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“You chased greatness, Dashwood. And where exactly did that land you?”

It landed me here. In a city about ninety minutes away from Chicago. Because I’m lost. And bored. And tired.

It landed me here. Running around an unfamiliar neighborhood at a fucking leisurely pace. To avoid further damage to my already delicate foot.

It landed me here. Being an asshole angrier with himself than with a short, sassy runner with a sharp tongue.

One full week has already passed since the meet. Despite my efforts to pay attention to everyone, awkwardness and annoyance continue to fill the gap between me and the team.

“ I’m pretty sure being an assistant coach at a liberal arts university was never part of your ultimate dream.”

To be fair, is it anyone’s dream? No, I lost mine during my sophomore year at a North Carolina university that had offered me a full scholarship for running.

One diagnosis from one doctor informing me the common navicular stress fracture I had been treating for a year wasn’t healing properly snowballed into dozens of “second” medical opinions chipping away at my lifelong aspirations.

I had been “one to watch” one minute and “remember that kid from Nebraska” the next. Humiliation didn’t cover everything I felt watching my dream die a slow and painful death.

My mom and sisters encouraged me to return home and mourn what I had lost (my mom’s words, not mine). But I didn’t need to take a gap year to know what I needed to do. My brain automatically switched gears and focused on what had always been plan B: become a physical therapist. I completed my bachelor’s degree in exercise science three years later and then spent the following year traveling with my sisters and my girlfriend, Tara.

“I’m happy with where I am, so kindly fuck off.”

I can’t even remember the last time I had been genuinely happy. I wanted to feel something when I remained on the East Coast after the year of travel. When Tara and I moved in together. When I spent another three years for a degree in Doctor of Physical Therapy.

But then I realized I felt nothing all those years thanks to a simple question on an exam application.

Where do you see yourself in five years ? My immediate answer: I don’t know.

Would I remain in North Carolina? Would I be married to Tara? Would she be expecting our first kid? Did we have a dog? What the fuck did I want?

When I couldn’t answer any of the questions my mind threw at me, I knew I had to do something . Anything.

With my residency search expanded to anywhere in the country, one of my former roommates mentioned an opening at a university’s sports program. My options were limited, but my need for change was greater. Landing a coaching job was a bonus.

But despite doing something , I still feel nothing . Except misdirected anger at a certain runner who easily pisses me off with just one look.

Gah! I scowl, slowing my pace a fraction to catch my breath.

Even though I can’t run in a professional capacity, dozens of doctors insisted a few easy miles won’t hurt me. Had I lost the chance to run at all, I’d be a bigger asshole than I am now.

The continuous vibration of my phone against my arm interrupts my self-loathing thoughts. I stop running to check why my three sisters are blowing up our group chat. Dread slowly sinks through my chest, already suspecting the reason.

While my siblings and I definitely have our differences, one super annoying topic unites us. Our parents’ toxic relationship.

“Fuck,” I mutter, scanning through the dozens of texts ending with too many exclamation and question marks.

The biggest news takeaway is everyone owes Genevieve, the second to youngest sibling, fifty bucks for calling how long our dad’s third marriage would last. Not even a year. I figured the latest wife, despite the twenty-year age gap, would try to make it to the first anniversary. I guess not.

The commotion isn’t even about the third wife leaving. Nope, my sisters are up in arms over our dad’s “devastation” and our mom’s sympathetic shoulder for him.

The latest development only increases my frustration and my need for a longer run. But knowing what will soon follow, I cut my run short and head back to my two-story, two-bedroom townhouse.

The first expected call comes through when I shut the front door to my place and start peeling off my sweaty clothes. Gen, the champion of compartmentalization, wants to know how soon she can expect my fifty dollars and shares she’s ignored two (and counting) calls from Mom. We chat for a few minutes before she heads out the door to meet friends for dinner.

I jump in the shower after reading texts from the other two sisters warning Mom is calling “all of her darling children.” I envy Gen’s ability to ignore messages from either parent because I’ve never been able to avoid our mom without feeling immense guilt. Dad, on the other hand, not an issue.

When my mom checks in, I set the speaker on and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Guilt might not allow me to ignore my mom's calls, but it doesn't stop me from tuning out words I've heard a billion times before. I toss in an occasional "hmmm" or another one- to two-word reply whenever she pauses for air.

I swallow a groan after opening the refrigerator door and scanning the contents for anything edible. Nothing. The cabinets offer nothing except a sleeve of saltine crackers.

“Dash?” my mom calls out as I stand helplessly in the middle of the small kitchen. Maybe the food gods will take pity on me and magically stock the shelves behind the closed doors. Or the components for a good sandwich at least.

“Yeah, Mom?” I grab my coat from the couch and head toward the front door.

“Will you do that for me? Please?”

Shit. I halt suddenly in panic, forgetting about shoving my other arm into my coat. What did I miss?

