My next step.
Nothing else.
I’ve never run this far before. I usually stop when I know I hit my mile and a half mark a few blocks backs, but I didn’t this time. Despite the familiar despair that my body is currently in, I still can’t seem to shut my mind off. I keep running in hopes that I’ll get to that point, but it’s taking a lot longer than usual. The only thing that makes me decide to stop going is the fact that I still have to cover as much tread going home, and I’m almost out of water.
I stop at the edge of a driveway and lean against the mailbox, opening the lid to my water bottle. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm and bring the bottle to my lips, managing to get about four drops into my mouth before it runs dry. I’ve already downed an entire bottle of water in this Texas heat. I silently scold myself for deciding to skip my run this morning. I’m a wuss in the heat.
Fearing for my hydration, I decide to walk the rest of the way back, rather than run. I don’t think pushing myself to the point of physical exertion would make Karen too happy. She gets nervous enough that I run by myself as it is.
I begin walking when I hear a familiar voice speak up from behind me.
“Hey, you.”
As if my heart wasn’t already beating fast enough, I slowly turn around and see Holder staring down at me, smiling, his dimples breaking out in the corners of his mouth. His hair is wet from sweat and it’s obvious he’s been running, too.
I blink twice, half believing this is a mirage brought on by my exhaustion. My instinct is telling me to run and scream, but my body wants to wrap itself around his glistening, sweaty arms.
My body is a damn traitor.
Luckily, I haven’t recovered from the stretch I just completed, so he won’t be able to tell that my erratic breathing pattern is mostly from just seeing him again.
“Hey,” I say back, breathless. I do my best to keep looking at his face but I can’t seem to stop my eyes from dripping below his neck. Instead, I just look down at my feet in order to avoid the fact that he isn’t wearing anything but shorts and running shoes. The way his shorts are hanging off of his hips is reason enough for me to forgive every single negative thing I’ve learned about him today.
“You run?” he asks, leaning his elbow on the mailbox.
I nod. “Usually in the mornings. I forgot how hot it is in the afternoons.” I attempt to look back up at him, lifting my hand over my eyes to shield the sun that’s glowing over his head like a halo.
How ironic.
He reaches out and I flinch before I realize he’s just handing me his bottle of water. The way his lips purse together in an attempt not to smile makes it obvious he can see how nervous I am around him.
“Drink this.” He nudges the half empty bottle at me. “You look exhausted.”
Normally I wouldn’t take water from strangers. I would especially not take water from people I know are bad news, but I’m thirsty. So damn thirsty.
I grab the bottle out of his hands and tilt my head back, downing three huge gulps. I’m dying to drink the rest, but I can’t deplete his supply, too. “Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him. I wipe my hand over my mouth and look behind me at the sidewalk. “Well, I’ve got another mile and a half return, so I better get started.”
“Closer to two and a half,” he says, cutting his eyes to my stomach. He presses his lips to the bottle without wiping the rim off, keeping his eyes trained on me while he tilts his head back and gulps the rest of the water. I can’t help but watch his lips as they cover the opening of the bottle that my lips were just touching. We’re practically kissing.
I shake my head. “Huh?” I’m not sure if he said something out loud or not. I’m a little preoccupied watching the sweat drip down his chest.
“I said it’s more like two and a half. You live over on Conroe, that’s over two miles away. That’s almost a five mile run round trip.” He says it like he’s impressed.
I eye him curiously. “You know what street I live on?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t elaborate. I keep my gaze fixed on his and remain silent, waiting for some sort of explanation.
He can see I’m not satisfied with his “yeah,” so he sighs. “Linden Sky Davis, born September 29th. 1455 Conroe Street. Five feet three inches. Donor.”
I take a step back, suddenly seeing my near-future murder played out in front of my eyes at the hands of my dreamy stalker. I wonder if I should stop shielding my vision from the sun so I can get a better look at him in case I get away? I might need to recount his features to the sketch artist.
“Your ID,” he explains when he sees the mixture of terror and confusion on my face. “You showed me your ID earlier. At the store.”
Somehow, that explanation doesn’t ease my apprehension. “You looked at it for two seconds.”
He shrugs. “I have a good memory.”
“You stalk,” I deadpan.
He laughs. “I stalk? You’re the one standing in front of my house.” He points over his shoulder at the house behind him.
His house? What the hell are the chances?
He straightens up and taps his fingers against the letters on the front of the mailbox.
The Holders.