Page 21 of Get Me to the Starting Line
“Fine.” She walks a little faster and then begins to run, but she’s slow and her form is all wrong. My guess is she’s never run before, which would explain her vehement protests against the race. Guilt sinks heavily, weighing me down.
I pick up my feet and jog up beside her.
“What are you doing?” she asks again, sounding like a broken record.
“Running.”
“Are you always going to give me one-word answers?”
“Probably.”
She speeds up, but I can tell she won’t be able to keep the pace up for long. The momentum of her arms is hindered because she’s pushing the stroller. I’d offer to take it from her, to make it easier. Because I’m not an asshole like she thinks. Well, not completely. But I’m not a complete fool either. I know I can’t do that.
Sure enough, she begins to slow down.
I keep pace with her, not minding as much as I probably should. I could keep going, but I don’t.
She drops to a walk, her breath heaving out of her chest. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the exertion or something else. Because if I’m reading her face correctly, she seems vulnerable, her cold mask slipping. Is she embarrassed? What should I say?
“Is that all you can run?”
Her face flames.
Damn, that was the wrong thing to say. That’s not what I meant.
“Yes, jackass, that’s all I can run.”
At least she doesn’t look vulnerable anymore.
“I-I just meant ...” I say slowly, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts in my head. I don’t know what else to say. The words are stuck as I try and fail not to stutter.
“You just meant what? It was pathetic? I should be able to do more? I already know that.”
“You’re not p-pathetic.” I don’t like how she’s talking about herself. It rubs me the wrong way. I may think she’s too temperamental, but she’s definitely not pathetic.
She picks up into a slow run again, and I count to a minute before she stops again.
“See? Pathetic. That was barely a minute, but it felt like an hour.”
I don’t think she’s talking to me anymore.
“How am I supposed to do a fucking half marathon if I can’t even run for longer than a minute?”
“You don’t have to do it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Isabel isn’t running,” I point out.
“Isabel is not Paige’s older sister.” She says this as though it should mean something to me, but I’m not connecting the dots.
“So?”
“She’ll be happy if I do it.”
She begins to run again. Maybe I can keep her distracted. I glance at my watch and begin timing.
“Y-You’re not happy.”
