Author: Kristan Higgins

“Oh, hello, boys,” I pant. “I thought that cluster of heterosexuality was you.”

They laugh. “Keep us company, Chas,” Trevor says.

“You’re too slow for me,” I answer. “Did you hear that, Mark? I’m going to kick your ass.”

Mark shoots me a calculating look and takes the bait. “You think you have a chance in hell?” he asks. “That’s fine with me.” He lengthens his stride. “See you, guys.”

“Good luck, Porkchop,” Dad says.

For the next mile, Mark and I stay neck and neck, each of us testing the other. It’s been a while since we ran together, and the competition fuels us both, just like when we were kids. Mark was always the one who took winning most seriously—Jack would let me win, Lucky would run at my side, Matt didn’t like competing, but Mark made it his life mission to be the victor. And I always had a lot to prove—that I was as good as the boys. That I could do what they did. That they didn’t need to look out for me, because I was fine on my own. Better than fine, really. Superior.

“Care to place a little money on this?” I ask my brother, who, damn him, is showing no signs of fatigue.

“What were you thinking?” he asks.

“Finish my upstairs bathroom?” I suggest, trying not to pant.

“Nah,” he says. “A hundred bucks.”

“Done,” I say instantly.

We’re at the seven-mile mark, and the crowds seem to know we need them at this point. Three miles to go, most of it uphill, until we get to the bridge. We round a curve and come to the next challenge.

It’s a hill so steep it’s like climbing a stepladder, and my calves start protesting immediately. There’s a grinding sensation in one knee that wasn’t there the last time I ran in a race. But I can’t slow down, so I dig into the hill with everything I’ve got, keeping pace next to my brother.

“This is where I get off,” Mark says, and just like that, he’s sprinting up the hill. I try to keep up, but he charges up that thing like it’s the Battle of the Bulge. He’s five paces ahead, eight…ten. My step slows. My shins are killing me, my calves sore. The grinding is more pronounced.

“You’re not just gonna sit there and take that, are you?”

Trevor is running beside me. He glances over, grinning. “Come on, Chas, we can catch him. You know Mark. He’s all show. This hill will be his last hurrah.”

With Trev next to me, smiling, I can’t help feeling invigorated…and so bleeping fond of him. Damn it! The man is a prince. We chug solidly up the hill. “Hi, Trevor!” calls a feminine voice, and Trev waves but doesn’t look over. “You doing okay?” he asks.

“Great,” I say. We’re at the top at last. From here, it’s about two miles to the bridge, then just six more blocks to the green.

“Come on, then,” Trevor says. “I can see Mark up ahead.”

The field of runners is considerably thinner here. We’re at the front of the pack…well, in the top quarter, anyway, well behind the true cross-country runners who are probably finishing right this instant. We run along, and I feel my second wind, the runner’s high, the endorphins. Or maybe it’s just Trevor next to me, his hair damp with sweat, face flushed, dark eyes sparkling.

I need to speed up without burning out, to tail Mark to the bridge without letting him know I’m close enough to make a move. But Trevor was right. Flying up the hill was Mark’s mistake, and we close the distance to about thirty yards by the time we reach the bridge.

“Here you go, Chas,” Trevor says. “It’s all yours now. Empty the tank.”

“Thanks, Trev. Couldn’t have done it without you.” I blow him a kiss and do as instructed.

I’m flying now. There’s a slight incline down to the bridge, and by the time I hit the steel grid flooring, I’m flat-out sprinting. When I pass Mark, I don’t say a word, too focused on keeping my stride, on finishing the bridge. I turn onto Ridge Street, taking the corner fast and tight onto the last two blocks of the race. The streets are packed with screaming supporters waving pink flags and cheering madly, and the sight of a flat-out sprinter makes them go a bit nuts. I tear down the last block, cross the finish line, legs rubbery and buckling, and collapse onto the green, heart thundering, lungs burning, happy as all hell.

“You okay?” a race organizer asks, helping me up.

“I had to beat my brother,” I gasp, laughing.

“Good for you,” he says. “Get some water, okay?”

Mark finishes a few seconds later. “Crap,” he gasps, slowing to a walk. “I thought that was you.” He doesn’t look happy, and I know him well enough not to gloat. “Well, shit, congratulations.”

“Thanks, buddy.” We shake hands. Mark slaps my shoulder and goes to get some water without further talking. I catch my breath and stretch my calves and wait for Trevor.

When he crosses the finish line, much more gracefully than I did, he runs right to me and envelops me a big sweaty hug, smelling manly and athletic and somehow of fresh cut grass. “You beat him, of course?” he whispers, making my entire left side tingle.

“Yes, I did,” I whisper back. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Good for you.” He lets me go—oh, it feels so damn lonely!—and takes a long pull from the water bottle the race people give out. “That was a very pretty sight,” he says, wiping his forehead. “You flew over that bridge like you had wings.”

My heart may burst from pride and happiness. “Well,” I say modestly. “It’s a great day for running.” In a flash, I decide to ask him out for a celebratory beer. Just him and me. Maybe the possibility of being with Trevor is not quite as dead as I pretend. Maybe things will shift, and we’ll see that—

“Hi, Trevor.” We both turn. We both freeze.

It’s Hayden Simms, Trevor’s ex-fiancée.

The blood drains out of Trev’s face. “Hayden,” he breathes.

