Page 39 of Run To You
On Thursday, Eden texts me a photo of her new painting. It’s a street scene in the city, but there’s a girl running through the crosswalk in neon sneakers. There’s no caption, just the picture. It’s beautiful.
The day of the next agreed upon race arrives and I’m up at dawn. We’ve got an hour to drive, so it’s an early start. My mom makes pancakes and fresh fruit because that’s our thing now. I live in the pool house but have breakfast with her. Sometimes Dad is around, which is always nice.
When Eden honks the horn, Mom follows me to the door to wave at the girls.
The drive is oddly loud for the hour. Pia regularly texts us for updates. She’s on the verge of exploding and Todd didn’t want her traveling. Pia wasn’t happy, but she listened when Eden sided with Todd.
As with our last race, the area is decked out in rainbows and flags. I love being around so many queer people.
Becca and Bella promise to run the entire course this time, but I’m not convinced. I’ll bet a dozen donuts they stroll across the finish line with powdered sugar and a loaded excuse.
At the starting line, the crew is wired and full of enthusiasm. Bella’s hair is dyed with temporary blue streaks, Becca has glitter on her cheeks, and Eden looks like a nineties workout guru in her loud yellow shirt and even louder running shorts. I love the neon sweatbands wrapped around both wrists and head.
She jogs up beside me, swinging an arm around my shoulders. “Ready for this?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
I nod, unable to speak for a second. I don’t trust my voice or what words my mouth may decide to throw out there.
“Let’s do this,” I manage to reply.
We line up next to each other. The crowd swarms and buzzes, and someone hands me safety pins for my bib. Eden does it for me, eyes lingering on my chest. I smile to myself in satisfaction.
The starting gun goes off, and the crowd lunges forward. We’re holding hands for the first fifty feet before Eden lets go and edges ahead, turning to throw a smirk over her shoulder.
“Catch me if you can!” she yells.
And I do. I’ve always outpaced her.
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Eden
We run together, side by side, stride for stride. Each time we pass a station, we stuff donuts or gummy bears or rainbow-iced cupcakes in our mouths. It’s such a bad idea, but it makes us and everyone around us laugh. Especially when I shove vegan gummy worms into my sports bra, professing I’ll need an after-race sugar hit.
At the finish, we collapse in a heap. I am shaking with exhaustion and happiness, the taste of sugar and summer sweat on my lips.
A few minutes later, the rest of the team stumbles in, Bella and Becca arm in arm. They’re sweating profusely.Well bugger me, I can’t believe they actually stuck to their word. We pose for pictures before wandering over to the festival tents, sitting in the grass with food truck milkshakes and burgers.
I’m so pleased we decided to do this. I was looking forward to my first summer after graduating. I planned to do nothing but paint, but fuck, it turns out adding a bunch of running, gay people, and Sloane has made it so much sweeter!
Later, when we say goodbye to the others after dropping them off first, I drive Sloane home. She doesn’t question the fact I should have dropped her off first. I hope she knows I just want some time alone with her.
We don’t talk about the past. We talk about the next run, and the paintings I’m doing for my gallery show. We also hit on Sloane’s maybe-future as a physical therapist. When we get to her door, I stand with my hands locked behind my back, rocking on the balls of my feet. I must look a proper melt! I’m just desperately hoping she invites me in.
It’s her move. I know it and so does she. After a few pregnant moments, she leans in.
She kisses me, and it’s not the goodbye kind, or the “let’s see what happens” kind. Sloane lays the real deal onmy lips. She tastes like sugar, and also like salt, and for a second I forget about our time apart.
We break apart, both of us breathless and temporarily out of things to say.
“Want to come in?” she asks, her voice steady as a rock.
I throw her the grin reserved only for her. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The door closes behind us with a quietsnick.Sloane isn’t shy when she grabs my face and dives in for more kissing. It feels like coming home when I feel her lips brushing against mine.
Our energy is frenzied and there is a voice in the back of my head which gets louder the longer we make out. As Sloane drags me towards her bedroom, the voice is no longer quiet but screaming. Pulling back, I create some space. I just need a second to get my head right. Sloane looks at me confused, which is fair because I’m blowing hot and cold and she doesn’t deserve mixed signals.
The thing is, we need to talk. Not just about what it means for us to cross this line, but about the potential risk of doing it. And by that, I mean STIs. I’m tested regularly because I’ve been sexually active. Has Sloane?
