Paul rolls his eyes and uses his cane to gesture in the direction we usually start our run. “Go forth and trot. Try not to trip, waddle, or otherwise embarrass my tutelage.”
“Tutelage? Is that what you call it?” I ask. “Because it feels a lot more like sanctimonious lecturing.” Stalling, I start to stretch.
The tip of his cane gently taps my knee. “The latest word on the running circuit is that pre-run stretching doesn’t help prevent injury.”
I drop my foot back to the ground. “But magic shoes do?”
His lips twist in what’s almost a smile. “They do.”
“I hope nobody sees me,” I mutter good-naturedly. “Although on the plus side, I hope these shoes last me a long time, because they’ll fit in great at the nursing home.”
“Bet you’ll drive the old guys crazy.”
Do I drive you crazy? I want to ask. What I actually say is, “Okay, let’s do this.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about the run or something infinitely more treacherous.
He nods once.
I make it about five steps before a forbidden thought crosses my mind. When I turn back, I find him watching me, and the longing look on his face prompts me to ask the bold question.
“Have you tried running? Even a couple of steps? You know…since?”
Pain rolls over his face before all expression shuts down completely. “Run, Olivia? I can’t even walk without assistance.”
I cock my head a little to the side. “Can’t you?”
With that, I turn on the heels of my ugly new shoes and take off at a trot. I try to concentrate on the breathing techniques Paul’s always yammering about, but the last thing I care about at the moment is breathing from my diaphragm. I’m too lost in thought about the gorgeous disaster that is Paul.
I lose track of how long I run, but I slow down when I start to see unfamiliar sights. I’ve come farther than I usually do. As expected, Paul’s nowhere to be seen when I turn around, but unlike every other day, I don’t see him on my return run either. I pushed him too far with my question about running, and he retreated.
I head into the house, determined not to be disappointed. What did I expect, that all it would take was just a late-night kiss and the mere suggestion that he try running, and all of a sudden he’d be striding along beside me in all of his prewar glory?
My guilt isn’t exactly assuaged by the belated realization that Lindy is still in Portland and that I’m supposed to be on kitchen duty. Not only am I reminding the guy of all the things he can’t do, but now I’m starving him as well. Granted, the guy can spread cream cheese on a bagel by himself, but I’m getting paid to do it—something I’d do well to start remembering.
I hurriedly shower, throwing on yoga pants and a fuzzy blue sweater and pulling my wet hair into a messy knot at the top before dashing off to the kitchen.
I’ve never been much of a breakfast eater, and usually I just help myself to an English muffin or cereal, but this morning my stomach is rumbling for something more substantial. Probably because my “dinner” last night was a jumbo glass of white wine, followed by a few sips of Scotch.
I scramble up enough eggs for two, throw in some cheddar cheese and mushrooms, and add two glasses of orange juice to the tray. I know Paul has a coffeepot in the library, but I’m betting that he keeps only one mug in there, so I place a mug for myself on the tray as well. As an afterthought I slice up some berries and put those in a pretty crystal bowl.
Paul and I eat dinner together most nights—mostly because I leave him no choice—but usually I eat breakfast in the kitchen with Lindy while we chat about the Today show, or whatever. Come to think of it, I’ve been here about a month, and this is the first time Paul and I will eat breakfast together.
There’s something surprisingly intimate about sharing breakfast with a guy. Maybe because of the whole morning-after connection. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Paul, and I’m remembering last night’s kiss a little too clearly as I carefully carry the tray in the direction of the office.