to a stop on the path and bends at the waist, trying to catch her breath. “I have a cramp. The mother of all cramps, actually.”
Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I come to a halt beside her, panting. Late morning sun filters through the trees, shining onto the gold and crimson leaves scattered on the ground. Fall is my favorite running weather; plenty of sunshine without it being not too hot or cold, not to mention gorgeous scenery.
“Press two fingers into the area and breathe against it,” I tell her, unzipping my purple running jacket and tying it around my waist. “We can walk it out.”
Claire does as I say, blowing out a heavy breath. We’re three-quarters of the way into our 10K training plan, with the goal of running a race before winter hits and ten feet of snow on the ground make that nearly impossible. After that, we’re going to try a half-marathon, but at over twice the distance, I expect it’ll take us a lot longer to train for.
While Claire has full marathon aspirations someday, I’m not sure I’ll ever work up to that. It seems pretty intense. Never say never, though. I like to keep challenging myself. Not only does it give me something to work toward, which is a great distraction from school, setting performance-related targets has helped me foster a healthier relationship with my body. As cheesy as it may sound, it’s easier to ignore the bit of flab or cellulite when you know you can crush Dancer’s Pose.
Rather than focusing on the scale, or what size jeans I’m fitting into any particular week, it’s been so much better for me mentally to track things like my running split time or whether I can do a handstand in yoga. Okay, jury’s out on whether the last one will ever happen. But I’m going to keep trying, even if I faceplant in the process. Again.
Claire sucks in a breath. “So, you don’t think it’s going to go anywhere with you and Preston, huh?”
Guilt, ever-present lately, seeps into the corners of my mind at her question.
“I wish it could, but I’m not feeling it. And I know you’re going to say it’s because I’m scared of getting hurt again, but I honestly don’t think that’s it. I tried, Claire. I even let him kiss me. There’s nothing there. Crickets. Radio silence. Nil.”
“Shame.” She exhales again, digging her fingers into her abdomen over the top of her pristine white training jacket. Only Claire could rock white workout gear and keep it spotless. She straightens to standing, readjusting her black Lululemon headband. “He’s such a nice guy. You’d make gorgeous babies someday.”
We resume walking along the pathway as a few bicyclists fly by, throwing off a pleasant breeze as they pass.
“Trust me, I wish it weren’t so. It’d make my life so much easier if I could convince myself to be into him.” I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, inwardly cursing my choice of attire; it’s hotter than I expected today, and my full-length black leggings are a magnet for the sun’s rays. “What about you? What’s happening with Silas?”
Her smile is grim. “Think we have the opposite issue there. I’m the one he’s not into.”
I can’t see how. Claire is the total package; not only is she gorgeous and funny, she’s also pre-med and destined to be the best pediatrician in the tri-state area someday. Then again, with some guys, that is the problem—they’re intimidated by her intelligence and ambition. Or worse yet, they try to compete with her and mansplain everything. She’s been single for a while and bummed over it, especially after a string of especially bad dates, but I keep reminding her that those are the ones she wouldn’t have wanted anyway.
“I feel like guys are utterly oblivious sometimes. Are you sure Silas even knows you like him?”
“I am not sure how I can make it any clearer to him, short of showing him my boobs.”
“Guys always like that.”
She laughs and swats me playfully, jogging on the spot. “Okay, let’s go. Two more miles.”
Twenty minutes and twenty-two seconds later, we reach our distance goal and walk the remaining couple of yards to a set of wooden benches at the entrance to the park. From a training perspective, it’s ideal to stretch immediately after, plus it helps the sweat dry, which saves Claire’s leather seats. She’s a little particular about some things, including her car, the tidiness of our apartment, and how the fridge is organized.
“About Preston,” she begins, placing her heel on the bench and leaning forward to stretch out her hamstrings. “Are you not into him because of Nash?”
“That’s not it.” My response is a little too quick and a lot too insistent. Even I know I’m full of shit, and Claire can always see right through me. “I mean, maybe it’s part of it, but not all. I think being around Nash made me realize that Preston and I don’t have the chemistry I need. But I don’t think we would’ve worked out either way. Does that make sense?”
“Are you sure you’re capable of seeing things objectively with him in the picture?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.” Ever since he came back into my life, I’ve been viewing things through Nash-colored glasses. I feel him everywhere; his influence is heady like a drug—intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
“How is it seeing Nash all the time, anyway?” Claire gives me a sympathetic smile, and I greatly appreciate that she’s sparing me an “I told you so” speech that I arguably deserve.
I steadfastly avoid her gaze, kneeling down to re-tie my pale pink shoelace, noticing I’ve nearly worn a hole in the toe box of my gray Asics. Maybe I need to size up before our race. “Oh, you know. We’re both being professional.”
This isn’t untrue. Considering who I’m dealing with, Nash has been shockingly professional. So far, at least. I can’t rule out that changing in the future because, well, it’s Nash.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Claire reads between the lines.
