“The Workplace Wellness Team.”
“The Wellness Team is trying to kill you? That seems a bit counterintuitive.”
“I signed up to run a marathon,” I practically shout. He stares at me, and I stare back.
“A marathon?”
“A marathon. The Martha’s Vineyard Marathon” I twist the bottle’s screw top. I take a swig, the wine burning my poor esophagus that has been punished enough by my stress-induced acid reflux.
“You signed up to run the Martha’s Vineyard Marathon?”
“That is what I just finished telling you.”
“Can you un-sign up?”
“That ship has sailed, Joshua.”
“Why?”
“Because the office’s young, pretty, mean girl implied that I couldn’t run a marathon.” I take another swig and delay swallowing because I know the sting is coming.
“You’re going to run a marathon because some idiot at work made you feel like you couldn’t?”
“Seems it.” More staring. The edges of his mouth start to turn up.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl. He purses his lips together, but his shoulders start to vibrate, and his eyes start to water. “I swear on everything I hold dear if you laugh at me…”
“You’ll make me run a marathon?” It comes out as a wheeze and the laughter takes over, literally bringing the friendly giant to his knees. I calmly put the wine bottle down on the side table, curl into a tight ball on my side, and cover my face with Carol.
After a minute, he’s gotten it out of his system. I feel the couch sink down as he sits on the couch behind me. His arm loops around my stomach and he gives me a reassuring squeeze, then he rests his chin on my shoulder.
“How can I help?” he asks. I slowly roll over onto my back and look up at him. His face is flushed from laughing, but I know from the look on it that he’s done making fun of me.
“Will you help me train for this?” I try to sound steady, but I am legitimately terrified of what hell I’ve brought down on myself. “I don’t know the first thing about running and I don’t want to hurt myself.” His face changes at this, and I know that the thought of me hurting myself upset him.
“When do we start?”
I launch myself up at him and wrap my arms around his neck. He snakes his arms around me and hugs me back. I feel so much of the day’s tension physically drain from my body and I allow myself to stay here, with my head on his shoulder, completely surrounded by him.
“First things first,” he says, releasing me. “Show me your sneakers.” This catches me off guard, but I am not going to argue with my savior. I amble off the couch, pushing my navy skirt down as it rides dangerously up my thighs, and make my way to the small closet by my front door. I dig around for a moment before spying my Nike Air Force 1’s. They are baby pink with canary yellow laces and soles. The satin Swoosh symbol shimmers as the light hits it. I present them to him, proudly.
“Nope.” Is all he says the moment he sees them. I stare at him, then back at my beautiful shoes, then back at him.
“What do you mean ‘Nope’?” I demand. He takes a shoe from me and starts to map it with his long fingers.
“These are street shoes.” He sighs. “There is no cushioning and no support. Running in these will destroy your joints.” I stare blankly at him, and he switches angles. “It will also destroy these pretty little shoes.” Horrified at the thought of damaging my favorite footwear, I concede.
“Of course, I should have thought about that.” I nod. “I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll go shopping right now.”
* * *
Mileage Sports is unsurprisingly quiet on a Monday close to dinnertime. They have aisles stocked with clothes and gear and I feel like an athlete just from breathing the air. I pick up a pair of funny-looking wrap-around headphones and turn them over in my hands before Josh takes them from me.
“No running with music until I’m sure you won’t get distracted and run into rush hour traffic.” He smirks.
“I won’t!” I whine.Probably.
