Page 42 of Mismatched

Caprice checks her watch as we ease to a walk. Again. “Yeah, seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Pretty sure that’s considered torture in some countries.”

I grimace. “I just have a stitch... I’ll be good in a few minutes.”

She tosses her sleek ponytail, giving me a pointed look. “Is that what you said to get out of your high school PE class?”

“Is it working?”

She ignores me, upping our pace to a power walk, forcing me to wheeze alongside her. “So, you never told me what you decided about the kid thing.”

“Oh... yeah.” I look away, wondering if we can navigate a whole conversation just trading topic changes. “Um, it might happen.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

I swallow, not really prepared to defend my current strategy of if-I-don’t-think-about-it-too-hard-it-won’t-really-happen. “Hey, I think I’m good! Let’s try sprinting the rest of the way!”

Caprice falls in without protest, obviously relieved for the chance to lengthen her stride. Which lasts about fifty more feet before I cry out, crumpling into the grass on the side of the path.

“Ow, sorry. Stitch moved to my other side.”

She sighs, glancing ahead of us. We’re almost back to the parking lot where we started, thank God. “Look, Lyd, I appreciate you doing this for me. It’s kept me from going crazy the past few weeks. But... maybe I’m good to resume running by myself.”

I can’t deny, part of me—my left side, seizing up with cramps currently—is ready to collapse with relief. If I had any aspirations left about my potential as an athlete, they’ve died a miserable death the last three Sundays, right here on this jogging path.

But the deeper, more rational part of me hesitates at her suggestion.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? What about the threats and creepy messages?”

“They’ve kind of... simmered down.” Caprice shrugs. “Maybe those losers finally got bored. Or got a freaking life? I’ve had a few more shitty emails, but mostly the same kind of stuff I was getting before I wrote about Unmatched.”

I peer at her. “That doesn’t sound super encouraging.”

“I told you, par for the course for women journalists.” She rolls her eyes.

“What about the peephole camera? Has that shown anything weird?”

“Other than discovering my across-the-hall neighbor has a serious DoorDash problem? No. But it has made me feel a little safer at home.”

I limp into the parking lot, slumping against the side of my 4Runner while Caprice works through a series of stretches. “Well, I mean, I guess if you feel comfortable. I don’t want to hold you back...”

She smirks, despite a shadow briefly crossing her face. “How about I try it, but I’ll let you know if things feel scary again?”

“Fine. Deal.” I open my liftgate and grab the water I’ve been dying for the last half mile, pressing a hand over my cramping stomach. “Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that third donut before we left.”

“Three?” Caprice says, biting back further commentary when a knot in my gut has me clenching my teeth. “Hey, you okay? Want me to drive you home?”

“No. I’ll be fine,” I say, straightening as the cramp subsides. My friend gazes down the path we just completed around the perimeter of Wash Park. “You want to go around again, don’t you?”

She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “Maybe. At something above sloth pace.”

“As long as you feel safe enough to do it without me,” I say, closing the back of my car. “I’m going home to take a long bath.”

“Think I’ll go for it.” She shifts into an impatient boxer shuffle beside me. “Thanks for coming with me the past few weeks, though. It’s meant a lot.”

“I’ll do it again if you change your mind... just give me a week to forget my agony.” I survey the other people in the park as I open my car door. The paths are comfortably crowded, mostly with other fitness enthusiasts. It’s not like she’s by herself at night. I lean in, forcing her into an awkward, kinetic hug. “I’ll still be tracking your location. You better text me when you get home.”

“Will do,” she says with a grateful, genuinely cheerful smile. “I hope you feel better—maybe lay off the donuts for a week.”

Anton’s out somewhere when I drag myself through the front door, which is just as well. In the ten minutes it took me to drive home, my stomach went from somewhat unhappy, to mildly punishing, and is now shifting into time-to-pay mode. I make a beeline past Heartthrob and shut myself in the bathroom, turning on the hot water in the tub as I peel out of my sweaty clothes. I have yet to learn my lesson about breakfast pastries it seems, but a warm bath sometimes settles things down when I overindulge. And, thank goodness, it helps this time, too.

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