Page 10

Sadie

Run a half marathon – from Sadie’s list of things she’s never done

Cam: Don’t forget, rubber side down!

“One lap is a quarter mile,” Devon says, looking cheerier than I’ve ever seen her. “Today’s run is only two and a half miles, so you only have to do ten laps.” When did she forget the meaning of “only”? Ten laps sound like an eternity.

“How long has it been since you went for a run?” Bea asks, pulling her dark, shaggy hair into a loose braid.

“I’ve never willingly gone for a run,” I admit, a little embarrassed. “I guess the last time I ran at all was in high school.”

Bea’s lips curl into an encouraging smile. “Then let’s just do whatever feels good in your body today,” she says. “I’ll stick with you, and Devon can join us after she finishes her miles.”

“We are here for you today, Sade,” Devon adds, “I’m happy to stay by your side.”

Even though I know the offer is genuine, I gesture toward the track. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “Enjoy yourself. This might be easier if I’m not comparing myself to my athletic, runs-for-fun friend the whole time.”

Her smile returns. “I will come meet you in about twenty minutes,” she says, and then she’s off, moving at a speed I didn’t know humans were capable of.

“She’s a powerhouse, isn’t she?” Bea comments, securing her braid. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I answer.

She takes off at a pace that’s easy for me to match—more like a slow jog than a real run. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. “What made you want to run a half marathon if you’re not in the habit already?” she asks.

“It seemed like a big accomplishment,” I answer, enjoying the slightly soft feel of the track beneath my brand-new running shoes. “I wanted to do something significant.”

It’s true, but not all of it . I once told Jared I wanted to train for one, and he said, “ Aw, sweetie. That’s not you.” That’s the real reason it made the list, but it’s not about trying to prove anything to him anymore. Now, I just want to prove to myself that I can do something this hard.

“I like that,” Bea says, nodding in approval. “Let’s get you a medal, babe.”

We turn the first corner, and I find myself really enjoying it. I’m not big on intense cardio—usually, I go for long walks in the evening or take the barre classes Bea teaches for exercise—but this is fun. I get why Devon loves it.

“You’re doing great,” Bea encourages as we round the second corner.

So, what’s that? Half of a quarter mile? An eighth of a mile. I just have to go that far nineteen more times. No big deal.

Devon passes us around the third turn, offering encouragement as she flies by. “You’re doing it, Sade!”

“On your left!” someone yells out. I can’t tell which side they’re coming from. Shit . I always mix up left and right. For some reason, my brain just won’t learn the difference. I lift my hands into “L” shapes to see which one looks correct. The one that makes a proper L is left, so I need to move —but then they shout again. “On your left !” As they brush past, I finally realize which side is left. Dammit.

Bea mutters that the guy was an asshole, and I make a note that he passed me on the side she wasn’t on, just in case he does it again.

By the time we round the final turn and start lap two, I’m starting to feel the workout in my legs. This isn’t necessarily hard , but I’ve dropped any delusions of being a natural-born runner. Bea’s pace is more challenging than I thought.

When Devon passes us again, she barely seems winded and offers more encouragement in a voice that isn’t the least bit breathless.

I, on the other hand, wheeze, “Thanks,” wiping sweat from my forehead with a sweaty arm. It’s ineffective.

On our fourth lap, I have to slow to a walk for a while to catch my breath. Bea graciously joins me, and Devon calls out that I’m amazing as she flies past.

By lap six, my legs hurt all over, and I’m questioning how much I really want this.

By lap seven, I’m wondering how anyone could possibly want this.

At the start of lap eight, Devon finishes her run and joins us in the walk-jog we’ve settled into. She and Bea launch into a conversation about work—Bea works for Devon at her interior design business, and they’re in the middle of interviewing designers to add to their team.

I can’t do this.

I have to do this.

I want to quit.

What if I quit?

I hate everything .

They apologize for not including me in the conversation, but all I can do is breathe heavily at them, marveling that they’re able to talk at all. My throat burns. My legs ache. My feet hurt. There’s a constant stream of sunscreen and sweat dripping into my eyes. Who’s fucking idea was this?

Lap nine comes.

Amazingly, so does lap ten.

We reach the end, and I collapse onto the grass. “How—do you—do this?” I ask, panting between words.

Devon tosses me a water bottle, and I sit up just enough to gulp some down. “I’ve been doing this my whole life,” she says. “I run every single day. You did amazing for your first time.”

“You deal with this throat-burning sensation every day?” I ask, bewildered.

“Oh, I totally forgot about that part,” she says, almost wistfully. Psycho . “If you stick with it, the throat-burning eventually stops.”

“No way,” I huff out.

“No, she’s right,” Bea says, offering me a hand.

“I don’t want to get up. Ever,” I say.

“Alright,” she says, lying down beside me on the grass. “We can stretch right here.”

I follow her lead, leaning into a hamstring stretch. “Okay, this part feels good,” I admit.

