morning. Before Lindy or Mick or whatever godforsaken caretaker is lurking about is awake…hell, before the
sun’s
even up.
I go outside and pretend I’m running. Not physically pretending, of course. My leg’s not even remotely able to sustain that kind of fantasy. But mentally? I run.
It’s the only time I’ll use my cane. Partially because nobody’s watching, but also because the cane allows me to go longer, farther, faster. Just a mile or so on a trail that winds around the bay. I walk/hobble in the predawn silence and let myself pretend just for an hour that I’m running. That I’m normal. It’s
my
time.
Of course, being the hermit that I am,
all
time is my time. But this is different. I’d almost say
sacred
if that didn’t sound so ridiculous. But save for the fishermen—because this is Maine, after all—I’m alone. And this solitude is different from the rest of my day because it’s intentional.
This time of the day is the only time I feel alive.
And I never dreamed that it could be ripped away from me in the most debilitating way possible.
Olivia Middleton—the very person who kept me up the entire night—is a runner. Worse, she’s running on
my
path during
my
time.
She’s running toward me, and although she’s still a good ways off, I know it’s her. That blond ponytail and that tall, slim frame are all I’ve been able to think about since that kiss.
Turning around would be futile. Her jog would easily overtake my walk, so there’s nothing to do but wait. And brace.
I slow to a standstill. It’s bad enough that she has to see me with the cane; I’ll be damned if I’ll give her the spectacle of watching me actually hobble along with it.
She’s got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn’t she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.
Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn’t clue me in (
real
runners don’t care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it’s obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that’s just slightly off that she’s new at this.
Already my brain is racing with pointers.
Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?
At first I think she doesn’t see me. There’s no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she’s almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.
My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.
But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she’d better get used to seeing me.
I’d
better get used to her seeing me.
She doesn’t look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn’t really seem to care about those either. Then again, it’s still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can’t really see their ugliness. Which reminds me…
“You shouldn’t go running alone in the dark,” I growl.
She frowns almost imperceptibly, just the finest line between her dark blond eyebrows. “Why not?”
“You go running through the streets of New York City at the crack of dawn?”
“How do you know I’m from New York City?”
I remain silent, not wanting to have to explain that I spent most of the night studying the limited information my dad had sent over on Olivia. Nothing interesting. NYU dropout. Manhattan resident. Short of a crash course in CPR, no
actual
experience in taking care of anyone. She turned twenty-two just days before arriving in Maine.
But the file didn’t answer any of the things I wanted to know.
sun’s
even up.
I go outside and pretend I’m running. Not physically pretending, of course. My leg’s not even remotely able to sustain that kind of fantasy. But mentally? I run.
It’s the only time I’ll use my cane. Partially because nobody’s watching, but also because the cane allows me to go longer, farther, faster. Just a mile or so on a trail that winds around the bay. I walk/hobble in the predawn silence and let myself pretend just for an hour that I’m running. That I’m normal. It’s
my
time.
Of course, being the hermit that I am,
all
time is my time. But this is different. I’d almost say
sacred
if that didn’t sound so ridiculous. But save for the fishermen—because this is Maine, after all—I’m alone. And this solitude is different from the rest of my day because it’s intentional.
This time of the day is the only time I feel alive.
And I never dreamed that it could be ripped away from me in the most debilitating way possible.
Olivia Middleton—the very person who kept me up the entire night—is a runner. Worse, she’s running on
my
path during
my
time.
She’s running toward me, and although she’s still a good ways off, I know it’s her. That blond ponytail and that tall, slim frame are all I’ve been able to think about since that kiss.
Turning around would be futile. Her jog would easily overtake my walk, so there’s nothing to do but wait. And brace.
I slow to a standstill. It’s bad enough that she has to see me with the cane; I’ll be damned if I’ll give her the spectacle of watching me actually hobble along with it.
She’s got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn’t she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.
Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn’t clue me in (
real
runners don’t care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it’s obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that’s just slightly off that she’s new at this.
Already my brain is racing with pointers.
Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?
At first I think she doesn’t see me. There’s no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she’s almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.
My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.
But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she’d better get used to seeing me.
I’d
better get used to her seeing me.
She doesn’t look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn’t really seem to care about those either. Then again, it’s still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can’t really see their ugliness. Which reminds me…
“You shouldn’t go running alone in the dark,” I growl.
She frowns almost imperceptibly, just the finest line between her dark blond eyebrows. “Why not?”
“You go running through the streets of New York City at the crack of dawn?”
“How do you know I’m from New York City?”
I remain silent, not wanting to have to explain that I spent most of the night studying the limited information my dad had sent over on Olivia. Nothing interesting. NYU dropout. Manhattan resident. Short of a crash course in CPR, no
actual
experience in taking care of anyone. She turned twenty-two just days before arriving in Maine.
But the file didn’t answer any of the things I wanted to know.
Similar Books
