Page 17 of Worth the Shot

Reluctantly, I shove my shoes on and lace them as slowly as humanly possible, hoping I can delay the inevitable through sheer stubbornness. I hate running, but Jo insists it’s therapeutic and will heal my soul. I’m not sure that’s possible, but here we are. Hasn’t worked yet.

Already in my workout leggings and a cropped tank, I grab my thickest zip-up jacket and keys before following her to my car. Because apparently not only must we run, we must do it somewhere pretty. Another one of Johanna’s rules, and, arguably, she has far too many of them.

The second we’re inside the car and I turn the key, she leans over to inspect my dash. Here we go.

“UGH!”

I don’t even react. I’m numb to it by now.

“Why, Delaney Marie Collins, do you never have gas in your car?” She drags a hand down her face before throwing both hands in the air. “I give up. Please just let me drive my car.”

“You are a terrible driver, so that won’t be happening. Plus, I have plenty of gas to get us to the pier. Chill out. Drama queen.” I put some extra flare on that last part.

“I refuse to push this car when you run out. Remember I said that.” She points at me to really drive it home, then drops back into her seat and buckles herself in.

I snicker.

She shoots daggers my way, crossing her arms over her chest. I think she even mutters unbelievable under her breath, but I can’t be sure.

I turn on the radio, throwing on our favorite playlist, and she’s immediately over her little tantrum. We spend the entire fifteen-minute drive to the waterfront singing at the top of our lungs, and for a minute, I almost forget we have to run. Yuck.

The sky is the perfect shade of blue, wispy clouds stretched thin as golden sunlight climbs higher with every passing minute. The sound of small, choppy waves instantly washes a sense of calm over me, and I breathe it in. One of my favorite places to be, even if it means a morning jog against my will with my demanding, doesn’t-take-no-for-an-answer best friend.

I grab my fleece headband from the backseat and use the hair tie that’s always on my wrist to pull my long hair into a ponytail. Tugging the band down over my ears, I force myself out of the warm cocoon of my heated seat.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter.

Jo loves to run, and she’s good at it. When I say good at it, I mean she doesn’t look like she’s four minutes from death the way I currently do, after only a quarter mile. I’m in great shape and I love my gym routine when my schedule actually allows for it, but I do more strength training than running and it shows. Brutally.

“You’re a nurse,” she says, not even remotely out of breath, “aren’t you supposed to like, swear by cardio?”

I huff out a breath, “I do cardio, just not like this.” Another breath. “This…” I gasp dramatically, “…is torture.”

“So dramatic,” she says. “Anyway, how’s your emotional celibacy going?” Right to the point, as usual.

I glance over at her. “I don’t—what⁠—”

“Tell me everything about the cute hockey lumberjack from the barbecue last weekend. The one you failed to mention to me, somehow.”

Emma.

I correct her on instinct, still trying, and failing to catch my breath. “He’s not a lumberjack.”

“But he could be,” she counters. “And that’s what matters.” She finally stops by a bench, hand on her hip as the other motions for me to sit.

I lose. I sit, letting my body sink into it. “It’s nothing,” I say. “He’s just…new. And friendly.”

Jo looks at me like she’s watching a toddler lie about eating glue. “Lane.”

I do not look at her. She takes the seat next to me, lowering her voice. “Did you smile at him?”

I swallow and wipe the sweat from my brow. “Maybe.”

She gasps. “You haven’t smiled at a man in a long time. Not a real smile. Maybe a ‘here is my driver’s license and insurance card, officer’ smile. But a heart smile? That’s practically foreplay for you.”

I cover my face with both hands. “It’s not like that.”

She gently peels my hands away. “Okay. Then tell me what it is like.”