Pearl and Cord told you about the offer—I hope you’ll take it. You could do such good work at FitMi. You’re a talented writer, and you’ll help move our platform to the next level. We need you. I need you.
Keep stretching. It’s about time to start. You don’t need me in order to cross the finish line, but I hope you’ll let me meet you there. I’ll explain everything else after I get to kiss you again, if you’ll have me, that is.
I love you.
Now, go kick some ass.
Wes
“What does it say?” Claire asked, half-heartedly jogging in place. “Is it from your guy?”
I reread the note. I love you. “Yeah, it’s from my guy,” I said. “He’s going to meet me at the finish line.”
A disembodied voice fell over the crowd from the PA system. “Runners, find your starting position.”
Around us, bodies jockeyed for position. I’d planned to move to the rear of the crowd. That’s where the slow runners are. My people. I worried Claire would make fun of me, but she motioned to the back, and we nestled between two elderly women and a couple bickering about going to pee one more time.
The voice came over the loudspeaker again before we could continue our conversation. I expected us all to lurch forward when they started the race, but from the back of the crowd, it was anticlimactic. The wave of people ahead of us started shifting forward, but we were still, waiting for our turn to launch. I observed my fellow runners. The older women next to us and the middle-aged couple—they forwent the extra pee break—had all trained, too. I felt a sudden soulful kinship with the back of the starting line crowd. We can do it. I wanted to shout out, to lead them in a cheer.
Claire had to yell to get her voice above the din of the waiting crowd and the Top 40 music blaring from the speakers. “Did you say he’s waiting for you at the finish line?”
“Yeah.”
Our area opened, and we started a slow jog along with the masses.
“I guess you’d better finish,” Claire said before popping in her earbuds.
I popped in my own and hit play on my workout mix. “I guess I’d better.”
62
I PACED BACK and forth in front of the registration tables, which were abandoned by the volunteers and covered in administrative flotsam. I glanced around and shoved my hands in my pockets. This was such a big mistake. My grand gesture had seemed like a good idea when I planned it. I was going to meet her at the finish line and tell her all the reasons I didn’t want to live without her. As I stood in the early-morning sun alone, debating what to say to Britta, it seemed like a colossal mistake.
When I asked for a bouquet of sunflowers, peonies, lilies, ranunculus, tulips, and dahlias, the florist gently informed me they didn’t go together. When I explained I needed to tell a woman I thought she was classy, bold, unique, cheerful, and smelled awesome, I earned a touched—if confused—grin from the woman. “Good luck,” she’d said, handing over the wrapped bundle.
I glanced at the bouquet sitting on the table in the sun and questioned the decision. The florist was right; the flowers were a mess all together.
“Hey, man.” Cord strode toward me from the volunteer tent, Pearl at his side. They both wore the staff T-shirts Mason’s team had designed for the race. “You made it.”
Pearl rolled her eyes and nudged Cord’s arm. “Where else was he going to be?”
She ribbed him more than she used to, and he wasn’t as quick to look away when she caught him looking at her.
I needed to focus on my own love life, though. “Did you give her the note? Tell her about the job? Did she say anything?”
Cord nodded, leaning against the table, one ankle crossed over the other like a smug bastard.
“And?”
“And . . . she listened.”
“You’re such a jackass sometimes.” Pearl rolled her eyes again and looked back to me, her expression softening. “She didn’t believe us at first, like you predicted, and I got the impression she would rip open your note as soon as we walked away. Girl kept looking over our shoulders for you.” Her eyes fell to my clothes, and her smile straightened into a disdainful line. “Um, what are you wearing?”
I’d chosen a plain red T-shirt and gray track pants along with my favorite running shoes. “Not good?”
“It’s a little casual, isn’t it?”
“She’ll feel self-conscious if I’m in a suit and she’s in her running clothes.” Maybe I should have worn a suit. Maybe I should have planned to talk to her in a private moment without three hundred sweaty strangers around us. “Won’t she? Should I go change?”