Devon joins us on the ground too, following the same stretching routine. “You should probably take a couple of rest days before we meet up again, but go for walks if you can. What’s your schedule like on Wednesday?” she asks.

Now that my breathing is back to normal, I almost feel like I had a good time running. I look between my friends, their hopeful faces encouraging me, and muster the words to commit to another run. “I could be here by four-thirty.”

“Perfect,” Devon chirps.

I’ve always admired her drive. She’s passionate about her business, her friends, her boyfriend, running—everything. She knows what she wants and how to get it. I’ve never felt that kind of fire about anything, which is why I started my list. I want to spend more of my life on things that light me up, but first, I have to find them.

After stretching, Devon and I get into her car for the short ride home. “I am really proud of you,” she says as she pulls out of the parking lot.

“I’m hardly the first person who’s ever run two and a half miles,” I wave her off. “I didn’t even run the whole thing.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m proud of you for how many new things you’re trying. It seems like every day you are experiencing something new. You wanted your life to change, and you are making it happen. You are very impressive that way.”

I want to argue, to point out that I’m not that impressive, but I look over at her. The subtle smile on her face shows she means it. Even if I’m not proud of myself, or don’t think she should be, she is . I can’t shoot her down. It’d be rude.

Devon is more comfortable with silence than anyone else I know, so she doesn’t interrupt my thoughts or push me for a response.

Eventually, I find one. “Thank you for being proud of me, Dev.”

“It is easy to be proud of you,” she responds.

The rest of the short ride home is filled with talk about running. She asks how I felt, what I liked, what I hated, if I like the app she recommended to track my data.

When we turn onto my street, Cam’s out front, working on one of his motorcycles in the driveway. My stomach drops. I’ve done my best to block out anything motorcycle-related since I went to his race—going so far as parking in the driveway to avoid them. I know he rides. I know he races .

It’s his whole life— his identity . But it terrifies me. He’s not even my real boyfriend, and I worry about him constantly. He left town this past weekend for more races, and I was anxious the whole time, until I heard he won one and placed second in another— meaning he survived both.

Devon either reads my mind or has the same thought. “Remember in college, you said you would never date someone who rides a motorcycle? Does it not bother you anymore?” she asks.

“It does bother me. I hate it,” I say without thinking.

Devon shifts the car into park and looks at me. “So, you hate a core part of your boyfriend’s identity—his career?”

“I mean, I don’t hate him ,” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. How the hell do I change the subject? I don’t have a good answer for this. Cam and I have never—

“I didn’t think you hated him,” she answers, steady and unyielding, not letting me off the hook. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“No,” I answer, relieved to say something factual.

“But he knows about the crash you were in during high school, right ?” she presses.

Not wanting to answer, I look out the window, watching Boo run across the neighbor’s fence. I’d rather be hanging out with him right now. He’s great at minding his own business.

“That is not healthy,” Devon says, her voice taking on her ‘ you-know-I-know-what’s-best’ tone. “He should know how upsetting motorcycles are for you, and why . You were already in an unhealthy situation for too long, and you haven’t even blocked your ex yet. You shouldn’t put yourself into something else that’s harmful—”

“ Hey ,” I jump to Cam’s defense, deciding that’s more pertinent than her harassing me about blocking my ex. “He’s not Jared. He’s not harmful . He doesn’t fucking cheat on me. He doesn’t lie to me.”

“I never said he did,” Devon answers.

“Don’t compare them,” I snap, crossing my arms.

“It’s natural to compare your current relationship to your past ones. It would be a healthy thing to do, actually,” she says. “You have to learn from the past to make your current relationship better. It’s not about Cam being Jared. I know he’s not,” she softens her voice just slightly. “But you are making the same mistake of not communicating your needs. You’re not telling him—”

“Stop.” I cut her off. I love Devon, but right now, I wish she’d mind her own business instead of pushing me to dig into things I’m not ready to face. Cam and I aren’t really dating, but there is something real between us . We do communicate, and I happen to think we do it well. Even faking it, he’s a better boyfriend than Jared ever was.

“I know you mean well, but I can’t do this right now,” I say, glancing at Cam standing in the driveway, his jaw clenched as he watches us. He makes a you alright? face, and I sigh, offering him a half smile.

“You’ll have to face this eventually,” Devon says, stubborn as ever. “You have trauma around this, and you—”

“Okay.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Love you. Thanks for the ride and the run. See you Wednesday.”

Her reply is, “Love you too,” but her face says you’re-being-irrational .

As soon as I’m out the door, Cam walks over to me. I should tell him he doesn’t have to put on a show of affection for Devon’s sake. Even if she thinks we’re dating for real, it doesn’t matter. She’s not on board because she thinks being with him will hurt me. And she’s right. But when he wraps me in a big hug, I’m swept up into him, his body grounding me, and some of the tension melts away. It feels good. Too good.

“No, no. I’m all sweaty,” I laugh.

He buries his face in my neck. “Don’t care. I’m expecting hugs next time you show up at a race. I’ll be a thousand times sweatier then.” Setting me down on the driveway, he asks, “How was your run?”

