The view is glorious, though. Worth the early hour, and maybe even worth having to fucking run.
“You’re staring at my ass.” This comes a mile in.
I’m sweating already, and my lungs are asking me what the hell I’m thinking.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Why do you think I’m even doing this?”
“Well then…if you want to stare at the ass, you have to keep up with the ass,” she says, and puts on speed.
“Challenge…accepted.”
It’s the hardest, most punishing, most brutal forty-plus minutes of my life. By the time we’re a quarter mile from her driveway, my breathing is ragged, my legs are jelly, and sweat burns in my eyes. And even she’s breathing hard, but as we near the driveway she only speeds up. And speeds up. And speeds up. Until a good hundred yards from the mailbox, she’s at a full sprint.
I swing my arms as hard as I can and do my best to match her sprint, and it feels like my legs are pumping on their own, without my input, and they feel like lead tubes.
I slap the mailbox as I stumble to a stop, and hunch over, hands braced on my knees.
“Up,” Delia pants, pacing in front of me, hands laced on top of her head. “More oxygen in your lungs. Hunching over makes your lungs compress.”
I mimic her stance, upright, pacing, hands on my head. “You do this every day?”
She nods. “Yup.”
“You were showing off a little, today, though, right? Just to show me up?”
She smirks at me. “A little.” She checks her watch. “Today was just under a minute faster, which in running terms is actually quite a big improvement. So I guess I should thank you for motivating me to my best time yet.”
“You’re welcome.”
She’s coated in a sheen of sweat, her skin glistening. Sweat darkens the center of her sports bra, between her breasts. Beads of sweat trickle down her cheeks and throat…and down between her breasts. Her stomach, flat and taut, goes concave as she sucks in slow, measured breaths. Her thick, strong thighs tighten with each step.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re staring.”
“You’re sexy. Hard not to stare.”
She blinks. “Who the fuck evenareyou, right now, what have you done with Matthais Bristow?”
I struggle to slow my breathing. “Still me, I just have a better relationship with the truth than I used to.”
She shakes her head. “The truth. The truth that all of a sudden you think I’m sexy?” She faces me, hands braced on her hips, now. “What you’re saying is that I’m sexy,now—now that I don’t have belly rolls and an extra fifty pounds on my ass? That truth?”
Any answer I give to that feels wrong, so fuck it. As long I’m blurting out uncomfortable truths…
“Yes, Delia, that truth. I’m comfortable enough my own fault to admit that I think you’re sexier now than you ever have been.” I pace closer, until mere inches separate us. “You want more truth? How ’bout this one: a good part of the reason I was such an unmitigated fucking bastard to you was that Ilikedyou—I was attracted to you, and I hated myself for it.”
And goddammit but thatisthe truth, which I’ve been desperately trying to avoid.
She nods. “Ah yes, the old truism parents like to feed little girls—if a boy is mean to you, he must like you. I reject that—if a boy is mean to you, maybe…he’s just a mean little shit.”
“In my case, it’s true both ways. Doesn’t excuse it, but it’s true. I was mean to you because I liked you, and because I was just mean. Not just to you. Ask Tim Harrington how he feels about me. I was even worse to him—he was a boy, so I could physically pick on him. And I did. Brutally.” I shake my head, turn away, sick to my stomach. “I can’t flinch from the past, Delia. I’m not going to stand here and act like I wasn’t a piece of shit human being. I was. And nothing I can do or say will ever change or make up for that.”
“Why did you hate yourself for liking me?” she asks.
I shrug, hands out, palms up. “Fuck if I can even say, now. Status? I was the king of the school and you were…”
“I was Dorky Delia. Donuts Delia,” she fills in.
“Yeah. It wouldn’t have beencoolfor me to be with you.”
