Page 6 of Smut

Keep going.

This is hell.

I’m literally going to die.

Why am I doing this to myself?

Can I stop now?

I’m going to stop.

And I often do stop and try and catch my breath until some other jogger blasts past me and then my ultra-competitiveness kicks in and I end up running after them. Sometimes I can’t catch up but at least it gets my legs moving again. Other times I run past them with a nonchalant look on my face, ponytail swinging behind me like running is super fun, super cool, totally no big deal for this girl, only to collapse around the corner in a heaving mess minutes later.

But somehow I keep doing it, every day. At first I started running because it was the only way I could shake out my frustration. I tried taking kickboxing classes, but they kept conflicting with my class schedule and I accidently punched my instructor in the face, so that was a sign to move on. Running seems to be a better fit. I can go at my own pace, pick my times, and best of all for my inner hermit, I don’t have to see or talk to anyone. It’s just me and the ground beneath my feet. Well, and my stupid brain that constantly reminds me what hell running is.

And even though it clears my head—believe me, I’ve done a lot of thinking ever since Alan and I broke up—it just never seems to get easier. I’m waiting for that moment where it’s painless, easy, and fun, and that just hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it never will. Maybe that’s why people run. They’re chasing something they’ll never get, the dangling carrot of promises that all hard things eventually get easy.

Today’s run isn’t easy, but at least it’s beautiful. It’s early March, and chartreuse buds are just starting to make their appearance on the tips of barren limbs. The ocean, slate grey and churning, foams against the rocky shoreline. In the far distance, Washington’s Olympic Peninsula is hidden, shrouded by low, dense clouds that like to sit in Haro Strait between the two countries like some sort of tribunal council. It’s still cold and damp, and the sun can barely penetrate the cloud cover, but I know in a few months, hell even a few weeks, our daylight hours will be long, the air will turn warm, and my usual jogging path along Oak Bay will start to swarm with the elderly out for their daily walk or happy couples making out on park benches. Hopefully by then I’ll be able to handle couples, or just happy people in general.

After I turned down Alan’s proposal, puked on him, and made a general mess of things, we both decided we couldn’t work it out. Alan was beyond humiliated, changing from the easygoing boy I loved to a stranger who hated the sight of my face. I hadn’t been quite prepared for the split in his personality, especially as I only saw the nice guy over the last four years. I guess he’d been hoarding a whole lot of negative emotion toward me, and it all started coming out. Like vomit. But meaner and less gross.

(I promise I’ll stop talking about puke, it’s just so fitting right now.)

I can’t blame him for being angry with me, because I was angry with myself. If only I’d confronted those feelings, the whole thing could have been avoided. But he was my first real relationship, my first love, the guy I lost my virginity to, all those big things, and I thought the feeling of boredom and complacency was normal. What I didn’t think was that we would be in a pressure cooker. Even though we’d been together for so long, I was still in university for two more years, and we were young. I mean, Alan still had four years of dental school left. I really didn’t think marriage was on his radar.

Of course there were all the clues. Asking about ring sizes and where we’d go on our honeymoon and how many children I wanted. Okay, so they weren’t even clues, more like obvious signs that he was going to ask me. But I skirted around those questions and laughed them off, and well, no one is laughing now.

Naturally, after I publicly rejected him, I had to move out of the apartment we were sharing. But instead of moving back home like my parents wanted me to, I decided to find a roommate and get the hell out of Dodge.

It was the right choice. Not only is my current place super close to the University of Victoria, it has put some much needed distance between me and my parents (you can only hear about what a horrible choice you’ve made so many times). And I have a pretty awesome roommate.

Okay, maybe awesome isn’t the right word. But she provides me with distraction and entertainment, and half the shit she says is slowly ending up in my novel in the guise of a hilarious sidekick.

When I first saw the ad for a female roommate on Craigslist, I somehow assumed that it would be another U-Vic student. The location was in Oak Bay, it was a two-bedroom basement suite…I assumed it was another twenty-something needing a roommate to save a buck. But Ana Vainola ended up being a forty-four-year-old Estonian woman who was as tall as an Amazonian with fake boobs that could poke your eyes out, Juvéderm-filled lips, a tan that looked like she was doused in Orange Crush even under the best light, and the loudest, rapid-fire laugh I’d ever heard. She was also a recent divorcée, and even though we’re two decades apart and were raised in two totally different worlds, our transition from “taken” to the single life made us bond like nothing else. I’ve only been with her a few months, and even though she uses me as a guinea pig every night while she practices makeup for her beauty schooling, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

I suppose I could live by myself, but the thing is, even though I’ve been a self-proclaimed hermit my whole life, being alone right now scares me. Living with Ana lets me concentrate on my studies and my novel, yet whenever I need a break and a chance to escape from my head, she’s right there, ready for a laugh or a lecture on how to prepare for the apocalypse.

At the moment though, she’s at her beauty school and I have to shower and change and get ready for my writing class. When she’s not here, I can usually get out the door in ten minutes. If she’s here, I usually end up being sucked into a random conversation about pickles or rifles or uncircumcised penises (all of which came up over breakfast this morning).

When I’m done in the shower, I pull on some leggings, a long grey sweater that covers my ass (which hasn’t shrunk from my running like I thought it would), and slick on just enough makeup to say I tried, then pull my wet hair back into a bun, put on my glasses, and head out the door.

I have a car, a Mini Cooper (a high school graduation present from my parents), and though I don’t drive to school often because I feel like a douche, today I’m running late so I’m zipping over, hoping I’ll be able to find a parking spot near the classroom. That’s one of the reasons I don’t drive—the time it takes to find a spot is about the same amount of time to take the bus, plus on the bus you’re staying green, and it’s a great excuse to listen to music and people watch. I think most of my best characters have come from dealing with Victoria’s public transportation system.

Thankfully, I find a parking spot right by the building. My teacher, Professor Marie Dumas, may be carefree and encouraging and all sorts of weird (which I personally love), but she’s a stickler for tardiness and academic excellence. When you’re late, or you half-ass an assignment, she takes it personally. I’ve seen her tear up over giving a low grade before. But Writing Fiction 200 is one of my favorite classes and I give it everything I’ve got. After all, the writing program is my future, and a way to still get an education and my parents off my back while doing what I love. It’s like a piggy bank for my dreams, ensuring that no matter what happens in my future, I’ll always have this to back me up. It’s a reminder that I’ve fought to stay true to myself, even if my life doesn’t go to plan.

After I park and run into the building, I pass my classmate Ali on the stairs, though she’s running away from class instead of going to it.

“Where are you going?” I ask her.

She pauses on the stairwell and gives me a sharp look under her razor-cut bangs. “I’m not feeling well,” she says, even though she sounds more pissed off than sick.

I watch her go and then shrug to myself before reaching the top of the stairs. My friend Rio is hanging outside the door to class texting someone, leaning against the wall and twirling her curly dark hair around her finger like someone out of a John Hughes film.

“Thought you weren’t going to show,” she says as I approach, snapping her gum between her teeth. “I just texted you.”

I pull my phone out of my suede saddle bag and glance at the text blazing on it.

Where you at? We’re getting our final assignment today. Also, I lost my bra last night so I’m wearing Saran Wrap instead.

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