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There’s a freaking bomb detonating in my body right now. He fucking deleted one of my plans without saying anything. All that work, gone.

Jackass.

He underestimates me if he thinks it’ll be that easy. I pull up my backup document and highlight the part he deleted, copying and pasting it back into the shared document. Within seconds it’s being highlighted by his cursor and it’s gone again.

Screaming would be a bit of an overexaggeration, so I grunt in irritation instead. I am not doing this with him. I’m the one who created the document, so I click on the share button and remove Julien’s access. Then, since I’m not the asshole here, I invite him to be a commenter instead of an editor. That way, he can still contribute but he can’t delete anything. I paste my dessert tasting info back into the file.

Someone highlights the text again, but it’s Isabel .

Isabel: Did the program glitch? This was gone a couple times.

Leah: Someone was taking liberties with the planning so they got removed

Isabel: What? Who would delete a dessert trek?!

Leah: Julien

Simon: To be fair, you deleted his race idea.

Before I know it, Simon has retyped Julien’s race idea for Sunday morning. That’s the worst time. We’re going to have to go to sleep so early on Saturday, not to mention dealing with nerves on Friday. I watch as the comments roll in, a sick feeling brewing in my stomach. I know I’m not going to win this fight.

Julien: thank you for standing up to the overlord, Simon

Simon: It’s a great idea, we should definitely do it.

Leah: Fine, a 5k

Liam: 5ks are pointless

Simon: Liam, don’t be a douchebag

Isabel: I will be the best damn spectator ever. There’s no way I’m running

Leah: I’m not an overlord

Julien: you removed my access

Leah: you deleted my plans

Julien: you deleted mine

Leah: yours wasn’t a plan yet, it was just a suggestio n

Julien: why bother asking for opinions if you’re going to shut down the ones you don’t agree with

Leah: because I’m the maid of honor. I don’t have to explain myself to you

And just because I’ve decided to be petty, I give Julien his access back but I change his colour to white. The fucker doesn’t even seem to bat an eye. Before I know it, I see his cursor moving and then he highlights his next sentence.

Julien: let’s do a half marathon

My stomach sinks all the way to the floor. A half marathon? There is no fucking way I’ll be able to do that.

Leah: absolutely not

Liam: sounds good

Mateo: what did I miss?!?!

Shay: apparently we’re gone for an hour and there’s an all-out brawl

Isabel: Leah and Julien are fighting

Mateo: damn! I say MOH trumps groomsman

Leah: thank you!

Mateo: Buuuuuut. I also think doing a half will be fun, we can wear matching shirts and everything

Leah: won’t doing a race on Sunday ruin Saturday night? And Friday ?

Mateo: Nah, Paige and Adam will love it

Shay: Sorry, Leah… I think it’s a good idea

Leah: what about “ruins the rest of our weekend” don’t you guys understand?

Mateo: I think it makes the weekend perfect

Julien: no one is going to force anyone to do it

Isabel: I’ll still be up for having fun Saturday night. Leah, you can watch the race with me and cheer them on!

Shay: I’ll be in the middle of the pack so if anyone isn’t competitive, they can run with me

Mateo: you know Paige best, Leah, if you don’t think it’s a good idea, then I’m with you

I’ve lost. Miserably.

No one is on my side anymore, and even Mateo’s last message stings. I reread Isabel’s suggestion to cheer from the sidelines, but I can’t do that. I know Paige would understand and she wouldn’t expect me to run the race. But this is their hurrah weekend and I’m her big sister.

Thinking of how excited she’ll be if I run—how surprised and happy it would make her—I don’t see another option.

But I’d rather walk through icy tundra barefoot and naked before giving that man the satisfaction of giving in too quickly. Before I can do anything rash, like agree, I shut my computer down and take a deep breath .

My hands clench into fists, and I have to resist the urge to plan everything myself so it all goes how I want it. It has to be perfect. But it has to be perfect for Paige and not for me.

Bloody hell, I hate that he’s right. They would love to do a race, and is there anything I wouldn’t do for my sister? Well, I’d leap in front of a train for her but forget about letting her borrow my clothes.

My mom’s voice pops into my head.

If you’re going to do something for someone, make sure it’s because it’s what they want and not just to make yourself feel good about doing it.

She was sick for her last birthday, and we tried to celebrate the best we could, knowing it could be her last. People in the community where she lived—who had stayed away for years, much to our relief—found out she was sick and were constantly dropping off meals and coming over to check on her. People she didn’t know.

It was eight o’clock in the evening and she was headed to bed when the doorbell rang. A couple with a cake started singing as soon as I got the door open. When they were finished, they gave a little “we wanted you to feel special” speech.

My mom recovered from the shock the quickest and stuck up her middle finger before turning her back on them to walk up the stairs. I apologized for her and graciously accepted the cake. I still remember the conversation word for word after I closed the door.

“You could have been a little nicer, Mom, their intentions were good,” I said as I helped her get into bed .

She snorted. “Good intentions mean shit if the intention is to make yourself feel good.”

“Alright, grouchy old lady, get some sleep.”

“I’m serious, Lee. If their intentions were truly about me, they could’ve called or texted and asked if I was up for visitors. Or they could’ve dropped the cake off and sent a message telling us it was there. Instead, they made a big show of it to make themselves feel good.”

It was the most she’d said all at once in a while, and I could tell this truly meant something to her. I took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed as she scanned my face, as if memorizing my features. A wave of emotion hit me. I knew we didn’t have a lot of time left.

“You can’t know people’s intentions.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “You’re right, sweetie, you can’t. But actions speak volumes. And their actions tonight were not about me.”

“And how do you know that for certain?”

“Did you see the cake?”

I shook my head and went over to where I’d placed it on her dresser.

“Chocolate cake,” I said, understanding.

