Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 27

Running to Stand Still





A month later, I’m packing up my meager belongings as Joanne reads a magazine on the couch while pretending not to care that I’m moving out.

“Did you buy this colander, or did I?” I ask her, holding up a lime-green pasta strainer.

“I can’t remember.”

“I’ll just leave it then.”

Joanne flips a page of her magazine aggressively.

“We can still hang out, you know.”

“Hah.”

I stop myself from saying anything more. When have I ever been able to alleviate any of Joanne’s moods? And it’s not like I’m going to be seeking her out once I leave here, right?

I close the box I’ve been packing with kitchen stuff and start filling another.

“Holy crap,” Joanne says.

“What?”

She flashes the magazine at me. “It says here that you’re Amber’s lesbian lover.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen . . . ‘Amber Sheppard has been seen entering the home of an unidentified woman on at least three occasions in the last month, often late at night.’ There’s even a picture. It’s only the back of your head, but it’s definitely you. And look, that’s our front door!”

“Let me see that.”

I take the magazine. Sure enough, there are several shots of Amber entering my building with the time and date stamped below them. The first is the day we wrote the article together, and the latest was last week. The article goes on to speculate that Amber’s so heartbroken over Connor’s final betrayal (he’s been seen apartment hunting with Kimberley) that she’s now playing for the other team.

“God, they’re getting really desperate if they’ve started with that kind of speculation.”

Joanne eyes me suspiciously. “It isn’t true, is it?”

“Joanne!”

“What? It’s not like you ever go on dates.”

“You’re one to talk.”

She looks sheepish. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . I’ve got a date on Friday.”

“That’s great. With who?”

“Well, actually, it’s with Scott.”

You could knock me over with a feather.

“Scott? My Scott?”

She frowns. “That’s right.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. When did this happen?”

“Remember when we went to dinner that time, after your first day of work?”

I don’t really.

“Sure.”

“Well, we had a really great time, and . . . one thing sort of led to another, it’s not a big deal . . .”

“That’s great, Joanne.”

“Yeah, well, it probably won’t work out . . . I mean, he’s way younger than me.”

“He’s an old soul.”

Her eyes brighten. “I think so too.”

“See, it’s a good thing I’m moving out. You can have the place to yourself.”

“It’s not like he’s moving in or anything.”

“Stranger things have happened . . .”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. I’m dating Amber, remember?”

I look down at the magazine, scanning the rest of the photographs on the page. It’s the usual assortment of stars at parties with their arms around one another. But one of them makes my heart stop.

It’s of Henry. He’s squinting at the camera, looking annoyed. And beside him, beaming, is Olivia.

“They look like a couple, don’t they?” I ask, staring at the photograph for the hundredth time.

Amy, Rory, Greer, and I are sitting at the coffee shop near where Amy and I go to meetings. I asked Rory and Greer to join us after the meeting given the whole Henry-seems-to-be-dating-Olivia fiasco.

Amy looks at the picture I’ve spent hours dissecting. “They look like they’re standing next to each other.”

“But what about the caption?”

Because it’s the caption that’s been torturing me. Henry Slattery (Connor Parks’s manager) and Olivia Canfield (Amber Sheppard’s publicist) looked like they were plotting more than a reunion between their employers at Sunrise the other night!

“That’s just gossip magazine drivel,” Rory says.

“But they often get things right. I mean, think about my article.”

Greer takes a large swig of her triple espresso. “That’s the last thing you should be thinking about, lass.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. Why didn’t he ever call me back?”

“He’s probably angry,” Amy says. “You did lie to him for weeks and write an exposé about his best friend.”

Right. Good point.

“He must hate me.”

Rory shakes her head. “Don’t be so melodramatic. From everything you’ve told us, he certainly doesn’t hate you.”

“But he doesn’t want to be with me.”

“But lass, didn’t you do everything you could to push him away?”

“I know, but that was before I realized . . .”

“That you were in love with him?” Rory finishes for me.

I nod.

“Have you ever told him that?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“You mean, call him again and leave him another message, telling him I’m in love with him?”

