Page 37 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
My body has warmed enough that I unzip my jacket partway, but I’m not ready to end this yet. “Another loop through the neighborhood?”
“Sure.”
We run in silence a little longer before he asks, “How did you get into running?”
My chest warms with the memory. “My mom. She was a cross-country runner in high school. One of my earliest memories is when she took me out with her in a running stroller. When I got old enough, I rode my bike as she ran.”
“Did you eventually run with her?”
“For a little while. She was diagnosed with cancer when I was ten and couldn’t run anymore, at least not the way she wanted. It devastated her. I did cross-country in high school just like she did and even earned a scholarship that paid for a chunk of college. The sweetest part of running is how I feel my mom is with me.”
I’ve said too much. My connection with Mom through running isn’t something I talk to others about. “How about you?”
“Spencer, actually,” he admits. His smile turns into a frown. “He’s older than me by two years, but we started Harvard the same year. He picked up running for easy exercise he could squish in between classes. I followed his example. We trained for the Boston Marathon for a few years, but we never qualified.”
I would never guess seeing them together now that they were once close and attended the same university. Owen attended Harvard? It surprises me almost as much as overhearing last night that he was a lawyer in the family firm before he quit.
I’ve always pictured Owen homegrown like me. Harvard is for the wealthy with connections. For the first time since arriving in Maine, I see him as an Eccleston. Or, at least as part Eccleston. His running jacket is old and frayed at the hem, not like my flashy new one. He’s also the best running companion I’ve ever had, and I can’t say the same for Spencer. He’s all about getting the run done, and doesn’t enjoy the journey.
“I have never paid for a race,” I say. “The thing I love about running is it doesn’t cost me anything.”
That makes me sound poor, and I wish I could take it back.
“I love races,” Owen says. “It gives me something to work toward.”
“Since graduating from college, I love how running isn’t competing against anyone but myself.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “My family could learn from you. All we know is how to push each other down so we come out on top.”
“Rheta isn’t like that,” I say.
He shrugs but says nothing to support or refute my defense of her.
I think about dinner last night and Dorian’s conjecture about Rheta. “Do you think she’s dying?”
We exit the neighborhood and slow to a walk as we head back to the cabin.
“I don’t know,” Owen eventually says. “I haven’t seen her for eight years and she’s frail, but she’s getting over the flu and also eighty-one. For my mom’s sake, I hope it’s not something terminal. They’re finally getting the chance to have a relationship after so many years.” He looks toward the horizon. “I think my uncle and Spencer will sue Grandmother for control of her estate. If she is dying, it’s unfortunate her last months will be spent in legal proceedings with her family.”
“I agree.”
I like Rheta, and she planned this week to have time to spend with her family. It doesn’t seem she’ll get that if Spencer, Dorian, Gerald, and Ellory spend it working. So much sadder if they’re secretly plotting behind her back.
We reach the stairs to the front door but both stop at the bottom. Is he as hesitant to end our morning as I am? I loved running with him. I loved our conversation. I love how easy we are together, like we’ve known each other for months and not days.
All terrible things. I jog up the stairs. “Thanks for the run, Owen.”
“Layla, wait.”
I turn. “Yeah?”
He fidgets with the zipper of his running jacket. “I knowbeing here together this week might be awkward, but I hope we can still be friends.”
My heart grows two sizes at the pleasure his words give me. Friends hang out together. They don’t feel the need to avoid each other. Sending cocoa to a shivering friend is acceptable behavior. As is complimenting their eyes. They can go on morning runs and not feel guilty for enjoying the time spent together. By sticking Owen in the same box as Livy and Meg, I erase all my conflicting emotions about spending the week with the two cousins in the same house. Owen equals friend. Spencer equals boyfriend-slash-secret fiancé. Part of me thinks they should swap places, but that part of me is stupid.
Friendship with Owen equals perfection.
“I’d like that too. If you’re up for it, we should go running again tomorrow.”
