Page 99 of Get Me to the Starting Line
Bad timing.
Anticipationsettlesinmystomach as I round the bend, my feet hitting the pavement hard. I was running late this morning after Levi had a fit. It’s been hard ever since Julien moved out, and then work called and I had to deal with some asshat who thought he could pull some underhanded shit. I will not be scammed into using subpar materials on my braces, thank you very much.
My heart does a flip as the app on my phone announces I hit eight kilometres at a pace of seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds per kilometre. Not bad.
I hope I’m not too late.
“Woo, woo!” Levi exclaims, trying to launch himself out of the stroller. But I’ve secured that thing so tight even Houdini couldn’t escape. Levi snaps his teeth as we come to the same stretch of path that has me getting out of bed every running morning. No matter what, I always try to get to this section at this time.
Because there he is. Today he’s mixed it up. He’s wearing a dark grey long-sleeved shirt instead of his usual black. It’s paired with short black shorts (thank the running gods for men’s runningclothes). Even from this far away, I can see his thick thighs flex with each step.
“Woo! Puh!” Levi holds up the little mini hockey stick he got for his birthday—a goalie stick from Adam—as Julien approaches. The smile this man levels at my son may have gotten me pregnant.
Julien waves and snaps his teeth at Levi in greeting, but his expression morphs when his attention shifts to me. I have no idea what my face is doing. Am I drooling? Crying? Who knows. We lock eyes as he comes closer until he’s so close I could reach out and touch him. The air sings between us, and I swear a gust of wind pushes me in his direction. But he stays his course and so do I.
We hold each other’s gaze until he passes by without either of us saying a word.
It’s the same every morning for the last month.
And then he’s gone.
Thesmellofbakedapples and blueberries floods the apartment, making my mouth water. My face is itchy from the flour as I roll out another pie crust, preparing it for the lemon filling cooling in the fridge. Next up is the meringue.
I’ll be able to cut into the golden-brown blueberry pie soon, while the apple pie with its perfect lattice top steams beside it, cooling after coming from the oven. I make a mental note to stop at the store for more vanilla ice cream.
“Leah?”
The sound of Paige’s voice jolts me from my pie stupor. I hadn’t heard the door.
“In here!” I yell.
She greets Levi, who sits in his booster seat eating lunch, or more accurately, throwing his lunch on the floor. When she glances up, there’s exasperation written all over her face.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“Why are you still baking? How many pies have you made in the last few months?”
She’s not wrong to ask. Everyone I know in Vancouver (with the exception of one brooding goalie) has at least two pies in their fridge, two in their freezer, and another on their counter.
I’ve been baking a lot. So much so I could probably start a bakery. Maybe move to Montreal and open apâtisserie... nope. I stop that line of thinking. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, and the little girl inside who loves STEM and feminism screams at me for thinking it. Again.
Plus, my research is receiving so much attention that my trajectory is too good to turn my back on now. The prototypes needed more investment than the university could fund, and donors have brought the project to a new level. I’m in charge of a whole team now and things are moving so quickly.
There’s been a lot going on, and baking is my favourite stress release. Isabel called this morning saying our motion for dismissal was denied.
I’ll never forget the sickening feeling in my stomach when Ian served me with papers a week after Julien moved out. That completespiral into despair had me calling in sick for a week and snuggling my baby as much as he’d let me.
Ian wanted joint custody. Fat chance that’ll ever happen. The judge overturned that request already, but Ian’s lawyer came back requesting visiting rights. It’s harder to deny him that.
His lawyer is a shark, but so is mine. Since Isabel isn’t a family lawyer, she’s been working with someone in her firm who is.
Like I need this stress. He wants joint custody so he can worm his way into my life and into my research. But I’ve patented that baby right up—no one is getting their name on it but me.
I thought I’d done that with Levi since Ian gladly signed away his parental rights, but now he’s trying to refute that. Prove he’s changed, wants to be a dad, deserves a chance.
He doesn’t. I take my frustration out on the delicate pie crust, effectively ruining it. Not to worry, I have another batch ready to go.
“Leah—” Paige chides as I grab the wrapped dough from my fridge.
