.

I run until I have to climb each of the six steps that feel so impossibly daunting now that my thighs hurt more than they ever have before.

And now … I’m here.

I don’t have to run anymore.

The school is alive, with some kids watching me as I enter through the front doors, having snuck away for a quick make-out or to try their best to get rid of the pot smell that lingers on their clothing.

Spoiler: You can still smell it.