Eight?
Somehow I’ve let myself forget that just because I’m cut off from the outside world, it doesn’t mean she is. Of course she’d stay in contact with friends and family.
I’m tempted to read the messages.
I want to know if she tells her friends and family that she’s happy here.
I want to know if she says anything about me.
I want…
Pull yourself together, Langdon.
And then, God help me, I’m unlocking her phone. Not to read the messages, just to scan who they’re from.
My eyes catch the names Bella and Mom and Michael. Who’s Michael? She’s never mentioned him. She’s allowed male friends, of course, but…what the hell. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m no longer one of the good guys. Might as well act on it.
I open the message, ignoring the jab of guilt that tells me I’m a sick son of a bitch.
I miss you.
The short text says volumes, and the jealousy that rips through my gut is as foreign as it is unwelcome. There are no other texts to or from this Michael, which either means it’s the first time he’s contacted her in quite a while or she’s deleted previous messages. I want to know why.
When it comes to Olivia, I want to know everything, but I want to know because she tells me about it, not because I went snooping.
I close my eyes briefly as I realize what I need to do. If I want her to trust me, I need to start by trusting her. I need to tell her everything.
I slowly put the phone back on the nightstand. With any luck, her groggy morning self won’t register that it’s already been read, and if she does, I’ll come clean. The alternative is deleting the message altogether, and that’s a line even I won’t cross.
It’s misty outside, and there’s a definite nip in the air. It’s October, after all. But I stand perfectly still for several minutes, relishing the feel of the cold air against my bare legs. How long has it been since I did something as simple as wear shorts? Too long.
It’s been way too fucking long in so many areas of my life.
I walk toward the path, waiting for the twinge in my leg that will halt my plans in their tracks. But there’s no pain. There’s nothing but the glorious feel of damp sea air against my damaged skin.
I start to walk a little faster now, still giving the leg a chance to protest the lack of support from my cane. And although I do feel a little off balance, I can’t tell if I’m actually limping or just mentally limping.
A lone seagull cry pierces the perfect quiet of the early morning. I increase my pace.
A drop of water runs down the center of my forehead, and I realize that the mist has turned to rain.
And then my walk turns into a run.
I’m running.
For the first time in three years, I’m running.
Not a fast run. To anyone else, it probably looks like some awkward speed walk or failed jog. But I know the importance of it. I’m running.
It’s raining harder now, and I don’t care. Hell, I barely notice.
I’m concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, careful to make sure that my left leg hits the ground squarely each time. I still feel a little off balance. My good leg is doing more of the work, and the shitty leg is definitely letting me know that it’s not used to this.
But I’m running. I’m fucking running.
Of course, I reach my limit quickly. I make it less than a mile before the slight awkwardness starts to dip into discomfort. Still, it’s a start. And that’s what really has me feeling like taking on the world. It’s the start to normalcy.
The leg’s never going to be pretty—I’m always going to get a stare or two on a beach vacation—but for the first time in a long time, normal seems within reach.
And I know exactly whom to thank.
I take my time walking back. The rain is heavier now, and I’m soaked but invigorated. Cheesy as it sounds, it’s one of those good-to-be-alive moments.