Rory nods her logical head. “Why not?”

“Impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Amy says quietly.

“But if it feels like it is, isn’t that the only thing that counts?”

She gives me a sad look. “I think the only thing that counts is that love is rare. And when you find it, you need to grab on and not let go.”

“Sorry, but that’s a little too Hallmark for me.” I tuck the magazine away, sick of the sight of Henry and Olivia together. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Good idea.”

“You guys still doing that 10K race on Sunday?” Greer asks Amy.

Amy smiles confidently. “Of course. You sure you’re ready, Katie?”

“For the entire 10K? Probably not.”

“Then why do it, lass?”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Greer raises her coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Greer!”

“Ah, relax, Ror.” I raise my coffee cup and clink it to hers. “What are we drinking to again?”

“The possible.”

“To the possible.”

OK, confession time again. I signed up for the 10K race when Amber mentioned in passing that Henry was going to be running in it. Even though I assumed (but couldn’t bring myself to ask) that she’d gotten this information from Olivia, I mentioned it to Amy at AA, and the next thing I knew, we were signed up.

I’ve been regretting my moment of weakness ever since then. However, I made a promise to Amy, and I’m all about keeping my promises these days.

So, here I am, lining up with thousands of other crazy people at the edge of the park early Sunday morning. I’ve got a tracking chip attached to my shoe and the number 764 pinned to my chest. My one-month-of-sobriety chip is strung around my neck. Maybe it’ll bring me luck.

Amy’s standing beside me, looking calm and collected. She’s been coaching me on race strategy and sports psychology. I’m pretty sure I’ve retained exactly none of her wisdom. I search the crowd for Henry, my heart lurching at every glimpse of red hair.

As it gets close to race time, the crowd surges forward, jockeying for position nearer to the start. Everyone’s all elbows and knees, and I begin to feel claustrophobic. When one elbow too many gets me in the ribs, I spin on the culprit in anger.

“Watch it, buddy, will you!”

The man I’ve yelled at recoils, but not because I screamed at him for no reason. It’s because it’s Henry.

Our eyes lock, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open.

Par for the embarrassing course.

I click my mouth shut. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s OK.”

I search his face. He looks the same as always, only a little white under his tan.

“I’m running in the race,” I say, stupidly.

His mouth looks amused, but it doesn’t travel to his eyes. “I can see that.”

A million thoughts, questions, emotions are running through my brain. And the one that pops out is, “Did you get my messages?”

He looks away. “Yes. I got them.”

I search his face again. “Look, Henry, I get why you didn’t want to call me back . . .”

Before he can answer, another runner stumbles into me, pushing me toward Henry. He steadies me against his chest, and we stay like that, surrounded and prodded by the eager crowd. My heart beats loudly in my ears, and I swear I can hear his heart too.

“Kate, I . . .”

A horn blares and the starter calls us to our marks. The crush of people becomes twice what it was before. We’re separated before Henry can complete his thought, whatever it was.

I search the crowd, but I can’t see him or Amy.

“Amy!”

“Katie!”

“Where are you?”

“Over here!”

I see a hand waving above the crowd and push my way toward her.

“Ten seconds,” yells the starter through his bullhorn.

“What happened?” Amy asks.

“I ran into Henry.”

“Are you OK?”

“I guess.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I tried to, but we got pushed apart.”

“On your marks! Get set! Go!”

The horn blares, and we move forward as one. It’s a faster pace than I’m used to, but the adrenaline of the race, of seeing Henry, pushes me along past the huge digital clock hanging over the starting line.

“Stick with me, Katie,” Amy says. “Let people pass you so we can stay on pace.”

I slow down, and we run at a comfortable clip for a few minutes while my beating heart returns to almost normal. We round a corner to a straighter section of the path. I can see Henry up ahead, and my heart starts pounding again, taking my legs along with it. I’m running too fast, but I can’t seem to help myself.

As I stare at the back of his head, something falls out of the blackout. My hands in his hair. His on my waist. Our tongues meeting in between our mouths. The way the world fell away until he tasted alcohol.

