Page 12 of Loaded

In fact, there were very few things I likedlessthan going outside, tightening the laces on my shiny, new running shoes, and pounding the pavement. But it was a solitary sport—perhaps the most solitary, unless you include swimming where you’re literally underwater the entire time so that you can’t talk.

I liked solitary.

Within a few weeks, the agony in my chest wasn’t quite as acute. The misery of my aching muscles eased,too. A month after Seren forced me to try track, I was actuallyimproving.

At least, it felt like I was.

Until Jake breezed over to join the team as well. Like every single thing he ever tried, he was a true natural. The solitary nature of my runs, the one thing I liked about the activity, disappeared as I was plagued by Jake. . .and his accompanying fan club. It wasn’t surprising, I suppose, that he was followed by at least half a dozen attractive girls everywhere he went, even then. He had the face of a Greek god and the body of a, well, a lean runner. He was also tall, which meant that running next to him made me look even more like a child than I already did.

Running, which I had tolerated because it provided a lot of time for me to think quietly, was now my least favorite part of every day. Physical misery and social torture were all rolled into one. I tried to complain to Jake, but as always, he persisted in misunderstanding my complaints. He yelled at his followers, telling them to leave us alone. They listened, and that worsened the rumors about us, making my non-Jake interactions even more fraught.

After years of those types of things happening, I’ve learned.

My dream guy is basically Jake’s opposite.

Short.

Unattractive.

Socially awkward.

That’s the kind of person who’s likely to accept that I’m small, shy, and quiet without trying to change me. Since I work in a restaurant, which keeps me busy nearly every night of the week, it’s been easy for me to avoid dating anyone like Jake.

Or really, I haven’t been pursued by anyone at all.

Unless you count the sous chef, which I do not. She’s one hundred percent not my type, her gender only one of many reasons I had no interest.

So when Easton asked me out, I was floored.

Why someone like him would be interested in me. . .it makes no sense. My brain rejected the idea before I could even consider it. Our first meeting was disastrous enough, what with the arm-wrestling challenge and Easton’s subsequent embarrassment. I swear, it’s the one consistent theme in my life.

If Jake can cause trouble, he does.

In his defense, I used Jake as a shield at the wedding.

I noticed right after the ceremony that Easton was heading my way. I figured he wanted to somehow smooth over the awkwardness between all of us, but I didn’t want any part of that. There’s no reason for us to see Easton in the future, just because Emerson married his sister. I decided it would be simpler to avoid him entirely. Jake’s always been really good at social situations, so when I mentioned that I’d rather not talk to Easton after the nightmare of the arm wrestling, he stuck by my side for the entire reception.

I had to endure Jake’s gaggles of admirers, but it was fine.

Only now, after spending a bit of time with Easton, I wonder. Was he trying to clear the air? Or could he have been interested in me, even then? What are his intentions?

In the split second I had to respond, all of that shot through my mind, and I decided that none of it mattered. Not really. Easton and I are like hummus and honeydew melon—we may share the same first letter, asin, we have a relation to one another, sort of. But we donotgo together, and we never will.

He’s tall, for one, while I am quite the opposite. If we dated, I’d need a stepstool just to kiss him. He’s also rich as sin, whereas I sometimes check the couch cushions for gas money. Jake loses change more often than most people. But the worst problem is that the media is all over Easton, almost as bad as they are with Jake. If I search ‘hot, young, and rich,’ he’s the third hit. Forbes basically painted a target on his back the second his company went public. Elizabeth said it was his life’s dream, making a billion bucks, and he’s well on his way. But there aren’t many hot, rich men who are single and also not fat.

He’s a unicorn.

A lot of girls want someone just like him, but that’s basically theoppositeof what I want. With money comes eyes. Scrutiny. The loss of any anonymity.

Hard pass.

I have no idea why I toss and turn for so long before I fall asleep after running home, but I finally drift off. And I donotdream of Easton.

I don’t dream of him eating an ice cream cone—that would be odd.

I don’t dream of him swimming, pushing up out of the pool, shoulder and chest muscles rippling.

I don’t dream of him walking beside me on a city street, arms swinging, eyes sparkling.

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