The Running Dream (29 page)

Much harder.

Okay
, I tell myself,
see what you can do
.

“Let’s go,” I tell Sherlock, and he falls into step beside me as I push the wheelchair along the streets of our usual route toward Aggery Bridge.

It’s late August, so although it’s only six o’clock, the sun is already up, and the air is warming. Even before the one-mile mark I’m sweating and panting hard. My arms are straining. My legs can feel the burn. Any uphill, no matter how slight, feels ten times harder than it usually does, and it’s becoming clear that I’m not going to be able to do this for the full five miles of my loop.

A little farther
, I tell myself.
Then you can turn around
.

I coax myself forward with milestones:

Just to the end of the block
.

Just to the stop sign
.

Just to the next bend
.

My arms are tired of holding the handles.

I want to let go.

I want to stop.

But I press on.

Just to the next intersection
.

Just to the moving van
.

Just to the top of the rise
.

I feel a hot spot forming on my stump—a warning sign Hank has told me I should pay close attention to.

Blisters, he says, can set me back weeks.

“Jessica!”

I’m hearing my name, but I’m not.

“Jessica! Hey!”

I slow, then stop and turn to face the sound.

A man is waving at me from across the street.

He’s tan. Lean. Handsome.

He’s wearing running shorts. A sweat-drenched T-shirt.
And as he crosses over, I’m thinking,
It can’t be him
, but then there it is—chin scruff.

“Gavin?” I’m suddenly aware how odd it is to be running with a load of potting soil in a wheelchair.

He laughs. “What are you doing?”

“Uh …” I follow his gaze to the wheelchair. “Hard to explain.”

He doesn’t press. “Okay … well, you want some company? I could run with you.”

“Uh … actually, I was getting ready to turn around. I usually do a loop, but I’m not going to make five miles pushing this thing. I’m already wiped out.”

“So I’ll run back with you.”

I turn the wheelchair around. “Don’t feel like you have to watch over the crazy girl pushing a load of potting soil. I’ll be fine.”

And then, out of the blue, he asks, “Do I bug you, or what?”

My head snaps to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“You always seem like you’re trying to get away from me.”

“I
do
?”

“Yeah. I’ll think that we’re having a good time and then you’ll practically ditch me.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what?”

I start jogging, and he stays right beside me, a heavy silence between us. Finally I say, “Look. You’ve been really nice, and really helpful, but I don’t want you to do things for me or pay attention to me because you feel sorry for me.”

He’s quiet a minute. “Is that what you think?”

“Kinda, yeah.” And I want to add, I also think you’ve got a secret crush on Fiona, but I’m already feeling bad for what I
did
say. “Look,” I finally say. “I’m sorry. I—”

“I made that mistake once, okay? I sure wouldn’t do it again.”

“You made—” I glance at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Does the name Merryl ring a bell?”

We run along in silence for a bit. “Are you saying …”

“We broke up.” He shakes his head. “It was just a mistake. She was a mess at Lucy’s funeral, and I got caught up in feeling sorry for her. But it was a terrible reason to go out with her.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say softly, because really, I don’t know what else to say.

“And of course I felt sorry for you, but …” He stops running. “Didn’t you read what I wrote on your running leg? Does it say,
I feel sorry for you
? No! It says,
You inspire me
. I want to be around you because you inspire me! You’re amazing. I think you’re the most …”

I stop running, and I look at him.

His hair is pressed off his forehead and sticking out at the sides. His T-shirt is still soaked, and he’s covered in sweat.

He is gorgeous.

“… incredible person …”

And I
did
read what he wrote on my running leg. I read it over and over and over.

“… I have ever known.”

He’s looking at me, too, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at my hair, which is surely a mess, or thinking about the sweat I’m covered in.

He’s just looking into my eyes.

“So what are you saying?” I ask meekly.

He looks at me a few moments longer, then answers with a long, salty kiss.

S
HERLOCK BARKS
, howls, and spins in a circle.

I pull away and laugh, then tell Gavin, “He’s saying, ‘You kissed a one-legged girl who’s pushing around a wheelchair with potting soil in it!’ ”

He looks at Sherlock. “And she kissed me back!” He turns to me, and he’s smiling. Really smiling. “So … does this mean you don’t think I’m annoying?”

I shake my head, and as we start walking toward my house, I let him push the wheelchair and tell him, “I’ve actually been trying hard
not
to like you. Besides, I was sure you had a thing for Fiona.”

“For Fiona?” He lets that sink in. “No wonder you were always ditching me.”

So we talk and catch up and confess all sorts of silly things, and when we’re on my street, he says, “So is this wheelchair thing to build up your strength? Running with this would not be easy.”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess so.” I shake my head a little. “I just had this idea, but now I don’t think it’ll work.”

