Page 36 of Best Friends
“Okay. Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s walk for a while. We’ll take it slow.”
We start walking, and I’m grateful for her patience. The sun is climbing higher, and the heat is becoming brutal. Other runners are passing us, some looking strong, others struggling like me. I notice some people wearing t-shirts with pictures of dogs on them, and I wonder how many of them are here because they’ve rescued animals themselves.
“We don’t have to worry about our time or the pace,” she says, giving me an encouraging smile. “Let’s just finish this thing. For the dogs. Doesn’t matter what position we finish in. Let’s just actually finish it. Together.”
She’s being so understanding, and I don’t deserve it. I’m a horrible friend, lying to her. “I don’t deserve a friend like you, Chey.”
“Of course you do.” She frowns.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“I don’t want to hear that negativity. You’re a wonderful person, Carrick. I love being your partner and friend. So stop beating yourself up and pick up the pace.”
“You should leave me behind.” I wipe sweat out of my eyes. “I’ll catch up.”
“Excuse me?” She looks offended. “No way I’m leaving you behind.”
“You probably could have won this damn race if I wasn’t holding you back.” I stumble and she grabs my arm.
“I don’t care about winning. I just want to finish. And I want us to do that with you.”
“Even if you have to drag me over the finish line?” I give an exhausted laugh.
“Even then.”
“Okay,” I groan, blowing out a tired breath.
She smiles at me and grabs the front of my shirt. “Now come on, dork. Get your ass moving. That grumpy little old lady Mrs. Sprout is gaining on us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give a weak salute and speed up my pace.
We alternate between walking and jogging. By mile five, I’m running on sheer determination. The route takes us back toward town, and I can see the finish line in the distance. The crowd is cheering, and there’s music playing, and despite everything, I feel a small surge of determination.
“We’re almost there,” Cheyenne says breathlessly.
“Yeah,” is all I can manage.
The last stretch is brutal, but somehow I find the energy to actually run it. Maybe it’s the crowd, maybe it’s the fear of letting Cheyenne down, maybe it’s just stubborn pride. But I cross the finish line on my feet, and Cheyenne is right beside me, cheering.
“We did it,” she yells, throwing her arms around me in a sweaty hug.
I hug her back, way too winded to speak. Other runners slap us on the back and congratulate us for finishing. Cheyenne hands me a bottle of water and a banana from the finish line volunteers. We find a piece of shade under an old oak to sit beneath, and I peel the banana with trembling fingers. I’m really hoping eating something will give me some energy. Because as weak as I feel, Cheyenne will have to carry me to her car.
I’ve just taken a bite of the sweet fruit when a familiar female voice calls out, “Carrick? Is that you?”
I glance up to see Amanda walking toward me.
Narrowing her eyes, Amanda says, “You must be feeling a whole lot better if you were able to run amarathon.”
Chapter Seven
Startled, I almost choke on the bite of banana I’m swallowing.
Amanda gives Cheyenne a curious look as she stops in front of us. “I thought you were sick, Carrick?” Her tone is vaguely accusing.
I gape at her wordlessly for a few moments, then stumble clumsily to my feet. “Oh, hey, Amanda,” I say lamely.
“So, how is it you had to bail on our date last night because you were sick, but you’re fine running in a marathon the next morning?” Amanda crosses her arms and I can just picture her at the front of her class, chastising students.
