Page 26 of Black Roses

I’ve never before felt such exhilaration crossing a finish line. Was it Mason? Was it not letting my fears consume me?

When I saw that face in the crowd, every horrible nightmare I’ve ever had came flooding back to me. Until that moment I could almost pretend the faces in my dreams weren’t real. That they were figments of my imagination. But now I know for sure—those faces belong to actual people. Those monsters do exist. And every fear I’ve had over returning home has just been validated. Even in Boston, camouflaged by thousands of runners, I can’t hide from them.

But as panic pulled me under, to depths I’d never experienced before, Mason appeared before me, possibly giving up his one shot at finishing the Boston Marathon, doing the one thing he’s proven to be good at time and time again. He protected me.

He protected me from one of the guys in my nightmares. Protected me from the unwanted attention from the paramedics. Protected me from certain self-destruction. Only one other person has ever been able to comfort me the way he does and she is thousands of miles away. It’s one of the reasons I don’t like leaving her side.

It’s one of the reasons I’m starting to like being by his.

I’m reeling when Mason comes up next to me, walking alongside me as we cool down from the grueling race. “Nicely done,” he says, a smile cracking his sweaty, captivating face.

Still bathing in excitement and adrenaline, I jump at him, wrapping my arms around his neck in an uncharacteristic hug. “We did, it!” I squeal, breathlessly.

“You bet your ass we did.”

We’re both dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and we really should be walking around to keep loose. But this embrace is like no other, knocking whatever wind I had left right out of me, rendering me incapable of voluntary movement. His large hands grip me, one spanning my lower back, the other between my shoulder blades. I don’t know if it’s the excitement of the race or the unadulterated fear from seeing the face of one of my assailants in the crowd, but in this moment, I don’t ever want him to let me go.

I’ve never felt so safe before. An absurd realization considering we’re standing among thousands of strangers. The way his arms envelop me, gluing me to his much taller, broader body, makes me feel both protected and wanted at the same time. No, not wanted—needed. Because the way he’s holding me right now, it’s like he needs me as much as I need him, making me wonder what he could possibly need that he doesn’t already have, or couldn’t get at the drop of a hat.

As I peek around him and watch more people cross the finish line, it dawns on me that he came up from behind me after the race. I pull away and draw my brows at him. “You didn’t have to let me win, you know. You helped me enough. I don’t need your pity, too.”

He laughs, mumbling something about ‘Mr. Hyde.’ Then, shaking his head at me, he says, “I didn’t let you win, Princess, I got a cramp. It still hurts like a bitch.” He leans over to massage his calf. Then he grabs my elbow, pulling me along. “Come on, let’s keep walking or we’ll wind up stiff as a board.”

We walk around, being herded off of Copley Square with the other finishers, off to massive tents with EMTs, massage stations, ice baths and endless tables of electrolyte drinks and carbohydrate snacks. We follow a path around the square, adding almost another mile to the distance we’ve already covered, but I know if we don’t do it, we’ll pay dearly later.

As my breathing regulates and I start to come down from the high, I find it hard not to look around at the hordes of runners, officials and bystanders without feeling anxiety creep back up. Instinctively, my right hand grasps my left wrist in search of the one thing that calms me.

Panic strikes. My hand fumbles around my arm, searching frantically for the little straps of leather—my fingers needing to mindlessly trace the outline of the flower that has come to define me. But it’s not there. Instantly, my pulse shoots up when I realize it must have broken free from my wrist when I fell.

I look down at the abrasions lining the arm that broke my fall. “Oh my God. No no no no no.” I couldn’t have lost it. Not that. Tears sting the backs of my eyes and threaten to fall at the thought of it. I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion from the race, or the face in the crowd, but for the first time in a long time, my throat tightens and I feel I may do something I haven’t done since April 25th—exactly five years ago this Saturday—cry.

I turn around ready to sprint back to the spot of my fall when Mason grabs my arm, softly restraining me.

“I have to go!” I yell, trying to break free of him.

“Piper.” His grip is firm, yet gentle, as he keeps me from leaving. “It’s okay—look.” With his other hand, he unzips the small pocket of his shorts; the one meant for carrying identification or a car key. He pulls out my bracelet and holds it out to me.

How did he even know that’s what I was looking for? “What? How?”

“It must have come loose when you fell.” He examines it. “It doesn’t look any worse for wear. Here, let me tie it back on for you.”

I hold out my arm, studying him as he carefully places it around my wrist. Sweat has darkened his hair, lengthening it so it touches his eyebrows. His blue irises become darker, reflecting the midday sky, focusing on the task as he struggles to tie the small bands of leather with his large fingers. The intoxicating pulses that result from his touch rouse something deep inside me. I stand here, exhausted from running, terrified of the monster I saw among the crowd, arms and legs scraped up and stinging from my sweaty skin, yet all I can think about is the man who is touching me.

He smiles. I wonder if he’s feeling exactly the same thing. The way he glances up and holds my stare confirms my suspicions.

When he finishes securing my bracelet, he examines my scraped up arm and knees. “Come on, let’s finish our cool down and get you to medical. Then we’ll find Griffin and your mom.”

I almost forgot about them. Since the race is on a Monday, not everyone could spare an entire day to come see us run. I didn’t want my sisters lugging their tiny babies hours away just for a brief glimpse at me when I jogged by. But my mother insisted on coming, once again confirming her support in every choice I make.

Hours later, after replenishing our food and water stores, we say goodbye to Mom and Griffin as they head back to New York.

Most of the runners who aren’t local, choose to stay overnight to stave off the stiffness that would result in a long car ride home. Mason was generous enough to get me my own room and last night he even had room service prepare me a huge plate of pasta so I could carb-load before the race. He didn’t offer to join me. In fact, he didn’t contact me at all before the race. We even came separately; me on the train and he in his car.

I thought for sure I’d scared him away after my behavior at the benefit. Not to mention the parting words I left him with. But his touch today told me a different story. And for the life of me, I’m not sure why he wants to waste his time on someone like me.

I told Mason I wanted to turn in early. But I can’t relax and my muscles ache and burn, so I go for a walk to keep loose. The sun is just starting to set over the tall downtown buildings when I emerge from the hotel. Metropolitan Boston is much like New York except everyone doesn’t seem to be in as much of a hurry. People stroll leisurely down the sidewalks that seem quiet and not overcrowded with buskers.

I stop and purchase a hot dog from a street vendor. As I eat, I pass by the Charles Playhouse, a place my mom used to bring me once a year to see smaller off-Broadway productions. Seeing the posters of upcoming shows causes me to lose my appetite. I throw the remains of my dinner into a trash bin and try not to feel sorry for myself. I reason that it’s better this way. If my name was up in lights or plastered in playbills on graffiti walls, it could make me a target. A victim. And that’s one thing I don’t intend on being ever again.

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