Page 21 of See You at the Finish Line

Only eight more kilometres to go—or, as my new American running partner keeps correcting me, five miles—until the next water station.

Eight kilometres may feel like a lot to some, but it’s practically the 100-metre Olympic sprint for ultramarathoners. Each segment is one step closer to that finish line, and even a “short” segment feels like an accomplishment.

Since it’s a long stretch between Base Camp and the next aid station, they’ve put water refill barrels in between. It’s incredibly helpful because it’s so hot in the desert. Surprising, I know. So damn hot. We’re mostly hiking this stretch, but the time is flying by. The conversation is flowing between us like a lazy river.

Slow and smooth, relaxing.

I try to remember if I’ve ever felt like this around another person and can’t come up with anyone. If it wasn’t so freaking hot, it would be perfect. I would give anything for that morning chill to have lingered a bit longer.

Maybe Mateo is right. I am a baby.

Thinking of Mateo, I hope he’s doing alright. I knew I wouldn’t see him much during the race, but I haven’t even glimpsed him at any aid station since the first one. I definitely won’t now because I had to backtrack. I’m sure he’s fine.

Caleb on the other hand ... I hope he’s okay. He’s pissed that I ditched him, and I’ll definitely hear about it after the race, but I felt like I didn’t have a choice. Maybe we can catch up and the three of us can run together. Is it bad that I don’t want that to happen? I selfishly want Paige all to myself.

“So, Adam James Ashford from Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Son of Margaret and Thomas Ashford, brother of Liam, Simon, and Isabel. Thirty-year-old physiotherapist, co-ownerof Inca, a grey British shorthair cat who you share with your ex, Harper. Lover of Indian food, ice cream, skiing, the snow—” I cut her rambling off with a laugh.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t tell her about my plans to switch careers or my stint as a professional athlete. I had to cut myself some slack—I just met this woman, and although I’m currently planning out the rest of our lives together in my head, we haven’t reached the deep stuff yet.

Maybe in a few hours I’ll tell her.

“Someone has been paying attention. But two can play that game,” I say to steer the conversation away from myself. “Paige Elizabeth Harrison, and not Paige Turner as you tried to convince me was your last name. Daughter of Emily Montgomery and the late Philip Harrison. Sister to Leah Harrison, soon to be married to Ian Diaz. Born in Salt Lake City, lived in Heber City, now in Moab, living with your sister. Massage therapist to pro athletes, looking for a permanent position with a team. Mug collector of all shapes and sizes, owner of the failed gift attempt Q, a big, brown lump of a—”

“Hey!” Paige interrupts my extensive list. “Q is the best thing that has ever happened to me, don’t you dare call her a lump!”

“I mean it in the most loving way possible, I promise,” I reassure her with a smile.

“It’d better be with love! She knows when someone doesn’t like her and will make it nearly impossible to win her over.”

“Are you anticipating I won’t immediatelyfall in love with your floof?”

“It’s happened before,” she says, her eyes becoming guarded. There’s a story there, but she changes the subject. Looks like both of us have things we’d rather not talk about yet.

She continues, “Oh, I forgot! You’re allergic to seafood, and in the most-vague way possible, you wrecked your knee.” Her eyes flit down to the scar on the front of my leg. Maybe it’s just me and my hopeful thinking, but do her eyes linger on my shorts? My body responds to the possibility, even though I try to stop it.

“You can’t expect me to spill all my secrets right away, can you?”

“A woman can dream,” she says.

I laugh, my heart clenching. Is she dreaming of me?

“Dream away, Paige.”

Her eyes definitely linger as she brings them back up to meet my face. It might be the hot weather, but I think her cheeks are flushed for a totally different reason.

Oh yeah, she looked.

“Not bad for a couple of hours of twenty questions,” she says, clearing her throat.

“I’m pretty sure it’s been more like five hundred questions.”

“Well as long as you’re not getting sick of me—”

I laugh, not even close to being sick of her. “Ask away.”

The Oasis53.56 mi/ 86.2 km

“Hot,” I whine. “Too hot.”

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