Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Rafe assures the kids I’ll be back next week when they seem reluctant to leave.
I try to catch Ricky’s eye to say good-bye, but she doesn’t even say good-bye to her friends, just drifts away, kicking at the pavement with her heavy black boots.
“Any interest in going for a run?” Rafe asks.
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t have any stuff with me. I drove the Beretta here so I was just going to grab the train home.”
“I have gear in my car. We can run near your place and you can get changed, okay?”
We walk the few blocks to his car in silence. Rafe seems distracted by something, and now that I’m not, I can feel how much my hand hurts and I become aware of the dull throb in my head.
I like the way Rafe drives. He’s so tall that even with his seat all the way back, his head still nearly touches the ceiling. He keeps his hand on his knee, holding the steering wheel loosely in a few fingers, maneuvering through cross-town traffic smoothly.
I change quickly at my house, eager to run away yesterday and last night. I’m practically vibrating with the need to move.
“You don’t have to hold back today,” Rafe says. “I know you were taking it easy last time.” I nod. “If you pull ahead, just circle back for me.”
Right from the start, I’m pushing hard. Each pump of my arm sets my hand throbbing, but within minutes it’s coalesced into a constant ache I push to the edges of my attention, alongside the throb in my head and the lingering roiling in my stomach. All I care about is that as I move, my breathing thing disappears and I feel like I can outrun my own body, slough it off like a rusty coat of paint. Rafe’s keeping up with me, his long stride helping him, but I can tell he’s not going to be able to maintain this pace for more than another mile or two.
After a while, I loop us around Wilson Park, the faded grass mostly worn to dirt from baseball and rain and neglect, and turn us so that Rafe has a straight shot back to my house.
“Go ahead,” he says. “I gotta slow down a little.”
“Just go that way and I’ll meet you back at my place. I’m gonna loop around.” The desire to just reach out and throw myself on Rafe wells up suddenly, so big it’s almost irresistible. To fight, to fuck—I don’t know, but I know I need to run, run away from it.
Rafe nods and I leave him behind in minutes. He’s a good runner. But no one can touch me when I feel like this. When I need to get away.
About a mile from home, I can tell I’ve pushed too hard. My stomach is in my throat and there’s a metallic taste in my mouth. My ears ache and my thighs and calves are burning so much I don’t even notice my hand anymore.
Rafe’s been sitting on the porch long enough to catch his breath when I stagger to a stop in front of my house. I have just enough time to catch the edge of a smile when he sees me before I bend over and retch onto the ground. There isn’t much to come up—just a little coffee and the remnants of the peanut butter sandwich I ate last night—but it burns through me and feels like my whole stomach is coming out my throat.
Rafe’s hand on my back is cool against my flushed skin. He’s holding me up by my shoulders, steering me toward the porch.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “What the hell, Colin?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, pushing his hand away from my face. “Just happens sometimes if I go really hard.”
Rafe’s messing with my bandage, which I forgot to change before we left. It’s pretty gross: all dirty and, now, sweaty. He pulls me to my feet by my biceps. It takes him no effort at all, even though I’m practically dead weight.
Inside, I find myself at the kitchen table, a little spaced out, water next to me and my hand on the table. Rafe unwraps the bandage and jerks his eyes up to my face.
“You are an absolute fucking mess, do you know that?” he says, and he sounds pissed.
“Thought you liked lost causes?” I say, but it comes out with none of the levity I intended.
Rafe opens his mouth and closes it again. “I have a proposal,” he finally says, voice very calm.
“Is it indecent?”
Not even a smile.
“I propose that you take a shower while I go out and get some food. I think your hand needs stitches—no, hold on,” he says when I start to argue. “If you don’t want to go to the hospital”—I shake my head definitively—“I can do them. If you’re comfortable with that.”