Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“I can’t marry you,” I say weakly, pulling my dripping hand away from my mouth.
The gasps grow deeper.
Someone whispers, “Sir Pukes-a-Lot.”
I’m blinking back real tears now.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, voice quavering. “I love you, but just not enough to say yes.”
It’s the most honest I’ve been in a long time. But it’s too little, too late.
And though the last thing I want to do is be a coward, I turn away from the shocked whispers and Alan on his knees covered in puke, and the disapproving eyes of his parents, knowing I’ve disappointed my own parents as well, and I run.
I run through blurred vision.
Right into a table.
I cry out, the round side cutting into my hips, and the table tips over, drinks and food crashing into people’s laps.
Some people are laughing, some are crying out in disgust. I think I hear Alan’s mother full-on sobbing. It all fills my head, swirling around and around until it has a stranglehold on my heart.
Somehow I pull myself away from the table, from the wreckage, and make it to the giant glass doors before hurting anyone else.
I fling them open, the rain and salt-soaked wind pelting me in the face, and run outside.
It’s cold. Dark. Wet. I am in the throes of this wicked winter storm.
But even as my heels slip and slide on the wood deck, as I grip the railing for dear life and run down the steps and onto the beach, where I plan to just run, run, run, I push all the feelings of humiliation and duty and shame aside.
I feel nothing but free.
CHAPTER 1
Amanda
THREE MONTHS LATER
Running is therapy.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Over and over and over again.
This is good for you.
Don’t quit.
Keep going.
This is hell.
I’m literally going to die.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Can I stop now?
I’m going to stop.
And I often do stop and try and catch my breath until some other jogger blasts past me and then my ultra-competitiveness kicks in and I end up running after them. Sometimes I can’t catch up but at least it gets my legs moving again. Other times I run past them with a nonchalant look on my face, ponytail swinging behind me like running is super fun, super cool, totally no big deal for this girl, only to collapse around the corner in a heaving mess minutes later.
But somehow I keep doing it, every day. At first I started running because it was the only way I could shake out my frustration. I tried taking kickboxing classes, but they kept conflicting with my class schedule and I accidently punched my instructor in the face, so that was a sign to move on. Running seems to be a better fit. I can go at my own pace, pick my times, and best of all for my inner hermit, I don’t have to see or talk to anyone. It’s just me and the ground beneath my feet. Well, and my stupid brain that constantly reminds me what hell running is.
And even though it clears my head—believe me, I’ve done a lot of thinking ever since Alan and I broke up—it just never seems to get easier. I’m waiting for that moment where it’s painless, easy, and fun, and that just hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it never will. Maybe that’s why people run. They’re chasing something they’ll never get, the dangling carrot of promises that all hard things eventually get easy.
Today’s run isn’t easy, but at least it’s beautiful. It’s early March, and chartreuse buds are just starting to make their appearance on the tips of barren limbs. The ocean, slate grey and churning, foams against the rocky shoreline. In the far distance, Washington’s Olympic Peninsula is hidden, shrouded by low, dense clouds that like to sit in Haro Strait between the two countries like some sort of tribunal council. It’s still cold and damp, and the sun can barely penetrate the cloud cover, but I know in a few months, hell even a few weeks, our daylight hours will be long, the air will turn warm, and my usual jogging path along Oak Bay will start to swarm with the elderly out for their daily walk or happy couples making out on park benches. Hopefully by then I’ll be able to handle couples, or just happy people in general.
After I turned down Alan’s proposal, puked on him, and made a general mess of things, we both decided we couldn’t work it out. Alan was beyond humiliated, changing from the easygoing boy I loved to a stranger who hated the sight of my face. I hadn’t been quite prepared for the split in his personality, especially as I only saw the nice guy over the last four years. I guess he’d been hoarding a whole lot of negative emotion toward me, and it all started coming out. Like vomit. But meaner and less gross.