Page 30 of See You at the Finish Line

That happens sometimes with a runner’s high—it skews reality. I could have blown the whole thing out of proportion. It probably meant more to me than to him anyway. I have a tendency to throw myself all-in without thinking of the consequences. Kind of like moving to Vancouver.

The justifications and explanations swirl in my head, none of them sticking.

Did I take the job in Vancouver hoping I’d run into him? No, definitely not. But I have gone to bed thinking up scenarios where I casually run into him.

Sometimes I’m in my running gear and he sees me on a trail. But that would require me to actually run. So I could be out at a nightclub—like I haven’t gone to bed at 9:00 p.m. every night for the last year—and he sees me dancing with some friends. Maybe he gets jealous of a guy dancing too close to me.

Or my favourite: I’m getting married, and he somehow hears of it, rushing over to my house like the stalker he is to stop me the morning of my wedding. I don’t go with him, of course—I’m in love with my pretend fiancé and would never do that to him. But a woman can dream, can’t she?

Blasting my music louder than my thoughts, I jam out to the best hits of my teenage years, dreaming of the angst that felt so big at the time. When problems were solved by a hug from my mom and my sister letting me borrow her clothes. I stop only a few times on the fifteen-hour drive to use the bathroom and sleep.

The next day on the road I crank up the volume and listen to an audiobook of my favourite spicy romance, making sure my windows are rolled up tight in case I stop next to a van full of kids.

My thoughts drift back to Adam as the hockey romance pours out of the speakers. I don’t know why the male protagonist reminds me of him. Most likely because he’s an idiot. An idiot with an insanely disproportionate cock that he knows how to use.

I sigh as the book plays the delicious part where the couple’s screaming match turns into the most epic sex scene. I do not think of Adam and our kiss in the desert.

“It’s been two years,” I mutter to myself. “Get over it.”

But I can’t get over it. It may have been two years ago, but I still wake up in the middle of the night swearing I can feel his lips on mine.

If I’m not careful, I’ll be the one stalking him.

“Oh my god, what if I actually run into him? Is he going to think I’m stalking him?” I’m fully talking to myself now and worry about my sanity for the fifth time today.

Even if I’m only in Vancouver for three months, it’s a big city. The chances of running into him are slim.

There’s no way I’m seeing Adam Ashford ever again.

“Are you sure aboutthis?” I ask Mateo for the thirtieth time.

“Yes, stop asking me questions and focus on yours,” he says, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

I stare at the cursor on my screen and begin filling out the information.

Name: Adam Ashford

Age: 32

Occupation: sports

Mateo looks over at my computer and snorts.

“What?” I take in the unfinished form.

“Sports? Really? Way to be as vague as possible.”

I shrug. I can’t explain it. I’ve worked my ass off the last two years to get my dream job. Okay, I lied. I can explain it. My dad is, once again, disappointed in me and that has chipped away at the pride I feel in my work. I banish the thought of my overly critical dad. Idon’t know why I still feel like I need his approval. I’m thirty-two for fuck’s sake.

I turn my focus back to my screen.

Likes: running

Dislikes: people who turn out to be shitty friends. People who don’t post on social media, making it hard to stalk them.

Mateo shakes his head, watching me fill out the profile questions.

“Still?” he asks.

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