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“Whatever”—En Vogue
“I can’t do this,” I wailed barely fifteen minutes later, slugging behind Row as we jogged on a tree-lined street. My arms dangled by my side like two strings of overcooked pasta. “I quit.”
“Quitting is for quitters.”
“Quitters are my people.” I pounded my chest with my fist. “I’m so much of a quitter, I didn’t even start. Never recorded that podcast, remember?”
Row slowed to match my pace, and I noticed the bastard didn’t even break a sweat. Rain peppered our faces. It was a drizzle, the kind you barely noticed.
“Are you tired or triggered?” The rain accented his delicious scent, and I had to remind myself it was creepy to lean into him. Then again, it wasn’t my fault he was tall, dark, handsome, and so inked he looked like a desk at detention.
“I’m triggered,” I bit out unnecessarily harshly. “Do you really think I’m that out of shape?”
“Tell me why you’re triggered.”
“I keep remembering what made me stop running, having flashbacks of that day.”
The way they fisted dirt from the ground. Dumped it on me, burying me alive.
A tremor rolled down my backbone. I stuck my tongue out to catch some rain, like I used to do when I was a kid. No dice. I normally needed my coffee to kick in before reality did. But this morning, I’d had none. Row knew better than to dig into whatever had triggered me.
“You need to focus on the now,” he said decisively. “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”
“I see it’s raining. Let’s head back.”
“Nice try. I want you to pay attention to your surroundings.” He grabbed my shoulders, anchoring me in place. “Try it.”
A paperboy leisurely rode his bike hands-free, tossing newspapers at doors. The steep road was decorated with green streetlamps and clouds of orange-leafed sweetgums and maples. The roar of waves crashing against rocks nearby reminded my bladder I hadn’t peed before I left the house.
Noticing Row’s unusual outfit, the paperboy followed us with his gaze, bumping into a trash can with his bike and flying onto a soft pillow of leaves.
I winced. “You okay there, bud?”
“Yup. Great. Never better!” he called out, sticking a hand out of the pile of leaves and waving it at us. “Hi, Mr. Casablancas.”
“Hi, nosy little shit.”
“Name’s Bert.”
“Okay, nosy little shit.”
“Hey, you’re the one who chose to look like a Eurovision participant, so don’t be testy.” I poked an elbow into Row’s ribs, mainly to have an excuse to touch him. We slowly returned to jogging. “Speaking of Eurovision, are we ever going to address the fact that Australia partakes in the competition? I mean, it’s a Commonwealth country, but so are Singapore and Trinidad. Where do we draw the line?”
He listened to me talk about Eurovision for a few minutes—I was a big fan—but didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. Soon, we fell into silence, still jogging, and my mind drifted back to that moment in the woods, washing away all other thoughts like a current.
Smug faces framing the sky as they peered from above me.
Sneakers digging into my ribs, kicking me.
“I want to stop.” My voice shattered inside my throat like broken glass, and my eyes burned. “I appreciate you trying to help, but—”
“Why green?” he snapped, desperate to keep the conversation going. To keep me moving.
“Huh?” I sniffled, frowning at him as we continued jogging down the road.
“Why did you change your hair tips to green? What does the color represent?”
Jealousy. Because you dated Allison.
