Page 46 of I'm Gonna Get You Back
Jesus, my mind swarms with her. I can still feel the warm weight of her wrist in my palm. The way her pulse flew against my fingertips out on the deck. A complicated surge of hope rushes through me, but for what, I have no idea.
Could it mean something that she isn’t seeing anyone? Am I even allowed to care?
Whydo I still care?
I push my hands in my hair, letting out an aggravated groan. I have to see her again today and pretend like it doesn’t shred me.
I have to pretend like I can run today.
A knock at my door. My dad’s familiar rap. “Reid? You up? We have to be at the starting line in an hour.”
“Yeah, okay.” My voice is gravelly. Hopefully I can play it off as groggy instead of so fucking tired my hair hurts.
At least with the chill in the air I can wear my knee brace underneath my running pants. I make it extra tight, and other than tweaking the hair on my leg, it feels good. Secure.
I meet my family out in the kitchen. It’s a familiar scene. Mitchell hunched over the table, still half asleep; Julianne at the stove making something that smells incredible; and Dad running in and out as he loads the car with race-day extras. Giant crates of water bottles, tape, granola bars, and Band-Aids.
He’s wearing running gear himself and sweating like he’s just worked out. It’s likely from having already ridden and measured the course witha Jones Counter on his bike. He always did that before my races when he could get away with it to ensure the distance was accurate and the course was fair. He could prepare me for anything and help me visualize every turn and bump that way.
If only he’d been there the day I fell to warn me how sharp the final turn was, how slick the course had gotten from the rain the night before. Then maybe I would still be okay. At least physically.
But I wish he’d take it easy. He’s pushing too hard.
I noticed a pile of mail on the counter last night when I came home. The color of the envelopes varying shades of pink and red. The bills changing colors the longer they’re past due.
Dad’s mentioned this a few times recently. How stretched thin we are after his heart procedure last year. Though he has to be careful about stress, he’s fully recovered, thankfully. But our finances aren’t. “It’s not for you to worry about,” he told me the last time I asked.
As if that would work.
“There he is,” Julianne says when she notices me hovering. She pulls me into a tight hug. She’s a lot shorter than me, but the hug is almost more comforting because of that.
“Hungry?” she asks as she assesses me. “Made your favorite.”
Julianne never pries. It’s one of the things I like best about her. But she must be able to tell I’m not doing great because she got up early after working late to make me French toast with black cherries and a pile of thick-sliced bacon.
Tightness constricts my throat. I didn’t realize how homesick I’d been.
“Starving. Thanks.”
She squeezes my shoulder, a Band-Aid across her freckled hand, likely from a random burn she barely noticed but that Dad fussed over,and sends me with a heaping plate to the worn wooden table next to Mitchell.
“Where’s mine?” Mitch asks.
She puts a hand to her ear. “What was that? ‘Oh, Mother dearest, thank you for making this gourmet meal for me when I, a strong lad of seventeen, am perfectly capable of feeding and serving myself’?”
Syrup catches on my chin as I let out a creaky laugh, rusty from disuse. Mitchell grumbles to standing and fills his own plate, but he swings an appreciative arm around her on his walk back. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Mm-hmm.” She pats his arm fondly.
I blink down at my plate. I know she loves me, too. But it’s different.
As we’re wolfing down our food, Dad taps his watch at us. “Guys, let’s go.”
“Peter, relax. It’s afunrun,” Julianne reminds him. “Less stress, remember?”
Dad’s shoulders release a little, but I can tell it’s for her benefit alone. “Reid, I hear it’s going to be a solid crowd today. You’ll give them a show?”
My chewing slows, but I nod. “Of course.”
