Page 17 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

She still runs with that same impeccable form—shoulders low and loose, arms moving in an easy, steady rhythm, legs extending but not too far—simultaneously exerting and conserving energy. Her head is high, her back straight. She’s a vision. To watch a seasoned runner of her caliber is like watching artwork in motion.

I’m only about a quarter of a block behind her when my watch beeps again. Time to go back to my faster 5K pace. I have to pass her. There’s no way around it.

Her head turns to the sound of my watch. Our eyes lock. I pick up my pace. She squints at me with a determination that’s all too familiar.

I start to pass her, only to comply with the requirements of my routine. It’s not like we’re actually racing.

Olivia pulls out the stops and picks up her pace. I speed up a little. I need to pass her. She bears down and keeps her lead. I press on, passing her at the next corner and pulling ahead while we’re in the street.

I hear her breath. She’s right behind me to my right, drafting me. She’s keeping up. I’m well aware of the protocol for my training. And I don’t care. I put on a little more gas and pull ahead. Olivia surprises me and matches my effort. She’s still on my heels. I swear I hear her gritting her teeth.

My watch beeps. This is the point where I’m supposed to pour it on for two minutes and run my fastest. I’ve already increased my speed, but now my watch has given me the green light to hold nothing back. I give it my all and start into a full-blown sprint. I hear Olivia right behind me. The distance between us is spreading a bit, but she’s not giving up. She’s still as fierce as ever. She hates losing as much as I do. And she especially hates losing to me.

A small, nearly imperceptible voice that sounds an awful lot like Gil’s whispers something nearly unintelligible about this being an opportunity to relent and let Olivia win for once. But I know Olivia. If I give her the win, we’ll both know it. She’ll resent me even more, if that’s even possible. No. She has to take her own win. I can’t give it to her. So, I keep my speed, running so fast my breath is labored, until my watch beeps again just as I near the park. Time to slow to my nine or ten-minute mile. I drop my pace and Olivia shoots past me, slowing almost immediately and glancing at me over her shoulder.

“What’s your deal, Alexander?” she shouts back to me.

“No deal.”

“Right. Sure.” Her words come out between deep breaths. She’s still running ahead of me.

“I could ask you the same thing. I’m out on my routine run—training. And you show up in my neighborhood …” I inhale and exhale. “Running on a Sunday.”

“I didn’t stalk you, if that’s what you think. I’m onmySunday run.”

She’s not even looking at me now. Her head is forward as she enters the park and heads down the path—the same path designated by my route.

“I didn’t say you were stalking me,” I tell her. “It’s obvious you’re avoiding me. You wouldn’t stalk the man you’re avoiding. I just find it odd that we’re both here.”

“I wasn’t the one running a half-block behind you at a creepy pace.”

She turns her head just long enough to make eye contact, giving me a pointed squint, and returns her eyes to the path again.

“My pace is not my decision,” I try to explain.

“Yeah. Right. So when you turned my run into a race, that was out of your control too?”

“Basically.”

Olivia turns around, running backward and facing me long enough to give me a full eye roll. Then she turns back and starts running forward in silence.

I don’t know what to say. I’m in marketing. I was in Toastmasters for a number of years. I excel at giving speeches, convincing clients of their needs and my ability to meet those needs. I don’t ever experience stage fright. I’m rarely anxious. Most people would say I’m confident. Gil would say I border on arrogant in my worst moments. This woman has the unique capacity and power to render me tongue-tied and speechless. She always has.

My watch beeps. Time to run at a seven-minute mile pace. That’s faster than she’d normally go, I imagine. Though, at her best in college Olivia ran an awe-inspiring 5:45 minute mile. Olivia kept up with our mid-level guys. She blew the rest of the women away—even in college. And we were a D1 school. She’s always been impressive.

I pick up my pace, passing her at first, unable to muster any explanation or excuse. I can only run. I’ve just passed her. I’m back to focusing on my well-calculated routine, and the only way I can describe what happens next is,it’s on.

Forget the watch. Forget my marathon training. Forget the past ten years of maturity. Olivia and I are back in high school, and we’re competing—hard.

She’s good, too. As she always has been.

I’m stretching my legs, maxing out everything I have. This is supposed to be my seven-minute pace. I’m sure I’m at five something. And she’s not relenting—at all. We’re neck and neck. My watch beeps, and I don’t shift gears. I run until we hit the curve in the path, and then it happens.

There’s a frisbee and a labradoodle. No! It’s two labradoodles, and they’re on a mission. The frisbee stops right in front of us, the dogs jump up, vying for it, the same way Olivia and I are vying for some invisible bragging right. The dogs collide midair. I try to stop short, but my momentum propels me forward. I lose sight of Olivia. I’m toppling over a dog, landing with a thud, cushioned by curls and the mass of warm, panting canine beneath me. Olivia lands across my back with an “Oof!” The doodle squirms out from under me and shakes off the whole experience, chasing the other dog, who got away with the frisbee. The owner runs over to the spot where Olivia and I are splayed on the ground.

“I’m so sorry!”

“No worries. I’m fine,” I tell him.

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