Page 35 of Best Friends
I wonder what it would feel like to be here with Malcolm as a couple. To not have to pretend. To just be ourselves. I’m sure we’d get some weird looks, but maybe the good would outweigh the bad. Malcolm would certainly be happier. I know I’m hurting him by denying our relationship.
“Runners, please make your way to the starting line,” someone say over a loud speaker.
We shuffle forward with the crowd. I can smell the mixture of deodorant and nervous sweat. Someone near me is chewing gum loudly. A woman behind us is talking non-stop about her training schedule. The morning sun is getting higher, and I can already feel sweat beading on my forehead.
“Feels good to be outside,” Cheyenne says, bouncing on her toes. Despite being annoyed with me, she’s clearly excited. “Ready to do this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond, trying to sound perkier than I feel.
The starting gun goes off, and we begin moving forward in a slow jog. The crowd spreads out as we leave the town square and head toward the residential streets. The first mile feels okay, mostly because we’re going slow and there’s so much to look at. People are standing on their porches cheering, kids are holding up signs, and volunteers are already positioned at water stations.
But by mile two, I’m starting to feel it. My legs are heavier than they should be, and my breathing is more labored than usual. The lack of sleep is catching up with me, and my empty stomach is starting to cramp.
“You’re breathing pretty hard already,” Cheyenne observes, keeping pace beside me easily.
“I’m fine,” I pant, but I’m not. I’m really not.
Mile three takes us through the older part of town, past the antique shops and the bar where last night Malcolm followed me into the bathroom. The memory of him jerking us off makes me stumble slightly, and Cheyenne grabs my arm.
“Carrick, seriously? Do you need to stop?”
“No,” I say, but my voice cracks. “I’m fine.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
I shake my head, unable to lie about that too.
“Jesus, Carrick.” She sounds exasperated. “You can’t run five miles on an empty stomach. You should have said something. I don’t want you getting yourself sick.”
“I didn’t want to let you down,” I pant, wiping sweat out of my eyes.
She grits her teeth. “Well, I don’t want you to die out of politeness.”
By mile four, I’m struggling. Really struggling. We’re running along the edge of town now, past the fields and farms that stretch toward the horizon. The scenery is beautiful, but I can barely appreciate it. My side is cramping, my legs feel like concrete, and I’m starting to see spots.
“We need to walk for a minute,” Cheyenne says, slowing down and giving me a worried glance.
“No,” I gasp. “I can do this.”
“Carrick, you look like you’re about to pass out.”
She’s right. I feel like I might pass out. The heat is oppressive, and I’m drenched in sweat. My shirt is clinging to me, and I can taste salt on my lips. Every step feels like a monumental effort.
“Come on,” she says, pulling me over to the side of the road. “Drink some water.”
With shaking hands, I lift my water bottle to my lips. I drink half of the tepid water in the bottle. It helps, but it’s not really enough to fully invigorate me. I lean against a fence post, trying to catch my breath, and close my eyes.
“Honey, I think we should call it,” she says softly. “You’re really starting to worry me.”
I open my eyes and look at her. She’s genuinely concerned, and I feel like the worst friend in the world. She cares about me, and I’m lying to her face. She deserves better. “No. I can keep going. I want to finish the race with you.”
Her eyes glitter with worry. “I don’t know, Carrick.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to worry you. Let’s just keep going.”
She studies me, gnawing on her bottom lip. “You sure you’re up to it?” Her expression says she clearly doesn’t think I am.
“Absolutely,” I say, doing my best to look confident. “I’m no quitter, Chey. Besides, Harvey’s Sports sponsored us. I don’t want to let them down. I have to finish the race. I can’t just give up.”
