Page 92 of Run to Me

“I work out every day at school,” he argues.

“This isn’t a workout. There’s no coach and no rules. Pick up the weights and throw them. Or lift as long as you want until you feel better. No counting. Just do whatever you need to let go of the chaos. Do your damage.” Because he looks doubtful, I add, “Or go punch the fence.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile, and I’m thankful he’s calming down. He’s not thrumming as violently as before.

Because humor seems to help, I continue with the playful approach. “Or you can lift me. I’m pretty heavy, so you might hurt yourself, but we can give it a try.”

His eyes go wide with fear more than shock. “I could hurt you.”

“You won’t. I trust you.” I do trust him. Deep in my bones, I know with absolute certainty Jensen will never cause me harm.

He assesses me from head to toe, considering the offer I meant as a joke. “How much do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”

“Eighty-five.”

He rolls his eyes, and his shoulders relax. “I could toss you over the fence like a roll of toilet paper.”

“And I could tell everyone you let me paint your nails this summer.”

“Birdie!” He tries to grab me, but I jump out of his reach and run away, laughing. He gives chase. “You swore to never bring that up!”

“I swore not to tell anyone. But if you threaten me, you leave me no choi—aaahhh!” Jensen hooks me around the waist and flips me over his shoulder. “Put me down!” I yell.

“You said I could lift you, brat. Or should I toss you?”

I squeal when he tickles my ribs. “Stop! Okay! Truce! You can lift me, and I’ll keep your love for manicures a secret.”

“It was one manicure. Never again.”

Rather than going for the weight bench, he places me on my feet and lies down in the grass. “Put your hands above my head and do a push-up, then I’ll move you where I need you.”

“We’re really doing this?” I ask, chuckling as I maneuver into a push-up position with my hands on the ground beside his ears. “You better not drop me.”

He grunts when I elbow him in the head. “I won’t drop you.”

Once I’m in position, he holds my hips but doesn’t move.

“I’m ready.” A big smile spreads across my face. I’m elated because we worked through his anxious moment together.

He doesn’t respond, remaining perfectly still. My shirt hangs from my chest and covers his face, so I balance on one arm and reach down to move it so I can see him.

“Ready when you are,” I say.

His eyes are closed, and he drags in a deep, stuttering breath before he whispers, “Thank you, birdie.”

“For what?” Since our playful moment has ended, I sit next to him with my legs crossed.

“For always making me feel better,” he says.

I pick at the blades of grass, breaking them off and flicking them aside. “You make me feel better too. When I’m sad, you always cheer me up. That’s what friends do, right?”

Hands tucked behind his head, he stares at the blue sky. Moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. I’ve never seen Jensen cry, and the sight of him close to tears causes my own eyes to sting.

“I’m not sad,” he says. “Sometimes I feel…I don’t know. Crazy? Like my brain gets out of control, and I can’t stop the bad thoughts from screaming at me.”

“What kind of bad thoughts?”

“That I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough. I’ll make mistakes and ruin everything. People will be disappointed in me if I’m not perfect.”