Anyone who truly knew her would never have brought this (or would have brought it as a joke) because Paige and I teased her relentlessly about it.

My mom hated chocolate cake.

The memory washes over me. I can still taste that cake—Paige and I ate it after Mom fell asleep. We laughed about it and waved it off, but I understand now what she was saying. Yes, they did something nice, and maybe their hearts were in the right place. But does it count if the “something nice” is something the other person would never have wanted for themselves?

The plans for the stag and doe weekend swirl around in my mind, and I realize I’m making the same mistake. I’m planning this the way I want Paige to want it.

I swallow the bitter taste of defeat as I open my laptop and pull up the document. Everyone else is gone but one person remains. Of course.

Tossing aside the mental image of Julien’s smug face, I replace it with the look of surprise and joy on Paige’s as I force myself to type out my surrender.

Leah: I’ll find a race.

Julien: a half marathon?

My pride won’t let me do anything more than admit defeat today, so I shut down my computer before answering. Or taking it back. My heart rate increases just thinking about a half marathon, and I drop my head into my hands.

Thirteen miles. I think it’s thirteen. How am I supposed to run thirteen miles? I got winded hustling from the couch to the fridge for a snack during an ad break yesterday when I was watching TV.

I’ll need to give myself a lot of time. We won’t even be able to do the race until the Whales season is done. It’s October, which gives me eight months, assuming they make the playoffs. They usually do, so I’ll just have to plan for that.

I’m about to suck it up and search for a race when I hear Levi’s little voice call me from his room. He’s so cute right after his naps, his wayward brown hair sticking up all over the place, with the slightest curl at the ends.

He looks up with his big green eyes, the exact same shade as mine, and my heart stutters in my rib cage. I never knew I could love someone this much. It’s a wholly different feeling than the love I have for my parents and my sister.

When I fell in love with Ian, it was a roller coaster of anxiety and emotions. There was the thrill of chasing after him, of catching him when I thought he was so far out of my league.

He was popular and super outgoing with lots of friends. I was the quiet girl—nerdy, uncoordinated, and inexperienced. I should’ve known from the start that he was a red flag in disguise. He made me feel like I could never do any better, as if he was god’s fucking gift to mankind and I was lucky he’d graced my life with his presence. I didn’t know any better.

My dad died when I was thirteen, and I was old enough to understand that I was now responsible for helping my mom. I was the next oldest in the family, after all, and Paige was almost eleven. I threw myself into helping out any way I could—making dinners, baking, taking care of Paige while my mom fought like hell through her pain and supported us .

Until I met Ian, all I knew about love was it was unconditional. My dad’s love for us, my mom’s fierce devotion, my sister’s unwavering belief in me.

So when Ian told me he loved me, I believed him. I believed him when he told me it was my responsibility to make sure I was attractive for him—men need that. I believed him when he said he was helping me with my career. I believed him when he said he would never leave.

And then he left. I was so heartbroken when he left me after I took the pregnancy test. Not only was I losing the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, but Levi would also grow up without a father. I’d lost my dad when I was a teenager, but at least I had him growing up. Levi would never have that.

I’m so glad he has Adam now, even Thomas. But it’s not the same. And I can’t bear to bring another man into his life just for him to leave too. I couldn’t bear it for him or for myself. Those familiar green eyes marvel at me as if I’m the only thing he needs.

How can I ever be enough for him?

Not wanting him to see me cry, I scoop him up and attempt to cuddle with him. But like any eighteen-month-old, he wiggles and squirms because he doesn’t put up with being confined.

“Can you say, ‘down’?” I ask Levi.

“Mamama,” he babbles.

Sighing at the futility of trying to get him to talk, I put him down and he toddles out of the room, straight for the kitchen. I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s a teenager. He’s already eating me out of house and home .

I get him his lunch and sit down to eat my own food.

“You know, Levi, Mommy is going to start running,” I tell my oblivious toddler, who’s more interested in ripping the already cut up croissant into tinier pieces and shovelling them into his mouth than listening to me.

“Yup, this mean man is forcing Mommy to run thirteen miles! Isn’t that crazy?”

No response from my son, who is now smushing avocado in his little fists.

“Oh right, you’re a Canadian boy now. You want to know how many kilometres that is?” I take out my phone to Google it.

“Twenty-one! Holy shit,” I whisper.

“Shit,” Levi copies perfectly.

My eyes go wide. “Seriously?!”

I glare at my kid, whose first word was mama and now, his second word is shit. I’m a terrible mother.

Honestly, I’ll take it.

Even if the only words he says are swear words, I’ll be happy he’s speaking. The wait-list to see a doctor is so long, the appointment I got with the paediatrician is still two months away.

“Alright, well, try to just use that word when you’re frustrated or you take a poop, okay, buddy?” I tell Levi, who is now smushing peanut butter bread onto his face.

“Auntie Paige likes to eat peanut butter bread before her big runs. Should I call her and ask her how to start running?”

A shudder rocks through me—a visceral reaction to the thought of asking Paige for help. It goes against everything I’ve worked for in my life. She shouldn’t have to help me run. It’s putting one foot in front of the other. Even my toddler can do it.

Though I hope I’ll be a little steadier on my feet than Levi—he falls a lot. I’m sure if I search “How to start running when you hate it,” a million articles will come up. I don’t need to ruin my sister’s post-engagement bliss with this.

Not that she’d mind. She’d be over the moon. But I know my sister. Before long she’ll be here, shoes laced up, running vest on, a huge smile on her face, ready to whip me into shape.

I have to figure out if I can even do this. When was the last time I ran? Elementary school? Probably jogging through the airport—does that count? I guess I chase after Levi, but is that even considered running?

If I can keep up with an eighteen-month-old, how hard could running a half marathon be?