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What is this guy’s problem? It’s as if he wants me to hate him. This morning’s run was one of my best so far, and I’m irritated because I think the reason was him. It’s only been about two weeks, and I’ve been trying to run every other day but haven’t made any noticeable progress.

I think I might need new shoes.

Now that is an aspect of running I can get behind. Which is why I find myself in the running store after dropping Levi off at daycare this morning.

A saleswoman greets me as I walk in, but I wave her off. It’s picking out a pair of shoes, how hard can it be?

I need to stop asking that question because half an hour later, I’m still struggling to find a pair of shoes that feels good. My skin crawls with anxiety, and I’m already late for work.

“Excuse me, would you like some help?” the saleswoman asks.

There’s no way I can do this on my own. “Yes, please.”

She gives me a big smile like I’m a kid who made a good choice .

“Great! First, what kind of running are you thinking of doing? Long runs? Speed work?”

Thinking of doing ... she can tell I’m a beginner. I try, and fail, not to let that chafe.

“Um ... I just started running two weeks ago”—that’s embarrassing to admit—“but I have to train for a half marathon.”

“Wow, great job! When’s the race?”

“Not until next June.”

My cheeks flush with embarrassment at needing this much help. I’ve always had the answers, or at least known where to look for them. As a scientist, it’s my job to find answers. With my brain.

I don’t have to use my body as much, and having to do so is uncomfortable. I’m good at stuff that requires the use of my brain. Not so much my body.

“That’s good you’re starting early! Most new runners get injured by trying to do too much too soon.”

Makes sense.

She scans the discarded boxes, taking a look at everything I tried on.

“None of these worked for you?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not completely sure what I’m looking for.”

“Alright, let’s have you hop up on the treadmill and I’ll take a look at your gait.”

What? I have to run now? She must see the expression of panic.

“Don’t worry, it’s only for a few minutes so I can see where your feet strike.”

A few minutes. I don’t tell her that I can barely run a minute. Although, with Julien I ran for two minutes straight. If I can even believe him.

You did better than I thought.

I guess it was kind of a compliment. A backhanded one, but maybe he just sucks with words. That could be why he’s such an asshole.

No, I am not going to stand here and make excuses or justify his behaviour. What is this, the ’50s?

Once I’m up on the treadmill, she starts it, allowing me to control the speed. There’s no way this is classified as running. I’m pretty much doing a brisk walk. But when I look at her, she’s studying my legs, brows lowered in concentration, and I feel the heat rising to my face, self-consciousness overturning my stomach.

“Alright, now turn it up a little,” the saleswoman says.

My legs are burning already, and I feel like my lungs are about to explode. Stupid timer on the treadmill says it’s been twenty seconds.

That’s such bullshit. How is time moving even slower on the treadmill than it does outside? I think I recall Paige complaining about having to use the treadmill sometimes. I get it now. This sucks.

The seconds tick by and I want to scream at her to hurry up. Is it normal to need this long, or am I really so bad that she doesn’t know how to help me?

“Okay, that’s enough, you can hop off now.”

Oh, thank god.

We spend the next few minutes retrying some of the shoes I’ve already tried, but ultimately, I was wrong—it wasn’t the shoe, it was the size. I didn’t know you’re supposed to size up on most running shoes. I listen as the saleswoman talks about running, giving me advice. I try to soak up as much of it as possible as I walk all around the store in different shoes and use the fucking torture machine again.

Under no circumstance should I skip a warm-up or cool down

Don’t worry about the distance

Walking breaks are good—in fact, they’re encouraged

Soreness is normal, but listen to your body if you feel pain

Strength training is not optional

Don’t worry about form too much at the beginning

If you feel yourself breathing heavy, slow down

Find a training plan that works and try to stick to 80% of it

Start slow ( no problem there ) and don’t rush

Ask for help or hire a coach

It’s the last one that stings. The other tidbits she gives about gear and clothes, watches, and electrolytes are all things I can look up later, when I’m ready to start officially training for the half marathon.

And that is something I never thought I’d say in my entire life .

Holy shit. Reality slaps me in the face as I walk out with my new shoes.

I’m going to have to train for a half marathon.

I love my new shoes. I’ve been walking around in them for two days. They are hot-pink Nikes, and they cost me an arm and a leg. Whoever said running was a cheap sport was a liar. Because not only do I have these outrageously expensive yet comfortable and springy shoes, I also came home with bags of new leggings, sports bras, tank tops, special moisture-wicking socks, chafing sticks that look like deodorant, and hair ties.

The saleswoman should send me some of her bonus after how much money I dropped today.

Not that all of it was necessary—I probably could have just purchased the shoes and made do—but felt I deserved it.

If I’m being honest, I feel pretty damn good. I look like a runner. Fake it till you make it, right?

I put on a pair of black spandex leggings. I wanted the brightly coloured ones, but apparently butt sweat can get terribly obvious for some runners. BUTT SWEAT.

Now, I grew up in Utah, I’m overly familiar with butt sweat ... but bad enough to rule out colourful pants?!

The saleswoman said I should stick with black for a while to see how much I sweat down there, and if I’m okay with looking like I peed my pants, then I can switch to colours .

Um, no thank you.

