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Of course it is.
“Fuck off, Drew,” I say, giving him the finger, and taking off at a massive sprint, running as if I’m being chased.
He keeps up with me, legs like a robot’s, face impassive. At the island, physical activity was encouraged. Every three months they held an island marathon.
Guess who won? Not just my age group. Not just the women’s division.
Overall.
Every marathon, eleven in a row.
I slow my pace and decide that nine more miles is a great workout for me. My eyes drift down to Drew’s wingtips.
Oh, this is going to be fun. My loafers can outrun those wingtips.
Three more miles and we’re on a secluded path, running along a dried out river bed, once-lush greenery turned to brown, decaying stalks.
When I ran on the island, I had a mantra that flowed through my head in beat to my pace. It went:
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I would repeat it thousands of times as I peeled off the miles, and habit makes it consume my overwhelmed thoughts. Six miles isn’t enough to kill off the flashes of despair that begins to hit me like sucker punches.
My friends all turned against me.
My father drugged me to shut me up.
Everyone thinks I’m a whore who asked three guys to fuck her at the same time.
Drew just sat there during the video and let them hurt me.
My own mother didn’t make time to be here my first few days back.
The ache rises up beneath my collarbone, a bubble of pain that will burst and hurt, tearing through my fragile chest like napalm. I know Drew’s behind me, but he’s keeping a respectful distance between us. He must be soaked completely through that suit jacket. Serves him right.
I start to laugh at the thought but my breath chokes in the middle on a sob that is so big it feels like I’ve swallowed the planet. Like it’s a big ball lodged in my throat, something that I can’t breathe around. It’s cut off all the air and I am dying, gagging, unable to breathe or think or—
I fall, staggering off to the side, slipping between two bushes down a small little grass-covered hill. I roll on my side, then over and over, three times, until I stop. I only stop because of inertia.
And I still can’t breathe.
Drew’s above me in seconds, stripping off his suit jacket, putting it under my feet and saying my name, over and over, so soft it’s like butterflies kissing my face. He’s unbuttoning his dress shirt and bunching it up, putting it under my neck. I stare, eyes fluttering, scaring away all the beautiful little soul mates who were kissing me moments ago.
Tears form in my eyes and pool until they break, pouring down the sides of my face, dripping into my ear. I roll on my side, hip grinding into a small stone in the grass, and I pull my muscles in, becoming a tight little egg, as if I could form a shell around myself and never let the soft, vulnerable parts touch air.
Wouldn’t that be nice? Too bad it’s impossible.
“Lindsay? You hurt?” Drew’s fingers hover over me. I can tell he wants to touch me, and God help me, I want him to as well. I’m sick, aren’t I? Wanting someone so desperately who betrayed me?
I cannot let go of that thought.
I try and I try and I loop, infinitely perplexed by how something so simple can take over my mind. Easy, right? Walk away. Don’t look back. He’s an asshole and I am worth more. So much more.
Why do I miss him so much? Why do my instincts override my own self-preservation?
