Page 78 of Get Me to the Starting Line

Is that ... awe in her voice? My sister, the ultramarathoner, who can smash a 5k in twenty minutes, who thinks training for marathons is fun. She’s struggling.

“Julien runs with Levi a lot,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

“Oh no, you don’t get to downplay this. This is ridiculously hard. It’s resistance training on steroids.”

I look at her to gauge how serious she is, whether she’s placating me. But her face is sweaty and bright red, even in the colder weather. Her brows are furrowed in concentration, and she grimaces when a gust of wind catches the stroller.

“It’s like a sail, holy shit.”

“Shit,” Levi says on cue.

“Yeah, buddy, shit is right,” Paige mumbles, stretching her arms out to push the stroller along.

“I can take the stroller back,” I offer. Is it bad I’m enjoying seeing her struggle?

“No way. Apparently I’ve been lazy with my training. Seriously, Leah, this is hard.”

Ialmost argue, almost make light of how difficult it’s been. Difficult but rewarding.

“I know.”

“I wish you had told me sooner,” she says, “but I understand why you didn’t.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I know you. You’re always taking care of other people and heaven forbid anyone takes care of you. You’re the strongest person I know, and I wouldn’t have the life I’ve always dreamed of without you. But sometimes I think you’re too strong for your own good.”

Her words hit me right in my heart. She does understand. She may not feel the same weight on her, but she gets it.

“Like last year, after your accident, you were the worst patient ever. Insisting on doing everything yourself even after you practically broke half the bones in your body and had an organ removed. You’re lucky I love you so much.” She gives me a look reminiscent of Julien and his smug face.

And that he’s currently being the same pain in the ass patient I was.

I hate it when she’s right. So I do the one thing I can think of—I stick my tongue out.

“Now who sounds like Mom?” She’s always saying it to me, so let’s see how she likes it.

But she doesn’t huff or scoff. She smiles, her eyes soft. “No, Leah, I sound likeyou.”

WhenLeahisatwork, I practise going up and down the stairs. I can almost make it to our apartment. Her apartment. Secretly, I was happy she insisted I stay with her. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

It was an easy transition—she, Levi, and I all meshing together. If she’d let me help out more instead of treating me like I’m also a toddler, it would be a pretty perfect situation. Idyllic.

Almost daily, Leah pokes and prods me and the brace. Her brows furrow in concentration, and it takes everything in me to not brush away the loose strands of hair falling into her face.

It’s taken a lot of restraint not to kiss her again, not to insist she stop avoiding me. Avoiding someone you’re living in close quarters with is an impressive feat. She doesn’t avoid me in the literal sense—we talk and she takes care of Levi and, begrudgingly, I even let her take care of me.

But she’s distant, physically and emotionally. I know she’s been running with Paige three times a week, and I’m jealous, even though it was my idea. I miss our morning runs where the quiet between us was comfortable and not full of this tension.

Thanks to my hip, kissing her has been off the table anyway. There’s no way I’d be able to kiss her again without going further, and my current injury does not allow for that kind of ... activity. Doctor’s orders.

Not that I’d try anything now with the way she avoids eye contact, and when she touches me, it’s either notably scientific or because I need help. She removes herself almost immediately. I need to get out of her apartment, but the elevator in my building still hasn’t been fixed.

I’m going to lose my mind if I can’t get some space from the tension. I don’t even know how to bring it up. I tried once, but Leah insisted she heard Levi, and I didn’t believe it for one second.

Panting and out of breath on the last set of stairs for today, I pick up my buzzing phone.

I answer, seeing Mateo’s name on the screen. “Hey.”

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