Page 54 of Maid For Each Other

Ineededto stop running.

I knew my body, and this wasn’t going to get better.

I kept running, trying to figure out how to quit. I could fake an injury; perhaps pretend I tweaked my ankle. That would allow me to stop running for a bit and then just catch up to Declan at the end.

It was what I needed to do, but I kept running, nervously trying to figure out how to pull it off.

Should I make a noise?

Start limping?

How does one behave when they injure an ankle?

The whole time I was thinking through this, I was also panicking because my chest was getting tighter.

Sometimes, if I waited too long to use my inhaler, my chest got so tight that my back started hurting, and that ache was settling in.

I needed to do itnow.

I did a fake little hop thing, then slowed to a hobble-jog, like I was trying to keep my weight off my right foot while still running.

Dex looked over at me and said, “You okay?”

Dear God, he’s not even sweating. Or winded.

What a psycho.

It was hard to talk when I was breathing heavily from the run and also wheezing, but I managed, “My ankle’s a little wonky. I’ll catch up.”

I moved off the cement path and hopped over to the grass, but much to my horror, he followed me.

“No, you go,” I said, trying not to sound like I couldn’t breathe. “I’m good.”

“Sit,” he said, grabbing my arm and guiding me down to the curb.

“I’m fine,” I said, dropping to a sit while trying to catch my breath. My brain was short-circuiting between the panic that my erratic breathing always caused and the mortification that Declan was trying to figure out my fake injury while listening to me pant like an out-of-shape elephant.

“You’re not fine, let me look,” he said, reaching out to gingerly touch my ankle. I was rolling my eyes at myself as he did that because it was just so ridiculous—Iwas being so ridiculous.His gentle fingers slid over my skin, searching, and I wanted to disappear.

What is wrong with me?It was so fucking immature that I had these issues with admitting to my asthma, but it still kept happening.

But even knowing that didn’t help.

I’d literally sat inside friends’ houses before while their dog’s dander tightened my chest because I didn’t want to insult them by not hanging out with their dog.

“It looks okay,” he said, his eyes on my foot. “It doesn’t look swollen.”

“That’s good,” I said, and there must have been something in my voice—probably the intense rattling—because his eyes shot to mine immediately.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a wrinkle between his dark eyebrows.

I nodded, trying to gut the panting and tone it down.

But his eyes narrowed.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because it seems like you’re having trouble breathing.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I just have a little asthma and sometimes it flares up when I run. It’s fine.”

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