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“I’m so sorry about your parents, Ethan.” I lay a hand on his arm. “I couldn’t believe it when Brynn told me.”
“She took it pretty hard. Honestly, I worry about her sometimes. I know she gave you a hard time about Chad, but I think she was projecting her own feelings onto you. Ever since Mom and Dad split, it’s like she doesn’t believe in love anymore.”
“I know the feeling,” I murmur softly, momentarily lost in my own thoughts. It’s uncanny how you can go from complete certainty in someone to losing all sense of control, every assurance slipping through your fingertips like a faint tendril of mist.
“What happened with him?” His tone is even and easygoing, but his gaze is intent, giving away the depth of his interest.
“Things didn’t work out,” I say simply, hoping I sound relaxed and unconcerned, like it’s long forgotten, a thing of the past.
“Did you end it?”
I hesitate, briefly tempted to lie. But I don’t want any dishonesty between us, with a rare exception for the occasional embellishment about one’s ice-skating skills. “He did.”
His hand clenches around the cup, creating an indent in the sides. “What possible reason could he have for breaking up with you?”
He sounds so indignant. I’d smile if the memory wasn’t so painful. “I’d say he had about a million and one reasons.” I swallow, flashing back to Chad’s main reason—the reason that still haunts me because every word he said rang true. “But long story short,” I continue, dragging myself back from the past, “I made a great girlfriend, but didn’t have long-term potential.”
“He said that?” Ethan’s grip tenses again, this time dislodging the lid of his cup, sloshing hot chocolate onto his hand. He doesn’t even flinch when the steaming liquid touches his skin.
I shrug, not sure what to say, and take a sip, hoping to soothe the tightness in my throat.
“I’m sorry, Q. The guy’s a jerk.” His tone is gravelly, a mix of anger on my behalf and a protective tenderness, and for some reason, his reaction numbs some of the pain.
“It’s okay. We all have our stories of love gone wrong.” I force a brightness into my voice, trying to lighten the mood. Yet, I can’t silence my own curiosity. “What about you? Why aren’t you married with six kids by now?”
“It’s not because I don’t believe in love, I’ll tell you that,” he says without hesitation. “When the timing’s right, I want the whole package. Someone who’ll be my teammate and best friend, kids who will hopefully take after their mother, a dog or two, if I can’t steal Wilson from Brynn.” He grins, and I’m transfixed by the sudden shift in his countenance. When he talks about the future, there’s a radiant, almost dogged hopefulness that mystifies and entices me at the same time. What I wouldn’t give to experience even a fraction of his faith.
He looks down, stilling my breath with his smile. “I’m glad you came to New York. You’ve been good for Brynn. Before you came, she never would’ve gone out with Oliver. And I hate to say it, but I kinda like the guy.”
“So do I.”
He reaches for my free hand, holding it gently in his as he laces our fingers together. “You’re a good friend, Q.”
His compliment should make me happy, but instead, my heart aches. I drop my gaze to our entwined hands, fighting a slight sting in my eyes as Ilene Woods purrs “So This Is Love” in her silky contralto.
A good friend.If that were true, I wouldn’t be flirting with fate, toying with the temptation of something beyond friendship with Ethan. For both their sakes, I need to stop this from going any further.
Summoning a smile, I say, “So are you,” knowing he’ll understand exactly what I mean:You’re a good friend and it’s all you’ll ever be.
A sentiment that feels all the more painful when contrasted with how close we came to something more.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
By the following week, the status quo had returned to normal. At least, whatever normal used to be before our conversation on Valentine’s Day, the moment I sensed Ethan was about to reveal his feelings for me ran deeper than friendship.
As I expected, he read between the lines of my comment and hasn’t made any overtures since then. In fact, our interactions have been so benign and platonic—even when immersed in the intimacy of his bedroom while building my blog—I can’t help wondering if I’d imagined the connection between us, and it’s a thought that fills me with both relief and regret.
“How much longer?” I pant, barely able to lift my legs as I trail behind Ethan on our longest practice run yet—twelve torturous miles. While my stamina has improved since we started training, I don’t think I’ll ever be one of those gazelle-like runners who make marathons look easy.
“Not too much farther. And you’ll like this last stretch.” He tosses an encouraging grin over his shoulder.
To his credit, he’s kept the terrain interesting each time we train, and I’ve seen almost every inch of Central Park. I once asked him why we haven’t run the official route of the Big Manhattan Marathon since, according to my research, that’s how most participants of the more popular New York City Marathon prefer to practice. Ethan said he finds it more enjoyable—and thus easier—if the course is fresh. And on the bright side, it means we haven’t encountered the Gapstow Bridge again.
When we near the Mall, the long promenade leading to Bethesda Terrace, I forget all about my aching feet. Barren elm trees arch over the wide walkway. Their wet branches, still dappled with water droplets from last night’s rain, sparkle in the early morning sunlight.
Although breathing is a struggle, I inhale the sweet, earthy scent, exhaling slowly. The sharp pain in my side subsides as I repeat the measured breaths, but my endurance is fading fast. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it much farther,” I confess, feeling discouraged for multiple reasons. I’d hoped the run would clear my head, allowing the perfect campaign slogan to spring to the surface. But I feel even more at a loss than before we started, and I’m starting to panic. I’ve even tried music therapy, thumping away on Wes’s drum until my palms hurt. And yet, still no epiphany.
After all this time and effort completing the tasks on my list, I could still lose the competition. Which would mean I have no hope of crossing off the final item, the one I’d impulsively scribbled on Christmas Day.
