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With every stride, my thoughts unfurl. The messy lines straighten. Arrange themselves in order.
Fail to offer clarity.
Bringing some woman to Penny’s wedding is a terrible idea.
Pretending she’s my girlfriend is worse.
But there’s this voice in my head screaming you have to do this.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I tell that voice to quiet and wish for distraction.
Leighton: It’s done. Just emailed you. Tell me it’s not horrible.
Ryan: On a run. I’ll check it out after I shower.
Leighton: It’s a million degrees.
Ryan: And?
Leighton: Are you dying?
Ryan: Yeah.
Leighton: You are not. You walk in here like you’re fresh from a shower after half your runs.
I snap a picture of my surroundings—the ocean, the Santa Monica pier, the busy Venice street, the bright lemon sun—then I turn my phone to selfie mode, and snap a picture of my sweaty shirt.
It’s hot as hell today.
But I don’t feel the embrace of the sun. I don’t see the brightness. I know it’s there—I always end these runs dripping sweat—but I miss the comfort of it.
Ever since that day I walked in on Penny under Frank, I struggle to find the comfort in anything. Drowning my thoughts in work, booze, or exercise is as good as it gets.
Besides Leighton.
But that—
I’m not thinking about that.
I send her the photo.
Leighton: Barely sweating.
Ryan: I went nine miles.
Leighton: How can I get some of this infinite endurance?
Ryan: Join me next time.
Leighton: You’re too fast.
Ryan: I’ll slow down. Call it a rest day.
Leighton: Asshole.
Ryan: You just figuring that out?
Leighton: It’s a constant revelation.
