Page 43 of Run Omega Run
"Running helps me not think," I corrected with a smile. "At least about things I can't control. When I'm focused on pace, breathing and pushing my body to its limits, everything else gets quiet."
Bennett straightened away from the wall, and I caught the way his peppermint scent seemed to intensify, as if he was considering something that excited him. "Would you like company?" he asked.
I blinked, surprised by the offer. "You run?"
"I run," he confirmed, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Question is whether you think you can keep up."
The challenge in his voice made something competitive flare in my chest, overriding the grief and worry that had been consuming my thoughts all day. "Can I keep up?" I repeated with a laugh that felt good despite everything. "I think the question is whether you can keep up with someone who's actually trained for distance running."
"Guess we'll find out," Bennett said, his smile suggesting he was looking forward to the test.
The house settled into a deeper stillness around midnight, the children's breathing steady behind closed doors. I slipped from Mom's room, where Cole kept watch for me, leaving behind the warm lamplight and comfort for the cooler darkness of the hallway.
My running clothes were where I'd left them hours ago. The fabric of the shorts and lightweight top felt familiar against my skin as I changed, like putting on armor that would protect me from thoughts I couldn't afford to think, and emotions that threatened to drown me if I let them come to the surface.
I laced up my running shoes in the entryway, fingers working through the ritual that had preceded thousands of miles over the past several years. The leather was worn soft from use; the soles showed patterns of wear that spoke of serious training, of commitment that went beyond casual fitness. These shoes had carried me through grief over losing our first children to adoption, through worry about bills we couldn't pay, through the slow agony of watching Mom's health deteriorate. They would carry me through this too.
The front door opened silently on hinges that no longer protested, another gift from the day's repair work. Cool night air hit my face immediately, carrying scents of distant rain and construction dust that had become the permanent perfume of our recovering city.
But it was peppermint that stopped me in my tracks. The sharp, clean scent, which was unmistakably Bennett’s. I lookedtoward our new rebuilt gate and found him leaning against it, already dressed in proper running gear that looked both expensive and well-used. Tight shorts hugged his muscular legs, and a thin jogger suggested someone who understood precisely what serious running required.
"You're already here," I said, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
Bennett straightened. "Told you I packed the kit earlier," he replied, gesturing toward a small duffel bag he'd apparently left by the gate. "Changed after we spoke."
"You helped tuck them in?" Something warm unfurled in my chest at the image of this serious, competent man reading bedtime stories or checking under beds for monsters.
"Loubie Lou required three separate confirmations that her rabbit was properly positioned for optimal dream protection," Bennett said with the dry humor that was becoming familiar. "And Tomas wanted to show me his collection of smooth stones, complete with detailed explanations about where each one was found."
The care in his voice when he talked about the children made my pulse quicken in ways I was still learning to recognize. These weren't the polite interactions of someone doing charitable work, but the genuine attention of someone who was becoming invested in the insignificant details that mattered to children.
"And you knew I'd want to run," I said, beginning the stretching routine that always preceded serious training.
"I knew you'd need to run," Bennett corrected, moving through his own warm-up with ease. "After everything that happened today, everything Cole told you about your mother's condition. Running is how you process things you can't control."
His insight was accurate, cutting through the careful explanations I usually gave people about training schedules and competitive goals to reach the emotional truth beneath. I neededthis. Needed the rhythmic pounding of feet against pavement, needed the burn in my lungs and the ache in my muscles that would crowd out everything else demanding space in my head.
"Ready?" I asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet as anticipation built in my chest.
"After you," Bennett replied, and something in his tone suggested he was looking forward to whatever challenge I was about to offer.
Our sneakers hit the pavement in sync, the rhythm slow at first. My calves loosened with each step. Beside me, Bennett's breath puffed white in the night air as he rolled his shoulders. Moonlight caught the edge of a jagged crack running six feet across the road, its black tar patch glistening like an ugly scar. To our right, the sidewalk buckled upward at a fifteen-degree angle, forcing pedestrians to either climb or detour. We passed the vacant corner lot on Mission, where the Hernandez bakery had stood until the last 6.2 tremor had reduced it to a pile of brick and broken glass overnight.
I chose our route carefully, leading Bennett through neighborhoods I knew intimately from months of nocturnal training sessions. Past the hospital where we'd spent the morning in crisis, past the school that had been demolished and never rebuilt, past construction sites where crews were rebuilding a city that had learned to expect disappointment but continued hoping for better.
My lungs burned with sweet fire as my breathing locked into that perfect rhythm. Each footfall struck where I commanded it, my body a weapon cutting through wilderness that wanted to break me.
Bennett matched my pace, his breathing steady and controlled in a way that suggested he was nowhere near his limit. His peppermint scent mixed with the clean smell of honestsweat, creating something that was oddly comforting despite the competitive energy building between us.
My calves ignited as we crested the first real hill, each breath coming in shorter bursts until my mind emptied of everything but the slap of shoes against pavement and the careful placement of each footfall on loose gravel.
Three miles in, and finally the spreadsheets of unpaid bills vanished. The prescription refill dates disappeared. Dr. Patterson’s careful timeline, drawn on that yellow legal pad with his Mont Blanc pen, dissolved into nothing but rhythm and sweat.
Behind us, the orphanage's windows would have gone dark, the last night-light in the children's wing would be a distant pinprick. Ahead, empty streets stretched under the moonlight, our footfalls echoing off brick buildings where only occasional lit windows revealed fellow nightwalkers—a nurse in scrubs waiting at a bus stop, a janitor mopping the lobby of an office building, a woman walking her dog who wouldn't meet my eyes as we passed.
I sped up, testing Bennett's commitment to keeping up, and felt something fierce and competitive spark in my chest when he matched the increased pace without apparent effort.
“Comfortable pace,” Bennett observed conversationally, his breathing still controlled despite our increased speed. “Is this what you call training?”
