Page 45 of Get Me to the Starting Line
Fuck me.
My ovaries cannot handle this. I try to take the stroller back, but he blocks me, his elbow softly pushing me aside.
“I got him,” he says, checking to see if it’s safe on the path before pushing it to the middle.
“What? Julien, I can—”
“Your legs are hurting because you’re overdoing it without proper training,” he interrupts. “So from now on, I’m running withmon petit loup,and you’ll run beside us and work on your form.”
I blink away the onslaught of dirty thoughts, unsure if I heard him right. All I saw was his mouth moving, and then there’s the French again.
I can only nod and take my place beside him, following his lead on pace. It’s so slow.
“Tell me if your legs hurt again,” he commands.
His tone would usually cause me to bristle, but somehow, I know it’s because he’s trying to take care of me. It’s been a long time since someone besides Paige or Maggie has made an effort for me.
We run in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the crisp air. It’s chilly out this morning, the colder weather finally coming in. I still put on shorts in defiance, a decision I regretted instantly when I stepped outside.
But I can’t quite regret it now that I’ve had Julien’s hands on my bare skin. Especially since he said he doesn’t mind a bit of hair.
I pull my attention away from Julien and focus on running. It feels weird without the stroller. Why is it easier and harder at the same time? I can use my arms for momentum. The few videos I watched on technique gave me some pointers, and I try not to swing my arms across my body.
I hold my hands up, elbows bent like chicken wings, and gently touch my fingers with my thumb instead of gripping them into a fist. The video said to pretend I’m holding a potato chip between my fingers without crushing it. I feel ridiculous.
And now I want potato chips.
But not having the stroller means I’m standing more upright. And when I’m tired, there’s no handle to lean some of my weight on. My hands feel empty. Of both stroller and chips.
“C-Can I ask you something?” Julien asks quietly.
“Sure,” I say, wondering what he could possibly ask me.
“Why did you react that way when Levi saidloup?”
Oh shit, I wasn’t expectingthat. My hackles rise, though there’s no judgement or malice in his tone. I’m coming to realize this about Julien—the inflection in his low voice is slight, which is why I thought he was an asshole for so long.
“He doesn’t talk much.” It’s the simplest answer I can give without going into it.
But apparently Julien isn’t satisfied. “Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“You almost cried. Kind of seems like there’s more to it.”
I hesitate to share. Will he judge? Will he even know enough about child development to judge? I had to stop going to the mommyand me groups because of the looks. Both sympathy and judgement.
The constant bragging from some parents who claimed their two-year-olds were speaking in full sentences. Bullshit.
“He’s only said two words, now three. He’s behind.”
I see Julien nod from the corner of my eye. What’s he thinking? The silence stretches between us until it’s no longer uncomfortable. I sneak glances at Julien, which I absolutely do not do often because the sight of this man pushing my stroller is making my ovaries and uterus conspire to jump his bones.
Vagina is on board as well. I have to keep my brain from joining forces. But when I can’t help it anymore and peek, his brows are furrowed, seemingly lost in thought. What is he thinking?
“When I was a kid, I didn’t talk much either,” he says suddenly, catching me staring. He looks away quickly.
“Oh?” What else can I say to that? It doesn’t surprise me since his preferred method of communication is one-syllable words.