The pink top that matches my shoes compensates for my boring leggings. And as a bonus, the racerback is flattering—how have I not noticed how good my shoulder blades look? I use a band this time to push my short hair back and out of my eyes while I gawk at the mirror.

Damn.

Am I sexy? I don’t think I’ve really looked at myself lately. Not since Levi was born. And even before then, I had a hard time looking at my body—seeing the things I needed to cover so Ian would find me attractive. How the fuck did I let that happen?

I tell myself over and over again I am sexy, and I try to believe it. But half an hour later out on the paths, I am dying and no longer feel sexy.

This new path has so many fucking hills. Why are there so many hills? Pushing the stroller up what feels like a never-ending incline, I internally kick myself for changing routes.

Did Levi put on weight? Why is the stroller so damn heavy today?

I should’ve gone to my normal path, but I didn’t want to run into the giant. Plus, I skipped a day in case he runs every other day too, hoping we’ll be on alternating schedules.

The mental gymnastics I’m doing to avoid this guy should count for strength training.

Another problem with this route is there’s no view of the bay. I love running by the water because it’s distracting and I’m not surrounded by bugs and trees. I’m not comfortable enough yet to run through the city streets so I have to stick to the paths, but damn. Sometimes nature is too ... outside.

When I reach the top of the damn hill, I breathe a sigh of relief. More like heave a sigh of relief. It quickly vanishes, because coming up the other side is the giant in question.

Fucking hell.

I didn’t get a good look at him the other day. My attention was intentionally elsewhere seeing as I was trying extremely hard to not stare and not die at the same time. Multitasking is usually my thing, but not when it comes to sports.

He hasn’t noticed me yet and there’s no point in turning around—I’m not fast enough to run away. There’s a point in the pro column for running.

His thick thighs flex with each step as he takes the hill in quick little strides, his shorts showcasing the definition of his muscles, leaving little to the imagination.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s a tattoo on his upper thigh, a flash of black ink peeking out.

Biceps bulge under a tight, long-sleeved shirt—black, as always. Paige and Julien should start a club for boring people who almost exclusively wear black.

His long, curly hair is pulled into a thick bun on the back of his head, his light brown skin flush with exertion. He finally looks up, and I see the stubble on his face has grown out to a cropped beard perfectly shaped to his strong square jaw.

Why does he have to be so fucking attractive? It’s reverse karma when jackasses get good genes .

Dark eyes meet mine and I see the surprise in them. Is it just me, or does he pick up his pace?

“Hey,” he addresses me with his deep voice.

Can I speak? Is my brain even functioning?

“Hi,” I manage to get out.

His gaze sweeps up and down my body. Is that judgement? I can’t tell.

“You switched paths.” It’s not a question, but with the way he’s focused on me, he clearly wants an answer.

“So did you.” If he can speak in short, clipped sentences, then so can I. It’s not like I need to ramble on and on. I can be quiet.

That’s such a lie. It’s a trait my sister and I share. We cannot shut up, but I’m forcing myself into silence in front of this man.

It’s a difficult feat to be sure. What would it be like to not need to fill every silence with words? Although, now that I think about it, it’s not that quiet. The birds are chirping now that the sun is rising, something I absolutely hate.

I freaking hate birds. I hate their shrill, offbeat chirps, their incessant need to constantly make noise. Maybe that’s how Julien feels about people.

When it’s almost too much for me to bear, he surprises me.

“Let’s run.” Without waiting for me to agree or disagree, he turns on his heel and starts running down the hill he just ran up. Why is he switching directions? Why are my feet moving to follow him?

“Hey,” I say, trying to control the speed of the stroller going down the hill. “What are you doing?”

He continues staring straight ahead. “Running. ”

“Yes, I can see that, you big oaf. Why are you running this way?”

“Were you not going this way?”

“Yes, I was, but you were going the other way.”

“I switched.”

This man. God, he’s frustrating. He falls into step beside me, and I honestly don’t know what to think. His actions and his words are at odds, and yet, he hasn’t said anything douchey yet today. Yet being the key word.

I’m about to turn around and make myself clear that I do not want to run with him when he opens his big, gorgeous, stupid mouth.

“You shouldn’t wear that,” he says.

And there it is.

“Excuse me?” The fucking audacity.

“Your sh-shirt, it’s too bright.”

Too bright. Like he has any right to tell me what to wear.

“I’ll have you know—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not safe.”

That pulls me up short. “What?”

“Y-You might draw too much attention.”

Is he ... worried about me? That cannot be right.

“I think the heavy breathing and big-ass stroller help with that.”

He’s already shaking his head. “You’re easy to remember, even without the colours.”

My brows shoot to my hairline. Dealing with this man is testing my already-limited patience.

“Because I stick out like a sore thumb?” I’m trying not to get offended at every word he says, but he’s making it so damn difficult.

“Yes.”

Breathe, Leah, breathe.

“Well, shit.”

“Shit.” Levi’s voice comes from the stroller. I sigh.

I’m never going to live that one down. To my surprise, Julien bursts out laughing. I’ve never heard him laugh. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time with him, but I’ve never even seen him smile.

The sound is low and rough, and the smile transforms his usual scowl. He was handsome before, but now? Damn.

I think I’m in real trouble now. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Assholes are my type.