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“Yes.Me. Shut up, Gabriel.”
Maybe this is Mason’s first-ever prank. He doesn’t normally like that stuff, but I don’t know what else this could be. My brother does some heel lifts on the jogging track. He bends his knees a few times. He puts a hand over his abs and does some kind of…breathing exercise?
Then he reaches under his hoodie and pulls down his shirt.
It’s not a regular T-shirt. I can tell from this distance. The fabric has a shine to it. It’s a compression top. Mason hates working out with loose-fitting clothes for a base layer. The way he tugs at it grinds my mind to a halt, then throws it into overdrive.
I’ve seen him do that—tug his compression top into place with absent concentration, his mind already elsewhere—many times before.
When he was younger, at his cross-country races. At his track meets.
Mason shakes out his arms. He swings them once, then twice, and on the third swing, he…
Starts.
Running.
He starts running.
I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t.
His arms come to rest in a relaxed, natural position by his waist, and he’s—he’s running. His first few steps are tight, like he has to think about it, and he’s—oh, God, he’s not going very fast, but as he comes toward me his stride loosens up. It’s not the same as it was before. I can see which knee was the hurt one. His gait isn’t perfectly smooth. But he’s doing it.
Mason picks up a little speed, a half-smile on his face that grows to a huge, ridiculous grin.
I realize it’s because I’m shouting. Cheering for him, like I’m at a cross-country race. Probably alarming half of Central Park. Fuck, it hurts to cheer. My ribs don’t like the jumping, but I can’t stop.
He comes level with me and I hold out my hand, just like I used to, and he high-fives me as he runs by.Hard.My ribs explode, and I don’t care, because he’s running.
“That hurt like a motherfucker,” I shout at him. “Look at you. Look at you.”
Mason jogs down the path a short distance, does a wide turn, and jogs back. He’s deliberate about slowing down and stopping. He walks the final ten feet back to me.
I don’t know who goes in for the hug first. He’s careful about my ribs and I’m not, because holy fuck. Mason’s breathing is already going back to normal. He always had overpowered lungs, that bastard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His face is all blurry. Goddamn it with this crying.
“In case it didn’t work out.”
“When? How long?”
“Since the summer.”
Since Charlotte, he means. “You got somebody to coach you, right? You’re not just—”
He laughs. “I got somebody. I told you—don’t worry. It’s fine. It’s all okay.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” Mason laughs harder. “It’s a fucking miracle.”
Then I really do burst into tears. Mason lets me cry on his shoulder—again—and pats my back. When I’m finished making a fool of myself, he releases me so I can swipe my eyes with my sleeves and catch my breath.
“God. You incredible asshole.”
He rests his hands on his hips. “I wanted you to know first. It’s been on your mind.”
“How did you know?”