“Katie, we should slow down, you’re not going to make it to the end.”

“I feel like I can do it.”

I focus on Henry’s back, his easy gait.

He must like me to kiss me like that.

But that was before he knew you were a liar.

No, I’d already told him that.

Right, but then you showed him.

But I’ve stopped drinking.

He doesn’t know that.

I tried to tell him.

Not very hard.

I’m running after him, aren’t I?

I almost laugh out loud as this realization thunks through my brain.

Oh. My. God. It’s true. I’m running, for Chrissakes, I’m running after a man to tell him how I feel about him. How did I end up at the end of a romantic comedy?

And if I catch him, if I tell him, what then? Why am I so sure he wants to hear what I have to say? Why am I so convinced that his reluctance is a mask for love?

How stupid can you be, Katie?

My energy drains away. My legs aren’t working very well anymore, and neither are my lungs. I stop running, doubled over, gasping for breath.

Amy stops and puts her hand on my back. “Katie, are you all right?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. I hear Amy call for help, and she and one of the volunteers supports me to the sidelines. I sink to the grass, wheezing. When I can speak, I tell Amy to go on without me, and she reluctantly agrees.

The kind volunteer woman wraps me in a metallic space blanket and hands me a glass of Gatorade. I drink it slowly as she gives me a ride on a golf cart to the medical tents. When we get there, I’m led to a cot, and a young nurse takes my blood pressure. After the air releases from the blood pressure cuff, the nurse tells me my pressure is low and that I should rest until I feel better. I don’t have the heart to tell her that feeling better is not an option.

I lie down on the cot and pull the space blanket up to my chin. I feel utterly exhausted, like every molecule of energy I’ve ever had has been drained away to nothing. Who knew that running flat out for thirty minutes could induce the same feeling as halfway between shit-faced and sobering up?

Runner’s high, I guess. Same damn thing as any other high.

Time passes. After a while, I begin to feel better, and silly. What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? Am I so thin-skinned that one encounter with Henry has me chasing my tail (OK, Henry’s tail) until I hit the wall? All this because of a boy? I’ve got to pull myself together. Like U2 says. I’m stuck in a moment I can’t get out of.

You said it, Bono. And nice guitar riff, The Edge. You work that shit.

I sit up, and the world stays steady. I kick off the blanket, and the cool air doesn’t kill me. I unpin the number from my chest and unclip the tracker from my shoe, leaving them both on the cot. I tell the nurse I’m leaving, and she reminds me to take it easy.

I find Amy waiting for me outside the tent with Rory. Amy’s face is glowing, and she has a medal hanging around her neck.

I give them a small wave. “Hey, guys.”

Rory looks concerned. “What happened to you?”

“Turns out I’m not Supergirl.” I notice the camera in Rory’s hand. “Thanks for coming, Ror. Sorry you didn’t get your shot.”

“I had a place in my scrapbook all picked out and everything.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Amy laughs. “You two always have such intellectual conversations?”

“We’ve known each other since we were five,” Rory says by way of explanation. “It stuck.”

“How did you do?” I ask Amy.

She looks proud of herself. “Fifty-two minutes.”

“That’s great! Sorry I slowed you down.”

“Are you kidding? I beat my goal by three minutes, even with the medical diversion.”

Apparently chasing after Henry makes me a good pace bunny.

“Should we go?”

Amy and Rory exchange a guilty glance.

“What is it?”

“Someone wants to talk to you first,” Rory says, pointing over her shoulder.

I look, but I don’t really have to. I know it’s going to be Henry, and sure enough, there he is, sitting on a park bench with a green-and-orange Gatorade cup in his hand, looking nervous.

“You going to go over there?” Amy asks.

“Thinking about it.”

“You know you have to actually walk to get there, right?”

“F*ck off, Ror.”

“You want us to wait?”

“Nah. I’ll be all right.”

I walk toward Henry with as much dignity as I can muster with my worn-out legs, sweaty body, and disheveled hair straggling out of my baseball cap. Henry’s face is red above his blue running shirt. His finisher’s medal is poking out of his pocket.