“So what’s the idea?”

And in that moment I decide to tell him. “You know Rosa, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, she lives around the corner from me. On Marigold?”

“Okay …”

“It’s a long story, but she sits out on her porch in the mornings and sees me run by. I go back and talk to her and … well, she asks me about running a lot. Why I do it, what it feels like … and she has this thing about the finish line.”

“About the finish line? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly, but she’s very philosophical about it. I think she sees it as this amazing moment … one she’ll never experience.”

He raises an eyebrow at the wheelchair. “So you’re … You want to get her over a finish line?”

“I don’t know. First I thought about just taking her on my loop … but then the idea grew into maybe I could do the River Run with her in November. Kyro had the team volunteer last year during cross-country—we handed out cups of Gatorade and water at the mile stations—and there were wheelchair racers and lots of people running for causes.” I shrug. “I thought it would be the perfect run for Rosa.”

“That’s a ten-mile run,” he says quietly.

“I know. But it’s the only one around here.” I frown. “But after today I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it.” I eye the wheelchair. “That’s
maybe
twenty-five pounds? Rosa’s small, but she’s got to weigh close to a hundred.” I shake my head. “I didn’t even make it two miles.”

“But this was your first try?” When I nod, he adds, “And look at this wheelchair. It’s a toy compared to some of the ones I’ve seen. Maybe if you had a chair with bigger wheels. One that was designed for racing?”

We’re standing at my walkway now. I love the serious look on his face; how he’s trying to find ways to make this work.

“And how long have you been running again? A month?”

“Not quite.”

“See? Like you’ve even had a chance to build up your own strength?”

I think about this a moment. “So don’t throw in the towel?”

“Give it a chance.” He thinks, too, then asks, “Does she know about this?”

“Rosa? No. I haven’t told anyone. I wanted to see if it was even possible.”

He smiles and reaches out for my hand. “So you want to try again tomorrow? I’ll meet you here at, what, six?”

“Are you serious?”

He pulls me in closer. “Sure.”

I laugh and I smile and I look into his eyes and see my little idea blooming inside him. Suddenly I feel stronger.

Like maybe this isn’t so crazy.

In this moment,
anything
seems possible.

A
FTER
G
AVIN LEAVES
, I run inside to call Fiona, but there’s a slight problem:

My dad has seen everything.

He doesn’t
say
this exactly, but from the arch of his eyebrow and his position in the family room, I know he has.

I face him, wondering how to explain.

The boy … the wheelchair … the potting soil … there’s a lot to explain!

But I’m feeling really
happy
, and what’s to hide?

So I sit down and start.

First with the boy.

“His name’s Gavin Vance. He’s the one who wrote that newspaper article about me. I’ve had a crush on him for ages.”

This is received with a single nod.

One of cautionary approval.

And then, being in a heady, sharing sort of mood, I explain the wheelchair, the potting soil, and Rosa, like it’s all perfectly normal.

There’s no nod for this part, just a knit brow and a dubious frown.

Mom enters the room and asks what’s going on, and after Dad and I exchange looks, I explain everything all over again.

The part about Rosa and the River Run doesn’t actually sink in because she’s completely fixated on Gavin.

“So … is he your
boyfriend
?”

“I don’t know.” I give a little laugh and a shrug. “But we have a date to go running with a wheelchair and potting soil tomorrow at six.”

“
AM
?” she asks.

I grin. “Yup.”

“Does that count as a date?”

I shrug. “Does to me!”

She looks to Dad for his opinion, but Dad’s been thinking about something else.

The wheelchair.

“I don’t want to say you’ll never make it ten miles with your friend in that wheelchair, but it’ll be slightly less impossible if you let me put some better wheels on it. And I’m sure she’d appreciate a more comfortable seat.”

“Huh?” My brain shifts from Gavin to the River Run. “Really? That would be great!”

He nods. “Let me talk to Ed at the Bike Barn—get his advice. I’ll be out that way on a job this morning.”

I go over and hug him. “You are the best!” I pull back and look at him. “I don’t tell you that enough, do I?” I hug him again. Tight. “You are the
best.
”

“Well,” he says, and he’s smiling, “I like the mood this Gavin fella has put you in, that’s for sure.” He kisses me on the temple and says, “Now I’d better get to work.”

Mom walks him out, and before she can return to cross-examine me, I’ve escaped to my room with my cell phone. News like this can’t wait for a “reasonable hour.”

I’ve got to talk to Fiona!

T
HE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER BREAK
are some of the best of my life. Gavin runs with Sherlock and me in the mornings, and then Fiona, Mario, Gavin, and I spend time together when we can—at the park, or in Old Town, or just hanging out at a coffee shop, talking and laughing about nothing and everything.