Page 23 of All Our Nevers

I am, coincidentally, in leggings and a cropped workout tank, but my shoes are really more fashion sneakers than anything else. Neither man seems able to tell the difference.

“We’re doing a 10K,” Andy says.

“Fine.”

“Do you have music?” Owen asks.

“No.”

The brothers look at each other with widened eyes, but ultimately relent.

“Okay,” Owen says, pushing his earbuds into his ears and rolling his ankles. “Good luck.”

The next hour is unadulterated hell.

The first mile is just hard enough to be distracting. I really never run—I actually tend to avoid cardio at all costs in favor of pilates or yoga—but a single mile isn’t so bad. And it’s kind of fascinating to witness Andy and Owen’s bonding session, which consists of running side-by-side without exchanging a single word.

But by the time mile two ends, the bend of the Charles River is in sight and my chest is full of razorblades. The novelty of observing Walsh Weirdness has long worn off and the keys in my leggings pocket are stabbing my thigh. My throat tastes like blood, and the pain occupies ninety percent of my attention. With a few more miles I’m sure we can get that to a perfect hundred.

Owen takes out his headphones as we approach the water, then signals for Andy to do the same. “West or east?”

“West,” Andy says, not breaking his stride. I know Mr. Marathon Runner is having no trouble, but I hope at least Owen is suffering with me.

“Is there a race today or something?” Owen nods towards the swarm of boats in the water, sets of eight rowers with coxswains at the front. “Is Head of the Charles this weekend?”

“I think that’s in the fall,” Andy says with completely even breath, the little freak.

Then Owen dares to look over his shoulder to me. “Do you know, Amelia?”

Despite feeling like I haven’t breathed properly in ten full minutes, I manage to choke out, “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

I must look a mess. I hate looking a mess. I shove at the thick mist of sweat on my forehead, tuck an errant lock behind my ear. I’m sticky and gasping and pissed off as all hell, but there’s no way I’m stopping before they do.

“This pace okay?” Andy dares to ask.

“What part—” gasp “—of don’t—” gasp “—fucking talk to me—” gasp “—don’t you understand?”

The brothers put their headphones back in, and after that seem to forget me completely, just like I wanted. I let the pain weave through my legs, my abdomen, my lungs, until I’m a tapestry of it.

I don’t know how much longer we run. All I know is eventually Owen looks down at his smart watch, then nods towards a patch of grass on our right. Andy follows his lead, veering off the paved riverside path as his long strides slow to a stop.

I’m fifteen feet behind them when I come to a halt and immediately curl forward, puking my guts onto the grass.

Even when it’s all out of me, I can’t seem to move—heaving, retching bile. All the pain I’d been pushing through hits me at once and I’m sick. Physically, mentally, my lungs, my bones. Jeweled spots dazzle across the blackness of my vision. I’m gasping and demoralized and suddenly on my hands and knees on the ground, still heaving as I hear Andy’s voice from a few feet to my left.

“You… okay?”

“Obviously not,” I growl, eyes refusing to open.

“What do you need?”

“Water,” I scratch out. “And to lie down. And to die.”

“Okay. Okay. Just lie down in the grass here. I’ll… I’ll grab a water.”

I open my eyes, dragging my gaze up to find him looking towards the 7-11 across the street. He asks his brother, “You’ll wait with her?”

Owen nods.