My mom exhales the universal “disappointed, tired mother” sigh, interpreting my delayed reply as a resounding no.

“Dash, he’s your father.”

I roll my eyes and resume shrugging into my coat. The sense of dread long gone.

“He’s really hurting,” she insists as I step outside into the early evening and welcome the cool air sweeping over my heated emotional state.

Devastated the third Mrs. Black finally realized he wasn’t a rich silver fox, I think dryly, finally taking my mom off speaker and holding the phone to my ear.

Despite the last bits of sun fading, I walk toward a local diner a few guys on the team had recommended. Under normal circumstances, I’d hop in the car and waste five minutes of gas, but I’m hoping the chilly stroll will keep my mental health in check.

“Just think about how you felt when you and Tara separated,” my mom pushes, not waiting for a reply. “How many years were you two together? Weren’t you sad when it ended?”

Six years. Not really, my mind answers honestly.

“The breakup with Tara isn’t the same thing as Nicole leaving Dad,” I point out, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“But he was there for you, Dash.”

I bite back my growl because his version of “there for you” was saying, “You’re too good for her, son,” before clapping me on the back and throwing back shots of whiskey.

In reality, Tara deserved better. She held on for so long, waiting for the day I pull my head from my ass. I stayed because I was a selfish asshole. Well, I’m still a selfish asshole, but I’d like not to be. Some would call that recognition growth.

“He could really use some support from you and your sisters,” my mom insists, an air of frustration mounting in her normally calm voice. “I don’t understand why you’re all so mad at him all the time. You need to let go of his past mistakes.”

Oh, that will never happen. I flatten my lips to keep myself from saying those words out loud.

I’m one hundred percent sure my sisters won’t forget any of the disparaging remarks he’s made in recent years. Marianne is a dirty slut. Genevieve is a fat pig. Cordelia is a nerdy freak. And I’m a pussy because a small boo-boo on my foot stopped me from running.

“Mom, you know it’s not that easy, especially when he’s never apologized.”

A bright neon sign in the window of a dive bar I’ve visited a few times catches my attention, tempting me to walk in and stay for awhile. Except my stomach complains with a rumble, and I need more sustenance than stale popcorn and peanuts. I make a mental note to stop by on the way back from dinner.

“Dash, he says things when he’s upset,” she protests. “He doesn’t mean to hurt any of you.”

Bull-fucking-shit.

“I love you, Mom, but I gotta go,” I rush out apologetically, knowing I’ll snap at her if I stay on the line a minute longer.

“But Dash–”

“Love you! Bye!” I kill the call and speed walk on fumes the last two blocks to the restaurant.

As much as I love my mom, I will never understand why she allows herself to be a fucking doormat for a man who’s always been an asshole to her.

I puff out my cheeks and yank on the diner’s door a little too hard, causing the attached bell to chirp too loudly.

I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly when I step inside the quiet and practically deserted space. Giant framed pictures of the city dot the pale yellow walls, creating a casual and relaxed vibe.

Two female staff members huddle at the long bar, one behind it and the other sitting on a stool in front.

“Hello!” the server, likely a student at the university, perched on the stool greets before hopping off and grabbing a menu from the host stand. “Feel free to sit anywhere.”

Empty wooden booths line the walls while small square tables fill the inside area. An older couple quietly dine at a table near the bar, and another sit near a window.

I start walking toward the closest booth but stop when I see a familiar face. With her brown eyes downcast at a sketchbook and her hand flying over the paper with a pencil, Juni occupies a booth by herself. Judging from the full glass of ice water and no other dishes on the table, I guess she’s been here a minute or two.

Still feeling slightly salty from my conversation with my mom, I silently stalk over to her and slide into the empty bench across from her.

My sudden presence startles her, her head snapping up from the sketchbook and her hand stopping in mid-air.

“What the …” she trails off, staring at me with confusion before her pretty pink lips form a scowl. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” I shrug out of my coat and stash it at the end of the bench. “Grabbing dinner obviously.”

“Go sit at another table.”

“Uh,” the young server stammers, glancing nervously between us, unsure about her role in an awkward situation.

“I’ll just have a water for now,” I say smoothly with a wink and smile, gently tugging the laminated menu from her hand.

“Um, okay,” she replies, shooting an uncertain look at Juni, who rolls her eyes and slightly shakes her head, before heading toward the bar.

“Where are your manners, Juniper?” I tsk playfully, peeking at the menu.

“Where are your manners?” she shoots back, jabbing the sharpened end of her pencil in my direction. “I don’t remember inviting you to my table.”

“I’m not a vampire. I don’t need an invitation.”

Juni huffs as the brunette server returns with my water and her dinner plate.

“I’ll take the mushroom and Swiss burger,” I order after she sets the glass down and some sort of breakfast skillet in front of Juni. “For my side, I’d like the salad with Italian dressing please.”

The server named Mindy bounces away with the promise my order will be ready shortly.

