Page 137 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“Let’s go show those hills who’s boss!”

I focus ahead, but then I hear my name being called by a group of people off to the side in the middle of the crowd of spectators.

“Olivia! Olivia! Go!” and then, “Go, Logan!”

I look to my right. Mom, Dad, Logan’s parents, Megan, and Lynette are all jumping around and shouting our names, waving their handmade signs, and cheering.

Tears form in my eyes. I straighten up, and my stride lengthens. I wave at my family and keep running.

We’re silent and focused over the infamous Heartbreak Hill, and when we crest that massive incline, Logan looks over at me and says, “We’ve got six miles to go. Six miles, Olivia.”

He musters a smile. I can’t tell if he’s actually as relaxed and comfortable as he seems, or if he’s feigning the appearance of a man who could run another fifty miles for fun.

“Six miles is our weekend run,” he says. “You’ve got this! And it’s mostly downhill from here.”

We take off for the final six miles past Cleveland Circle, Kenmore Square, and the iconic Citgo sign near Fenway Park. The crowds grow larger and louder as we approach the finish line on Boylston Street.

“One mile!” I shout to Logan. “That sign means one mile!”

My muscles ache. I think I have blisters on every toeandmy heels. My side has a cramp in it that started back on the hills about seven miles ago. I’m exhausted.

One. More. Mile.

Tears start to stream down my face as I recall all the runs Logan and I have taken over the past year to prepare for this race, all the times we drove out here to practice running pieces of the course. I recall the years I ran cross country and track in high school and college. And most of all, for some unknown reason, I think of Logan, how I despised him and avoided him. How my mission was to outrun him in every single event or activity. And now, we’re approaching the finish line together—because he chose us. He gave up needing to win so he could be by my side. His personal best is going down in history today. Because running next to me is Logan Alexander, the man I love with my whole heart, at his best, supporting me.

The finish line comes into sight. We’re running at the pace Logan set for us. Not too fast, but not slow either. There’s not a spot on my body that doesn’t ache, but I’m exhilarated and energized as we push through the pain.

Logan looks over at me.

This is our moment.

We planned this. If I nod at him, we’ll do what we planned.

I nod.

He nods back.

We pick up our pace. I pull from reserves I didn’t know I had.

The crowd roars.

Logan and I press on, our strides matched in a near sprint, until we run over the timing mats, neck and neck, tied, cheering one another over the line.

The large clock displays the time since the starting gun shot. Three hours, forty-two minutes.

I fall to my knees, gasping for air. Logan towers over me, a smile so bright and full I almost forget the exhaustion threatening to pull me under.

A volunteer is at my side in an instant.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” I assure her.

Tears stream down my face as I slowly get to my feet with her help. Logan’s steady hand falls onto my shoulder. The volunteer moves me out of the way of other runners passing through behind us. She presses a water bottle into my trembling hands.

Once we’re up the block from the finish line, another volunteer approaches me and Logan. She’s carrying two ribbons. She loops one over my neck. “Congratulations on finishing the Boston Marathon.”

I grasp the medal and hold on to it, fresh tears falling.

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