“I hear you wanted to talk to me.”

“I do.”

“What about?”

He pats the bench next to him. “Will you sit for a minute?”

I sit. He plays with the edge of the empty cup.

“So . . .”

“So . . . I wanted to tell you why I never called you back.”

My mouth goes dry. “Why didn’t you?”

“It’s kind of complicated . . . but . . . you see . . . shit, this would be so much easier if we could go for a run.”

The thought of running right now is so absurd I almost laugh out loud. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

He looks at me with concern in his eyes. “Rory said you were in the medical tent. Are you OK?”

“I just ran too fast, that’s all.”

“That happened to me in my first race too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We lapse into our standard silence.

Suddenly, I can’t stand it anymore.

“Henry, one of us is going to have to do something, or say something.”

“I know, Kate.”

“You wanted to talk . . .”

He smiles. “Which puts me on deck.”

“Yup.”

“You talking like me now?”

“Seems like.”

He reaches over and takes my hands in his. Surprised, I look into his blue-gray eyes.

“Remember when we first met, what I told you?”

I think back to the memories that are still crisp and clear. “You told me that women don’t like the strong, silent type.”

“Right, and that’s what I bring to the table. And I know that’s not easy to deal with, but . . .”

“You met me in rehab.”

“It wasn’t just that, Kate. I could deal with that . . . but then, when you were drinking again, and the rest of it came out . . . everything just seemed way too complicated.”

“And the beginning’s supposed to be simple.”

“It is.”

“It’s funny, because I thought it felt simple most of the time.”

“So did I.”

“So it wasn’t just me?”

“No. It wasn’t just you.”

We smile at each other. My hands feel warm in his.

“Do you think we could make it simple again?” I ask.

“I’d like to try.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We smile again, and I begin to feel a little silly. I pull my hands away gently.

“So, what happens now?”

“I don’t know . . . do you want to maybe get dinner with me?”

“You mean, go on a date?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going to happen on this date?”

He brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Oh, you know. You’ll wear something sexy, I’ll press my chinos, and we’ll talk.”

“You’re going to talk?”

“I promise.”

“What about?”

His thumb skims the bridge of my nose. “Maybe I’ll tell you about my new job teaching rich prep school kids King Lear.”

“So, you’re not dating Olivia?”

He drops his hand. “No. God no.”

“Good.”

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Oh, I saw this photo . . .”

“In People ?”

“Yeah.”

“You of all people should know better than to believe anything you read in there.”

“Why? Everything I wrote was true.”

His face clouds. “I guess it was.”

“Shit, Henry, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”

“But I want to . . .”

“No, Kate.”

Henry leans toward me, and our lips touch gently. His feel soft, firm, warm, welcoming, and I give in to the kiss.

Someone lets out a whoop near us and we pull apart.

“I’m afraid that might’ve been my friends.”

He smiles. “Let’s give them something to really whoop about, then.”

He slips his hand to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. This time the kiss is hotter, wetter, firmer, full of promise. And, oh yes, I remember this. I remember, I remember.

I pull back, and when I look into his eyes I see the same promise I felt in his kiss.

“So you think we should forget the past?”

“I think that’s best. Don’t you?”

Kiss me one more time, and I’ll agree to anything.

I concentrate. “I think that . . . ‘I am but mad north-north-west; but when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.’”

“You’re quoting Shakespeare to me?”

“It feels like that kind of day.”

“We’re not crazy, Kate.”

“Aren’t we?”

He tips my chin toward his, and this kiss is one for the record books. Like the last kiss in The Princess Bride, it leaves all the others behind. They’re dust.

“OK, maybe a little crazy,” Henry says when we pull apart, breathless.

“I told you.”

“Still, I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

Henry waits for me to answer.

Here it is, Kate. Here’s the moment. Here’s where you have to choose. Are you ready?

“I was running after you. That’s why I was in the medical tent.”

He laughs. “If I knew you were running after me, I would’ve slowed down.”

“Henry, that might just be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

It’s our start, anyway.