Page 7 of Chasing Wild Heart

It landed me here. Running around an unfamiliar neighborhood at a fucking leisurely pace. To avoid further damage to my already delicate foot.

It landed me here. Being an asshole angrier with himself than with a short, sassy runner with a sharp tongue.

One full week has already passed since the meet. Despite my efforts to pay attention to everyone, awkwardness and annoyance continue to fill the gap between me and the team.

“I’m pretty sure being an assistant coach at a liberal arts university was never part of your ultimate dream.”

To be fair, is it anyone’s dream? No, I lost mine during my sophomore year at a North Carolina university that had offered me a full scholarship for running.

One diagnosis from one doctor informing me the common navicular stress fracture I had been treating for a year wasn’thealing properly snowballed into dozens of “second” medical opinions chipping away at my lifelong aspirations.

I had been “one to watch” one minute and “remember that kid from Nebraska” the next. Humiliation didn’t cover everything I felt watching my dream die a slow and painful death.

My mom and sisters encouraged me to return home and mourn what I had lost (my mom’s words, not mine). But I didn’t need to take a gap year to know what I needed to do. My brain automatically switched gears and focused on what had always been plan B: become a physical therapist. I completed my bachelor’s degree in exercise science three years later and then spent the following year traveling with my sisters and my girlfriend, Tara.

“I’m happy with where I am, so kindly fuck off.”

I can’t even remember the last time I had been genuinely happy. I wanted to feelsomethingwhen I remained on the East Coast after the year of travel. When Tara and I moved in together. When I spent another three years for a degree in Doctor of Physical Therapy.

But then I realized I feltnothingall those years thanks to a simple question on an exam application.

Where do you see yourself in five years? My immediate answer: I don’t know.

Would I remain in North Carolina? Would I be married to Tara? Would she be expecting our first kid? Did we have a dog? What the fuck did I want?

When I couldn’t answer any of the questions my mind threw at me, I knew I had to dosomething. Anything.

With my residency search expanded to anywhere in the country, one of my former roommates mentioned an opening at a university’s sports program. My options were limited, but my need for change was greater. Landing a coaching job was a bonus.

But despite doingsomething, I still feelnothing. Except misdirected anger at a certain runner who easily pisses me off with just one look.

Gah!I scowl, slowing my pace a fraction to catch my breath.

Even though I can’t run in a professional capacity, dozens of doctors insisted a few easy miles won’t hurt me. Had I lost the chance to run at all, I’d be a bigger asshole than I am now.

The continuous vibration of my phone against my arm interrupts my self-loathing thoughts. I stop running to check why my three sisters are blowing up our group chat. Dread slowly sinks through my chest, already suspecting the reason.

While my siblings and I definitely have our differences, one super annoying topic unites us. Our parents’ toxic relationship.

“Fuck,” I mutter, scanning through the dozens of texts ending with too many exclamation and question marks.

The biggest news takeaway is everyone owes Genevieve, the second to youngest sibling, fifty bucks for calling how long our dad’s third marriage would last. Not even a year. I figured the latest wife, despite the twenty-year age gap, would try to make it to the first anniversary. I guess not.

The commotion isn’t even about the third wife leaving. Nope, my sisters are up in arms over our dad’s “devastation” and our mom’s sympathetic shoulder for him.

The latest development only increases my frustration and my need for a longer run. But knowing what will soon follow, I cut my run short and head back to my two-story, two-bedroom townhouse.

The first expected call comes through when I shut the front door to my place and start peeling off my sweaty clothes. Gen, the champion of compartmentalization, wants to know how soon she can expect my fifty dollars and shares she’s ignored two (and counting) calls from Mom. We chat for a few minutes before she heads out the door to meet friends for dinner.

I jump in the shower after reading texts from the other two sisters warning Mom is calling “all of her darling children.” I envy Gen’s ability to ignore messages from either parent because I’ve never been able to avoid our mom without feeling immense guilt. Dad, on the other hand, not an issue.

When my mom checks in, I set the speaker on and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Guilt might not allow me to ignore my mom's calls, but it doesn't stop me from tuning out words I've heard a billion times before. I toss in an occasional "hmmm" or another one- to two-word reply whenever she pauses for air.

I swallow a groan after opening the refrigerator door and scanning the contents for anything edible. Nothing. The cabinets offer nothing except a sleeve of saltine crackers.

“Dash?” my mom calls out as I stand helplessly in the middle of the small kitchen. Maybe the food gods will take pity on me and magically stock the shelves behind the closed doors. Or the components for a good sandwich at least.

“Yeah, Mom?” I grab my coat from the couch and head toward the front door.

---