Juni quietly lifts a slim brow as she frees her utensils from the napkin wrap.

I shrug before sweeping a hand over my torso area. “French fries will wreck this girlish figure I’ve worked so hard for.”

The sound of her light, genuine laugh sends an unexpected pulse of warmth through my chest.

Even though I see her most days at practice, she somehow looks different in this moment in an old faded black t-shirt. Her black hair isn’t pulled back into a ponytail but instead messily swept into a clip with tendrils framing her face. A few flecks of paint or ink stick to her unpainted and short fingernails, and a few more faint smudges linger on her wrists and part of her cheek.

Other than the light sheen of lip gloss, she’s not wearing an ounce of makeup. But she looks refreshingly beautiful – as always.

“What’s up your butt?” Juni asks, sinking a fork into her over-easy eggs sitting on top of what appears to be biscuits and gravy.

With my brain still functioning like a bratty teen, I bite out, “Your mom.”

“Considering my mom is a tiger mom, she’s up everyone’s butt,” she throws back just as quick before taking a bite and sighing softly in happiness. “My brothers and I learned a long time ago to never mess with her.”

I smile at her reaction, reaching for my utensils wrapped in a napkin.

“Why you so grouchy?” Juni amends her earlier question.

My initial instinct is to deflect, allowing the familiar irritation to slowly fester into anger. But for some reason, I have an urge to vent. Maybe I need to talk to someone other than my sisters.

“My mom,” I admit, reaching across the table with my fork and swiping a bite of biscuits and gravy.

“Hey,” she protests weakly, pulling the skillet closer to her.

The surprisingly delicious taste makes me wonder how I missed the breakfast section on the menu and if it’s too late to change my order.

“My parents separated when I was ten,” I continue, laying my fork on the napkin and leaning back. “My dad fell in love with someone else and moved out of the house. But six months later, he came crawling back and begged Mom for a second chance. Because my mom is a hopeless romantic, she took him back.

“But the reconciliation didn’t even last a month when they started fighting again and he moved out again. My sisters and I watched the vicious cycle last for three years until Dad finally served her with divorce papers. When my mom signed the papers, I took it as a positive sign that she was moving forward but deep down, she believes he’ll come back.”

“That sucks,” Juni offers with a sad smile.

“Yeah,” I agree softly. “She called me tonight, saying my dad is devastated his third marriage is ending. And that led us to arguing about why is he crying on her shoulder and why is she sympathizing with him. She says I don’t have a right to be angry with either of them.”

Her nose scrunches in disapproval. “Parents kinda suck, don’t they?”

I nod wordlessly, watching my fingers fiddle with the napkin, not knowing what else to add.

Fortunately, the awkward stillness breaks when Mindy drops off my burger and salad and refills our water glasses.

A few bites into my salad makes me wish I had ordered fries or Juni’s breakfast skillet. Not sure if it’s the food or the unwilling dinner date, but I feel my frustrations slowly fade.

“I kinda figured your mom was a hopeless romantic,” Juni admits, shoveling more food onto her fork.

I shoot her a skeptical look, wondering how anyone who doesn’t know my mom would come to that conclusion.

“It’s not hard to figure out when your sisters’ names are Marianne, Genevieve, and Cordelia.”

The question about how she knew the names almost slips out when my mind pulls me back to a time when I had been a really big deal. A really big deal where I found myself answering the same questions for different outlets.

The most frequently asked question had been if my parents knew I would be a runner when they named me Dashwood. With my oldest sister named Marianne, our dad strongly objected to our mom’s top choice for a boy: Willoughby. According to him, naming a brother and sister after a doomed literary couple sounds “icky.” After Mom pulled the “who has to push a watermelon out of her vagina” card, Dad reluctantly accepted the alternative: the last name of the three sisters in Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.

He foolishly believed he ended the trend of character names after banning the classic novel, just one of my mom’s favorites, for inspiration. Except my mom had dozens of “favorite” books that became fair game.

My new question is: when did Juni research me? Did she want to know more about the new assistant coach? Or did she follow me when I was in high school?

The idea of a teenage Juni scrolling through my past social media accounts on her phone tugs at something inside me. Amusement, for sure. But the unfamiliar pulse of warmth from earlier returns but slightly stronger. Despite its intentions, I find I don’t hate it.

Juni’s empathic smile fades slowly when mine brightens, edging toward devious.

“No,” she snaps without any real heat, pointing her empty fork at me. “Whatever you’re thinking about is wrong. So, just stop thinking.”

I hum quietly as I finish the rest of my salad and watch her squirm in her seat. As the silence between us stretches, the more agitated she becomes. I freaking love it.

“Ugh!” she huffs, pushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes. “We lived in the same state, and your stupid name was freakin’ everywhere, Dash. Everyone knew who you were.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I was just a dumb kid. I didn’t know any better.”

“Didn’t know any better than to what, Juni?” I tease, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially. “Juniper Mitchell, did you have a crush on me?”