“You—you thought I was?” He nods, and I let out a wet laugh. “I was sure you knew, since you and Tim collaborate. And I let Guy believe it, because I thought you were trying to give me an out, but”—I lift my left hand—“this is my grandmother’s ring. I’m not married. Tim and I haven’t spoken in years.”
Levi mouths something I cannot make out and pulls his hand back, as though all of a sudden my skin is scorching him. He stands and walks to the window, staring outside as he runs a hand through his hair. Is he angry?
“Levi?”
No reply. He rubs his mouth with his fingers, as if deep in thought, as if coming to terms with some seismic event.
“Levi, I know you and Tim collaborate. If this puts you in a weird position, you can—”
“We don’t.” He finally turns around. Whatever just happened, he seems to have collected himself. The green of his eyes, though, is brighter than before. Brighter than ever. “Collaborate, that is.”
I sit up, legs dangling over the mattress. “You and Tim don’t collaborate anymore?”
“Nope.”
“Since when?”
“Now.”
“What? But—”
“I don’t feel like going to the conference,” he interrupts. “Do you need to rest?”
“Rest?”
“Because of the”—he gestures vaguely at me and the bed— “fainting.”
“Oh, I’m fine. If I needed rest every time I fainted, I’d need . . . a lot of rest.”
“In that case, there’s something I’d like to do.”
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. “Want to join me?”
I have no idea what he’s referring to, but it’s not as though I have a busy schedule. “Sure?”
He smiles, a little smug, and a terrible thought occurs to me: I’m going to regret whatever’s about to happen.
* * *
? ? ?
“I HATE THIS.”
“I know.”
“What gave it away?” I push a sweaty purple strand from my forehead. My hands are shaking. My legs are twigs, but made of slime. There’s a distinctive taste of iron in my throat. A sign that I’m dying? Possibly. I want to stop but I can’t, because the treadmill is still going. If I collapse, the walking belt is going to swallow me in a vortex of clammy darkness. “Is it the wheezing? The near-puking?”
“Mostly the way you’ve said it eight times since starting to run—which, by the way, was exactly sixty seconds ago.” He leans forward from his own treadmill and hits the speed button, slowing it. “You did great. Now walk a bit.” He straightens and keeps on running at a pace I wouldn’t achieve even hunted by a swarm of maggots. “In three minutes, you’re going to run sixty more seconds.” He’s not even short of breath. Does he have bionic lungs? “Then you’ll walk three more minutes, and then you’ll cool down.”
“Wait.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. I need to invest in a headband. “That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“I only run for two minutes? That’s my training?”
“Yep.”
“How do you know? Have you ever done a Couch-to-5K? Have you ever even been on a couch?” I give him a skeptical once-over. He looks upsettingly good in his mid-thigh shorts and Pitt T-shirt. A patch of sweat is spreading on his back, making the cotton stick to his skin. I can’t believe there are people who manage to look hot while running. Screw them.
“I did some research.”
I laugh. “You did research?”
“Of course.” He gives me an affronted look. “I said I’d train you for the 5K, and I will.”
“Or you could just release me from our bet.”
“Nice try.”
I shake my head, laughing some more. “I can’t believe you did research. It’s either incredibly nice, or the most sadistic thing I’ve ever heard.” I contemplate it. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“Hush, or I’ll sign you up for the Meat Lovers 5K.”
I shut up and keep on walking.
Three hours later, we end up in a bar in the French Quarter.
Together.
As in, me and Levi Ward. Getting drinks. Sipping Sazerac at the same table. Giggling because the waitress served mine with a heart-shaped straw.
I’m not sure how it happened. I think some googling was involved, and intense skimming of a website called Drinking NOLA, and then a five-minute walk in which I determined that one of Levi’s steps equals exactly two of mine. But I’m blanking on how we came to the decision that venturing out together would be a good idea.