Page 25 of The Comeback Summer

“It’s not fair I have to do this,” I say, dangerously close to whining.

“Hey, I’m doing a challenge, too,” Hannah says, picking up the pace.

“Yeah, but yours was based on the answers of your quiz.”

Hannah gives me a questioning look. “Yours was, too.”

I scoff, then say, “Lou took one look at me and knew she was going to make me work out.”

“On your left!” a biker calls out as he speeds by, barelymissing me. My heart literally seizes—watch me croak out here because an ambulance can’t get to me on the path.

“Libs,” Hannah says, steering me back into the walking lane. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t understand—people don’t judge you at first sight.”

“People judge me all the time,” Hannah says, pulling my elbow harder. “I’m awkward and weird and you know it. Plus, this isn’t a weight thing.”

“Everything’s a weight thing,” I tell her, even though it’s wasting precious oxygen. My sister has been thin and pretty her whole life; she can walk into any clothing store and know they’ll have her size. Her body is not the first thing people notice about her, and she’s never had to worry about people judging her based on one quick look.

Me, on the other hand? I’m either invisible or gawked at.

“Libby,” she says again. “Look at me.”

I stop and look at my sister, even though we’re standing smack in the middle of the running path. As people fly by us, I hear whispers in their quick, measured breaths and the rhythm of their sneakers hitting the pavement.

“This isn’t about the way you look,” Hannah says. “Which is beautiful, by the way. It’s about stepping outside of your comfort zone, and you’ve got to admit, we’re”—she glances down at her watch—“about three-quarters of a mile past your comfort zone.”

“We haven’t even gone a whole mile yet?” I ask, my breathing getting shallower.

“Come on,” Hannah says, nudging my shoulder to get moving. “Let’s talk about something fun to distract ourselves. Thecase I was listening to this morning onMurder on the Mindhad a decapitated victim—”

“No murder,” I say, interrupting her.

“Suit yourself. But it was really gory and good.”

My sister gives me a sinister smile and I wonder—not for the first time—how in the world we came from the same gene pool.

“Want to tell me about the meet-cute in whatever you’re reading?” Hannah asks, even though she wants to hear about fake love stories (her words, not mine) about as much as I want to hear about real murders.

While I appreciate the offer, I have a better idea.

“How about we get started onyourmeet-cute?” I ask.

Hannah groans but doesn’t say no.

“I can ask you some of the questions for your profile,” I suggest, taking my phone out of my newly purchased athleisure fanny pack.

“If you can hold your phone and talk, we aren’t moving fast enough,” Hannah says, a lecturing lilt to her voice.

“I thought this wasn’t a race,” I say, mimicking the words she used to try to make me feel better this morning. “It’s just moving our bodies, right?”

Hannah gives me a side-eye but keeps walking.

“Okay,” I say, glancing down at the list in my Notes app. I’ll ease her in with something fun and silly. “If you were a fruit, what kind would you be?”

Hannah looks at me with an expression that’s equal parts confusion and incredulity.

“How in the world will that help me find a soulmate?” she challenges.

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