I take off at a slow pace and make my way toward Central Park.
For the past few days, I’ve tried to stay busy so I could put Liam out of my mind and get over him, but arriving at rehearsal early and staying late has still left me plenty of time to dwell. Hence, resorting to the ancient torture of jogging as further distraction. It doesn’t help matters that things seem to be strained between him and Angel. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen them have tense words. Josh thinks they’re just playing up some relationship drama for the television show, but I’m not so sure. Maybe they’re not as happy as they always seem. Could that be the reason Liam’s turning to me?
I shake my head and chastise myself. See? My instinct is to dwell, and I really need to stop.
In theory, I should be able to cope with seeing Liam every day by suppressing my feelings. In reality, it’s like an alcoholic trying to stay clean by working in a liquor store.
So, now, here I am, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and cursing the idiot who thought this sports bra was even close to being supportive enough.
Would anyone care if I just held my boobs as I ran? Because, seriously. Ow.
The first few blocks are okay. The next few are harder. When I get to the park and merge with all the other early-morning joggers, I see just how out of my depth I am. I’m pretty sure one dude passes me five times. Goddamn overachiever.
After thirty minutes, my lungs are burning. After forty-five, I want to die.
When I can’t take any more, I collapse onto the grass and try to finish off with some ab crunches. Clearly, my technique is lacking, because a teenager comes over and asks me if I need help getting up. Even calls me “ma’am.” Little shit.
I lie back on the grass and huff. Okay, so, this experiment has been mildly successful. Perhaps with more practice, it could actually be a solution.
When I can breathe without it burning, I sit up and look around the park. It’s a beautiful day in New York, and people are taking advantage of the mild weather. I watch as the usual cavalcade passes: tourists clicking photos, joggers and cyclists, dog walkers, stroller-pushing parents. Oh, and the lovers. Let’s not forget them. They’re everywhere, and when you’re single, they seem to triple in number, just to piss you off and make you feel extra alone. They stroll by, smugly hand in hand, or with their arms around each other as they chat and laugh, all the while taunting you with their loving glances and easy touches.
I stare at one particular couple who sits on a nearby bench. As the girl tells a story, the boy strokes her face, her neck, her back. He looks at her like she’s the sun in his universe, and it’s obvious he’s just waiting for her to stop so he can kiss her. The girl looks at him the same way. Her eyes roam over his face as she speaks, and sure enough, when the story’s done, she winds her hands into his hair and pulls him to her. They kiss slowly. Deeply. Oblivious to everything but each other, as if they had all day to kiss like that.
Assholes.
I want that. That open, easy love. I want a man who isn’t already engaged to look at me the way Liam does.
A sharp pang intensifies inside me and I look away.
Sexual frustration is one thing. Relationship frustration is another. Both together make people like me do stupid, desperate things. Things they end up regretting.
To demonstrate my point, I climb to my feet and start to jog again. One foot in front of the other. Over and over again. Until I’m incapable of thinking about anything but my own harsh breathing.
Oh, unholy demons of pain, why? Why do you hate me so?
I hiss as I attempt to grab the stack of company notices that has just slipped out of my hands and fallen to the floor. They scatter everywhere, and I sigh in frustration. There’s no way I can pick them up. Thanks to my overexertions yesterday, I’m unable to bend my legs without squealing. Even sitting on the subway this morning wasn’t an option.
I wonder if Marco would object to me standing for today’s rehearsal. Maybe not, but he would object to me not handing out this important information about costume fittings and tech rehearsals.
Dammit.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, I walk over to the mess of paper and nudge them together with my foot. When I think I have most of them close enough to pick up in one go, I move my legs apart like a giraffe at a watering hole and bend down to try to reach them.
“Come on, arms. Be longer. Just for a few seconds. I swear, I’ll never make you do push-ups again if you make this happen.”
I grit my teeth as I stretch my fingers out and bend a little farther. Oh, God. The agony.