Page 48 of Get Me to the Starting Line
“It’s not your fault,” he says, his attention back on me.
That pulls me up short. How did he know? That seed of guilt began blooming as soon as I heard her call my name. It is my fault—I should’ve told her. She doesn’t like surprises, and I’m supposed to protect her, not hurt her.
“It is.”
“No, it’s not. You’re doing something nice for her and something nice for yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have kept it a secret.”
“Your heart was in the right place.”
“Intention doesn’t matter.”
He doesn’t respond right away, thinking over his answer.
“Sometimes it doesn’t.” That’s a loaded sentence. “But sometimes it does, and she’ll know that. Paige is a reasonable person.” He says it so earnestly I almost believe him.
I take a few deep breaths. I have to get to work, but I don’t want to go. Julien accepts my silence and gestures with his head back the way we came. We didn’t make it far today, so it’s faster to turn around than finish our loop.
Our loop.
How am I going to explain this to Paige? Julien and I are ... friends. I don’t think she’s going to believe me. Do I even believe myself? Before today I would have said yes, but the feeling of his hands on my legs is seared into my memory.
Friends don’t do what he does for me. Paige would, but she’s a massage therapist and my sister. I’ve never had a friend treat me the way Julien does.
We’re back to the path that leads to my apartment way too soon. There’s a tense silence, and Julien inhales as though he’s about to say something. But he shuts his mouth and passes the stroller back to me. With a small wave I’m too slow to return, he runs off.
Do I linger, watching him from behind as he runs away from me?
Yes, yes I do.
I’d love to bounce a quarter off his ass. God damn. Like he senses me watching him, his head turns and our eyes connect for a second before I turn away, flushing at getting caught staring.
Something shifted between us today, and I can’t say I hate him. He still says all the wrong things, but sometimes he says the right things. And I’m starting to suspect when he says the wrong things, it’s with the right intentions.
And sometimes, maybe, intentions do matter.
Ianxiouslywaitallday for Paige to call. My phone plays tricks on me because I swear it buzzes in my pocket every few minutes, but when I check, no one is calling and there are no new messages.
“Dr. Harrison.” My boss comes up to me while I’m researching medical tech developed for gymnastics. It’s a promising new piece of equipment, meant to make stretching safer and more efficient.
“Yes?” My eyes are glued to the screen so I don’t realize how close she is.
“Is that what you’re working on?” she asks from over my shoulder.
“I was wondering if we could tweak this device, or make a bigger one, to accommodate athletes who have larger bodies—football or rugby players, even runners, with their longer legs. This has been proven to help gymnasts, but I think changing a few of the mechanics and adjusting the scale could be beneficial.”
“Interesting,” she says. Her tone of voice is always so flat, I can never tell what she’s thinking. Even her face is blank. She scans it for a few moments and then gestures to the stack of notes in front of me. When I hand them to her, her brows pinch.
A few years ago, my nerves would’ve been frayed if a boss had scrutinized my work, but I’ve been doing this a while now, and I’m confident I’m onto something.
“It’s good,” she says, handing the papers back to me. “Keep me updated on your progress.”
“Of course.” My smile is wide as I turn back to my research. I’m so absorbed in my work that when my alarm blares, alerting me that my class is starting, I have to bolt to the other side of campus. And I can say bolt, because apparently hell has frozen over and I’m now a runner.
That still feels weird to say.
My contract with the university requires me to teach two classes a semester. I don’t mind though—I enjoy teaching. I have one undergrad class, calculus, which I can do in my sleep. Apparently, so can my students, because there are a few resting their heads on their desks.
