Page 15 of Heaven Help Me

He doesn’t have a rebuttal, but that’s probably because we’re still trying to breathe and bring our heart rates down. After a few minutes, we stagger to our feet, eyeing each other wearily.

“Another round?” I say with forced cheer. Please God, no.

“Nah. The jog out here was a good warmup though. Let’s sprint back.”

Fuck me. Sprint? I was already sprinting on the way to the park.

Deuce takes off and I have no choice but to follow him at a pace that will surely kill me if I keep it up for more than a block or two. He starts to pull ahead after half a mile. Eventually, the lead stretches further. I don’t even have the breath to call him back. My legs are two stumps of lead weight and my lungs have dipped down to hell where they’ve caught fire. Mentally I go to my happy place, but not even that imagery can separate me from this excruciating pain.

Someone is wheezing badly. That someone is me.

A side stitch hits and I grab it with one hand, the other pumping harder to keep the same pace.

His block comes into view and if I didn’t have sweat running into my eyes, I’d cry from sheer relief. Deuce plops down on the stairs, and a few seconds later, I drop down next to him. We’re both breathing like we’ve run a marathon while being chased by lions. I lie back, thinking that’ll release the side stitch, but all it does is cause a hamstring cramp. Deuce rolls onto his stomach, still splayed across the porch steps.

“Need…water,” he manages.

I inhale, intending to answer. Nothing comes out but a wheeze. Deuce pulls himself up the steps and makes it onto the porch. I hear the screen door squeak and then he slithers inside the house in a broken army crawl. I flop onto my stomach and try the same thing. I can’t stay out here in this heat and humidity. I’ve lost too many fluids already.

By the time I make it inside and back on my feet, Deuce appears in the hallway, two bottles of water in his hands. He holds one out to me and I crack it open and drink it down like a desperate woman. I drain it, then screw the lid on and wipe my wrist across my lips where I’ve spilled some of the water, sheepishly looking around at the framed pictures on the wall.

Deuce holds up his own water bottle that he’s sipping from like a civilized human. “This is my second one.”

I nod, unable to look him in the eye. Why do we do this shit? Why do I feel the need to compete with this man? No one else brings out this animalistic need to one-up as if my life depends on it. It’s stupid. My brain knows it, but then there’s my mouth spouting off that I can do it better.

“Shower,” I say simply, heading in the direction of the stairs.

My legs scream in agony as I make my way up. My thighs shake like a virgin on her wedding night. My calves threaten mutiny. My only consolation is the guttural moan I hear from Deuce as he starts climbing up the stairs behind me.

“Can’t wait to meet another one of your girls!”

Deuce shuts off the car in the driveway and swivels to give me a dirty look. “Be nice, please. Mary London and Rhett are good people. They had to overcome a lot to be together, and especially with a newborn, they deserve kindness.”

I press a hand to my floral chest. “I would never be rude, assface.”

His flat expression tells me exactly what he thinks of my lie.

I hold my hands up. “Fine. I’ll be a gracious Southern belle.”

He climbs out of the car and sticks his head back in. “Maybe not that far. Just…be nice and curb the cursing, okay?”

I roll my eyes, but wait for him to come around and open my door. I’m determined to sell our story. A girlfriend would let her boyfriend open her car door. Deuce’s hand stays on my lower back as we walk across the porch of a very similar Victorian house. Theirs still needs some work, but you can tell it’ll be gorgeous when it’s all done.

Deuce knocks softly on the front door. I rear my head back at his thoughtfulness about not waking the baby if she’s sleeping. I didn’t know he had it in him to be so kind.

The door clicks open and a man about our age steps back to let us in. He looks tired, but his whole face is stretched in a grin under that cowboy hat. He’s got a bundle of pink in his arms.

“Hey, Deuce. Meet little Ophelia.”

Deuce removes his hand from my back to stroke his fingers down the baby’s cheeks, cooing nonsensical words in a softly pitched voice. I gape at his back. Is this the same man who took me on a death march this morning with zero concern for my wellbeing? Eventually, he pulls back, clapping what must be Rhett on the shoulder.

“Congrats, man. She’s beautiful. Thankfully looks just like her mama.”

Rhett gives him a nod, looking choked up. “Come in, come in.”

We head inside to a living room where there’s a gorgeous blonde sitting in a padded rocking chair. Rhett hands the baby bundle to her and she tosses a miniature-sized blanket over her shoulder and places the baby under it. When I realize she’s breastfeeding right in front of us, I avert my eyes.

Deuce introduces me and I paste on a thick smile and say all the right small-talk things. We get seated on a love seat and Rhett insists on getting us some water.