“Hi, Chastity,” she says, her eyes flicking to me. She’s dressed in white jeans and a pink shirt and looks as cool and fresh as a tulip. Her blond hair hangs straight and silky, and she wears several silver rings on various fingers, making her look artsy and cool. Silver bracelets tinkle and slide over her tanned arms. I am suddenly aware that I can smell my own sweat.

“Hi,” I mumble. “Wow. Fancy meeting you here.”

“My mom is walking today,” she explains, tucking some perfect hair behind her tiny ears. “She’s a cancer survivor, so I wanted to come, of course.”

Trevor still hasn’t said anything.

“How’ve you been, Trevor?” Perfect Hayden asks softly.

“It’s good to see you, Hayden,” he murmurs. Then his eyes start with a smile, and the rest of his face follows. A brief flare of hurt fires in my chest.

“Well, I should go,” I blurt. “Um, thanks, Trevor. Again.”

He drags his eyes off Hayden’s blond perfection and looks at me. “Right. Sure, Chas. See you around. Good run.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

No beer. No celebration. No revelation.

Crap.

CHAPTER TEN

BY GRADUATE SCHOOL, I BELIEVED myself to be over Trevor. Time did its work at healing the old broken heart and all that crap. I had a boyfriend or two in college. At Columbia, I was pretty damn popular with the men, being a professional one of the guys type, but I was too busy for anything real. I dated a little…Jeff, a fellow grad student who was wickedly funny and edgy and snagged a job with CNN our second year. Then there was Xavier, who taught chemistry at PS 109. But nothing serious. It wasn’t time. It was New York City, and in Manhattan, marriage isn’t something to think about until you’re forty or so.

In the six years since our brief fling, Trevor and I had gone back to the friendship we’d always had, back to a casual, fond relationship, not quite family, more than just friends. I made it a point not to moon after him, to be cheerful and friendly when he was around. It helped that he transferred out of Binghamton after my freshman year, finishing up at University of Vermont before going on to paramedic school. I spent my junior year in France, and when I came back, the ache wasn’t as noticeable. I was young, I told myself. Everyone had that wistful first love. I’d get over him.

But then one day, while I was in my final year of grad school, working at the New York Times as a fact-checker to make ends meet, Trevor called me. “Chastity,” he said, “I was wondering if we could get together. Maybe have dinner? I’ll come down to the city, what do you say?”

“Sure!” I said. “That would be great!” The flush on my cheeks, the slight tremor in my hands told me exactly what I was thinking.

He’d been dating some girl named Hayden, someone from Binghamton, actually, one of the cashmere sweater-set gang. She lived about twenty minutes outside of Eaton Falls, and sometime after college, she and Trevor started hanging out. I’d met her, even, hung out with the boys and Hayden at Emo’s last summer and been friendly and fun and relaxed as ever, barely even noticing that she was gorgeous, in law school, cool, confident, and seven inches shorter and probably fifty pounds lighter than I was. I thought I’d done a great job not being bothered.

But suddenly…suddenly, Trevor was coming all the way into Manhattan, a good three-hour drive, just to have dinner with me. For the very first time since that wonderful, horrible Columbus Day weekend, Trevor wanted to see me alone. Surely this meant something. He and Perfect Hayden had broken up, right? It had to be. And Trevor was coming down here to tell me that he’d never gotten over me. That now that we were adults (I was twenty-four, he was twenty-seven), shouldn’t we do something about the fact that we were meant to be together? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Chastity, a little voice in my brain warned. Be cool. Aren’t we training to become a journalist? Let’s get the facts first. I didn’t listen. Screw the little voice. I didn’t call home and ask what was new, either. I didn’t even call Elaina. I was afraid that I’d curse my luck if I mentioned that Trevor was coming all the way to the city to see me. That a brother would tag along, or worse, a parent.

In a frenzy, I blew two weeks’ pay at Long Tall Sally’s, the best place in town for us oversize girls, and bought an outfit that said casual, interesting, funky, confident, but not trying too hard. I bought a new pair of bright red high-tops. I got a haircut and a manicure. I interrogated friends and coworkers for the best place to take Trevor, a place that would show him that I was a cool New Yorker, that was comfortable but not sloppy, casual but still charming, an insider’s place.

“McSorley’s?” suggested a coworker.

“Too grimy,” I said.

“Aquavit?” suggested my boss.

“Too stressful.”

“Gotham Bar & Grille?”

“Too trendy.”

In the end, after four days spent researching restaurants, I found it. A tiny Italian restaurant in the Village where the waiters spoke broken English and the food was to die for. I knew Trev would love it. It was quiet, the staff would let us take our time, and it was so, so romantic with its tiny tables overlooking the street, and its brick walls and wood floor. Tony Bennett would play on the stereo. Our knees would bump, we’d stare into each other’s eyes, laugh, kiss. God, I’d missed him! Since the moment I’d hung up, wherever I was—in class, at work, in bed, on the subway—I pictured it over and over. When the little voice inside my head warned me to assume nothing, I told her to shut the f**k up and let me enjoy the moment.

When I finally buzzed Trevor up to my minuscule apartment that I had scoured from floor to ceiling, I was shaking. At last. At last, I would be with him again, because I’d never loved anyone else, that was perfectly clear to me. Not the way I loved Trevor. Never.