But I barely hear the question. I’m stuck on the thought of hugging him after his race again . Because I’ll have to go to more races . Last time, it was less of a hug and more of me clinging to him in relief that he survived. I felt like I barely survived the race, and all I did was watch half of it from the sidelines.

My head spins, and I steady myself with a hand on his chest.

“Hey, hey, Sadie,” his voice is soothing as he wraps his hands around my biceps, dipping his head to look into my eyes, concern lining his face. “You alright? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” I say, looking down. I can’t look at his face right now .

“That’s obviously not true,” he says, releasing my arms. “Was it something Devon said? Are you two okay?”

“Devon made some really frustrating and accurate points about some things I don’t want to talk about,” I say. Her words repeat in my head: "He should know how upsetting motorcycles are for you, and why." “And I still don’t want to talk,” I finish, trying to focus on steadying my breathing as I walk toward the house.

“You don’t have to,” he says, following me.

This is why we could never actually date. More of her words come into focus: So, you hate a core part of your boyfriend’s identity—his career? Already, it’s everything I can do not to imagine him bloody and broken on a racetrack. If we were actually dating, actually in love —I cut off the thought. We never would be. I can’t allow it, and he wouldn’t want it either.

“You don’t have to, but I think you need it,” Cam continues.

I turn on him. “I am fine . Sometimes the idea that you race motorcycles—” I take a steadying breath. “It makes me—” I search for kind words, but come up empty. “It’s reckless. It’s unnecessary. You’re endangering your life for no reason, and it stresses me the fuck out.”

He moves to speak, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

“No, thank you. All you need to know is that I’ve committed to doing this with you. I’ll show up again at some point, I’ll support you, and I will deal with my own anxiety. And when your season’s over and my ex is married to someone else, we can stop this.” I gesture between us. “And then I never have to think about motorcycles again.”

He flinches, like I’ve physically hit him. Shit. That was mean. I should apologize. I should—

His jaw tightens, and he exhales a heavy breath. “You can’t keep avoiding every tough conversation. You hate motorcycles, but you won’t tell me why. You won’t block your ex, and you won’t tell me why. These things weigh on you, and you’ll have to carry them alone if you don’t—”

“Why is everyone up my ass about blocking Jared?” I snap, gesturing out the window toward the place Devon’s SUV was parked. “Did you two coordinate ?” I couldn’t explain this to my friends—they don’t know about Cam and me—but at least he’ll understand. “If I block Jared, it ruins everything. That was the whole point .”

“The point was to make him jealous , not to let him keep disrespecting you,” Cam says.

Okay, so he doesn’t get it.

“It’s not that he’s disrespecting me,” I explain. “He’s confused. It wasn’t that long ago when we were together. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I’ll show you why I’m up your ass about blocking your ex,” he says, holding out his phone. “ This is the asshole whose feelings you’re trying to protect?”

My stomach drops when I see the screen. There’s a conversation between Jared and Cam. I hadn’t thought Jared would stoop this low, but I’m not surprised.

Jared: You’re a joke.

Jared: Are you fucking kidding about Sadie? Do you know anything about her?

Jared: You’re an idiot if you’re dating her. She was begging me to take her back last night.

My blood boils. “I never begged him to take me back. I wouldn’t—I don’t want him back.” I say more to myself than to Cam.

Jared: You’re wasting your time with her. She’s not worth it.

Jared: She’s a waste of time.

Cam: Stay away from her.

Jared: Just trying to help you out before you waste your time with that boring bitch for years like I did.

Cam: You are useless. Get fucked.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest, shame rushing to my face. That man used to love me , right? He had to. I wasn’t delusional for those nine years, was I? He must have loved me at some point. But what the hell has he turned into?

I hand Cam his phone back. “Why didn’t you block him?”

“Because I don’t trust him, and I want to know what he’s up to,” Cam says, dipping his chin to meet my eyes. “You deserve so much more, so much better. He doesn’t deserve any part of you.” Cam taps the phone screen. “You want to win your breakup? Moving on with your life without him is the best way.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I breathe.

He doesn’t argue. He just says, “Alright.” Then he walks back out the front door to his motorcycle.

Jared was terrible to Cam, and Cam didn’t defend himself. He defended me . I was awful to him just now, and he didn’t defend himself then either. He defended me again.

Today was supposed to be about running, trying new things, finding my passion. Instead, I’ve alienated two of the people I care about most. That really got away from me, didn’t it?

Before my shower, I text Devon:

Me: Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been that way with you.

Devon: I understand.

Me: I’m not ready to have that conversation yet, okay?

Devon: I understand that too. Here when you need me.

A separate notification buzzes on my phone. I hope it’s Cam, but I know it’s not. If he had something else to say, he’d probably knock on the bathroom door. No, it’s the worst person possible.

Jared: You know Cam Hacker’s using you. He doesn’t really want you.

Me: Get fucked.

I switch back to my text with Devon:

Me: Okay, how do I block someone?