Page 40 of Get Me to the Starting Line

“You keep opening your mouth to say something and then you never say it.”

His brow furrows as if hetruly doesn’t understand. “So?”

My hands fly up and then flop to my sides in defeat. “I don’t like not knowing.”

“W-Why do you care what I have to say?” His face still looks like he’s puzzling me out, his thick, dark brows pulled together. I see a small nick I haven’t noticed in the top of his left brow from a scar. I wonder how that happened?

“It’s not just you, it’s anyone who leaves me hanging. It drives me crazy.”

A look passes over his face that I don’t understand. He straightens and sighs, as though he’s the one exasperated with me and not the other way around.

The nerve.

“I’ll have you know—”

He cuts me off. “My situation is different from yours.”

“What?”

“That’s what I was going to say.”

“Okaaaay ...” I draw out, waiting for him to continue.

He runs a hand over his silky curls, which are pulled back into a bun in his usual style. “M-My dad is a lot like me. He’s quiet, reserved.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” How did I go from being angry to reassuring him?

“It’s not,” he agrees. There’s a first time for everything I suppose. “But even though we had the same personality, I always felt a little out of place.” He gestures to himself. “Without my mom in the picture, and being lighter than he is, there was a missing piece of my puzzle. The white side wasn’t there.” He laughs a little at the joke.The sound is gruff, deep. I swallow. “I didn’t like that I was different from him.”

“I can’t pretend I understand—I’m whiter than a piece of paper—but thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not leaving me hanging.”

IwaitanxiouslyforLeah. We haven’t made a schedule or talked outside our runs, but for two weeks now, ever since we went out for dinner and struck some sort of truce, we meet every other morning at the same spot to run together.

The days she doesn’t run are difficult. I’m starting not to enjoy running if she’s not there, to the point where it was hard to drag myself out of bed yesterday.

This woman has transfixed me in a way I’ve never experienced before. She’s so strong, but there’s a vulnerability to her that makes me want to protect her. And her son.

He’s pretty cute and quiet. He hardly ever speaks during the run, but he’s observant, playing and pointing to things. I enjoy his presence—it feels steady when he’s there.

He’s a shield.

When I glance at my watch, I notice she’s a few minutes late. I start to worry. She’s never late.

The rising panic starts in my stomach. What if something happened to her? What if someone has been following her, tracking hermovements? She’s been coming the same way every other day—it wouldn’t be hard.

My gut churns at the thought, at the possibilities. I should’ve told her to switch up her routes. It’s not something I have to worry about, but I know female runners are cognizant of their surroundings and pay attention to stuff like that, changing their routines to keep themselves safe.

However, Leah is a new runner, so she likely wouldn’t know to do that. I should have insisted on making a plan, but I didn’t want to scare her off by bringing up a schedule. I’m spiralling deep into my thoughts when footsteps sound, approaching me.

I spin around to find Leah coming up her usual path in a brisk walk.

Thank fuck.

I stomp over to her. “You’re late.”

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