Page 135 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

He said he’d rather prioritize supporting me over achieving his personal record. Sacrifice has become a constant in our relationship—and not just on Logan’s part. We both bend when needed if it means helping the other person shine. We’ve come a long way from the rivals we once were. Not that we don’t still compete. We wouldn’t be us if we didn’t challenge one another from time to time. And we always race those last few blocks back to The Serendipity on our morning runs.

“Are you nervous?” Logan asks me.

I glance around the rooftop at the greenery one of the tenants, Sophie, tends up here. The rows of raised beds full of flowers and vining plants feel like an extension of her sunshiny personality. Nothing looks perfectly matched or overly cultivated. Instead, there’s a natural beauty that comes from the blending of all the plants she’s chosen. You might even say the ambiance is magical.

“I’m not exactly nervous. We’ve prepared all year. I know about Heartbreak Hill. I’m mentally taking myself through the racecourse, slowing my initial pace for those first four downhill miles. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I think so too. And I’ll be right with you all the way.” Logan’s eyes are soft and gentle.

“You don’t have to be. Here’s your last chance to go with the first wave of runners. You don’t have to start in corral three with me and the other second wave qualifiers.”

“What if I want that extra twenty minutes to sleep in?” he winks at me.

“Far be it from me to come between you and your sleep schedule.”

Logan takes my hand in his. “Nothing would keep me from running with you on your first marathon. I want to cross the finish line together.”

“Thank you.”

He lifts our enjoined hands and kisses my wrist. Then he plants kisses up my forearm.

His eyes peer up at me, a roguish grin on his face. Goosebumps raise as the bristle on his jawline gently scrapes the delicate skin on my arm. He plants one more soft kiss on my wrist and I shiver.

“I love you, Olivia.” Logan’s voice is soft and serious.

He intertwines our fingers and runs his thumb across my knuckles.

“I love you, too,” I answer him quietly, the depth of what I feel for him filling every empty space in my heart, as if he was always meant to be mine.

He tells me daily, multiple times a day, and it never gets old hearing how he loves me.

We dig into our pasta. Rhett lays at our feet, sleeping. He’s uncharacteristically calm.

After our carefully curated dinner, Logan clears the dishes, and we walk downstairs. As I pass one of the vines, a flower blooms right before my eyes. I pause.

“Did you see that?” I ask Logan.

“The flower?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s one of those ones that blooms when people pass by.”

“I think that’s supposed to happen when the sun comes out or goes down.”

“Maybe your shadow tricked it into thinking it was sunset.”

“Maybe. But wouldn’t that cause it to shrivel, not bloom?”

“Unless it’s a night bloom.”

“Huh. Yeah. Maybe.”

An hour later, I’m throwing my travel duffel into Logan’s trunk. We take off for Boston an hour before sunset. I spend the drive repeatedly visualizing the racecourse. Logan and I have taken regular trips to Boston over the past year, practicing different legs of the run so I wouldn’t be running blind. We drink a ton of water and electrolytes as we make our way to Boston. I have to stop twice on our short drive to run into a gas station to use the restroom.

We arrive at our hotel a few hours later. Logan and I take a short, relaxing walk, and then he kisses me goodnight in front of my room. Before I fall asleep, I lay out my race outfit, attaching my bib to my shirt, and checking all my gear and energy supplements for tomorrow’s big run.

The next morning, we board a runners’ shuttle in Copley Square to get to Hopkinton and the start of the race. Logan respects my need for quiet. I have on noise-cancelling headphones, and I’m breathing through the nerves that sprung up as soon as I woke this morning. His hand is on my knee, an anchor to my unsteadiness.

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