"You're doing the best you can," I offer after he finishes. I'm not sure if it helps. I pushed for this story out of curiosity, and now I feel like a jerk for asking.
A few raindrops hit my face. Then my shirt.
Of course it would rain on this run, of all days.
"Do you still love her?" The question slips out before I can stop myself, and I immediately regret it.
Vince glances at me, smirking, and I stammer, "I'm sorry. That's way too personal."
"Yeah, it is," he teases, his tone light despite the subject.
He looks ahead again, the rain starting to soak through both of our clothes. "I still love her, sure, but not in the same way. I miss who she was. We were kids. I don't blame her, if that's what you're asking. I changed too much. She couldn't handle it. I really did try, though."
I nod, unsure what to say to his confession about still loving his ex-wife, the rain turning into a steady drumbeat against the pavement. By now, my shirt is soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to my skin like a second, colder layer. I peel it off, the fabric making a soft suction sound as it separates from my body, and use it to wipe the rain from my face, the rough cotton doing little to stem the steady trickle down my neck.
In the process of moving to the side of the path, I step into a mud puddle I hadn't seen, the dark water splattering up my legs in a series of cold, wet bursts. I cringe as the mud drips downtoward my ankles, hoping Vince won't notice how thoroughly I've managed to make a mess of myself.
Despite my missteps, this is fun.
I'm not used to sharing my routine with someone.
The rain falls in a steady rhythm against the pavement, a rare and magical occurrence in this sun-soaked city. I can't remember the last time a run felt this alive, this real—every breath sharp in my lungs, every muscle responding to the challenge of the slick path beneath our feet.
Back at the car, Vince blasts the heater and activates the heated seats with a press of a button. I scrape the worst of the mud from my sneakers against the curb, but it's a losing battle. The only sounds are the engine's low hum, the roar of warm air from the vents, and the faint squeak of our wet bodies against the pristine leather seats.
The car becomes a mess, and I feel like a walking disaster sitting there.
I buckle my seatbelt, holding my soaked shirt in my lap, hoping it won't drip too much. Not that it matters. My shorts are equally drenched, and Vince's pristine interior is beyond saving at this point.
"Hey, Andy?" His voice cuts through the steady rhythm of the rain on the windshield.
"Yeah?"
"You know how you can tell that I like you?"
"Huh?"
"I let you sit in my brand new Porsche, half naked, dripping water all over my seats, with your legs covered in mud."
He turns to look at me, his smirk making my stomach flip.
"Oh." I grin sheepishly. "Sorry."
He pauses for a moment, then chuckles as he backs out of the parking lot.
"I'm the one that's sorry. I dumped all my damn personal baggage on you," he adds after a moment.
Does he regret telling me all those things? My stomach sinks at the thought.
"You didn't dump anything. I pried until you told me," I reply quickly. "Let me know if you want to back out of weekday runs, it's cool—"
"Whoa, whoa. What the fuck are you talking about, Andy?"
I freeze, wide-eyed.
"It was clearly a good time. I'll send you the cleaning bill once I get the car detailed. And you owe me for gas," he jokes, his teasing tone lightening the mood.
I bite my lip, trying not to smile. "You're ridiculous, seriously."