“So awful.” Pushing to stand, I drag a hand down my face, my fingers trailing through remnants of sweat. “It’s awkward. And he’s gotten better looking. How is that even fair?”
“You’re not telling me you’re still attracted to him, are you? After everything he did?” Her understanding gives way to open dismay.
“I mean . . .” Has she seen the guy?
Contrary to what I’d hoped going in, our chemistry is as present as ever—and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed. The way I feel around him, especially when we’re close, is indescribable. I’ve never replicated that with anyone else, and with the way things are going, I’m deeply worried I never will.
But that’s only the physical part of things. Rationally, I know there’s so much more to it than that; a laundry list of things required to make a relationship work, none of which we have. Nash might tick the dirty boyfriend boxes, but the practical ones are all blank.
Which is why him driving me home—which he’s now done several times—is more than a little hazardous. Being alone together presents the opportunity for all kinds of mistakes to happen. Sexy mistakes. Dirty ones, too.
Maybe I should invest in a chastity belt. Heck, better make it two. Is there something stronger than a chastity belt? Chastity pants? Chastity jumpsuit, maybe?
Claire sighs, pulling her heel to her glute. “Violet.”
“I’m not going to act on it,” I tell her.
I don’t think.
***
Nothing feels better than a long, hot shower after a sweaty run. Okay, a few things do, but most of them are X-rated and not attainable without the assistance of a highly skilled partner.
I fasten the tie on my ratty bathrobe, bustling into the bathroom where Julianna is perched on the counter, forehead furrowed in concentration as she paints her pinkie toe metallic fuchsia.
She looks at me through the mirror. “I wish you could come out tonight.”
“Me too,” I lie, combing out my wet hair. It’s so much faster to dry since I chopped off nearly four inches. Throw in the refurbished Dyson blow dryer I splurged on, and I can be ready in mere minutes. Best investment ever.
“You could meet up with us after, maybe? Ninety9 is supposed to be amazing.”
Julianna and Claire are hitting a new club that opened last month. Claire got on the VIP list thanks to a girl in one of her classes who knows the owners, and they are both convinced this is an optimal way to meet guys. While dancing can be fun, I’m more than a little skeptical of their plan.
“Not sure if I’m staying over or not. I might sleep at my sister’s to give her a hand with the kids and let her sleep in tomorrow.” I flip my head over, applying mousse to the roots, and work it in with my palms. One other reason my hair dries so quickly is that I have so little of it; it’s thin and baby fine. In another life where money isn’t a thing, I fantasize about getting extensions for volume.
“Boo.” Julianna pouts. “We can try for next weekend, if it’s any fun.”
“Totally.” And I’m not lying. I’d be open to it another night. But tonight is my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary and they’re celebrating with a big catered family soirée at their place. In truth, I don’t mind missing out on the club. I’m not sure what it says about me, but most of the time, I’d rather hang out with my family on a weekend than get wasted at a party like most college students.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends, and going out can be fun sometimes. But it’s one of those “a little goes a long way” type of things. Many of the happiest occasions for me are when I’m hanging out with my sister, Grace, her three kids, and my parents. My brother-in-law Michael, too, but he’s been deployed more often than he’s home lately.
I say I’m an old soul, but Grace teases me by saying I was born to be old and married. While she got pregnant and married—in that order—young, at twenty-two, I was the one who always played wedding with dolls growing up. Maybe there is a part of me that’s still a runaway hopeless romantic, as impractical as it may be in today’s society.
One warp speed blow-dry later, I find a text from my sister, letting me know she’s leaving to come pick me up. I’m already waiting outside when a beige minivan pulls up to the curb and its automatic passenger door slides open, revealing a matching beige interior.
“Mom-mobile, at your service,” my sister announces.
My two-year-old nephew, Lincoln, is strapped into his car seat, clutching a Thomas the Tank Engine board book. Four-year-old Willow is sitting primly in her booster seat, poring over Giraffes Can’t Dance. And Abigail, my brand-new baby niece, is fast asleep in her rear-facing bucket seat.
“Auntie!” Lincoln and Willow squeal in unison.
“Hi, cuties.” I climb into the middle row, kissing Lincoln and Willow before fastening my seatbelt. I’d give Abigail a smooch, but Grace will kill me if I wake her and ruin her car nap. She specifically arranged her daily schedule to accommodate for the fact that Abigail would fall asleep on the drive to and from picking me up. Abigail is one of those unicorn babies who sleeps through the night at a young age, and my sister is terrified of jinxing it by deviating from their routine in any way.
“Thanks, Gracie,” I add, waggling my fingers at her in the mirror.
“No problem.” She signals and shoulder checks, pulling away from the curb. “It’s nice to have a reason to get out of the house sometimes. I mean, one that isn’t a pediatrician’s appointment or to a sale on jumbo packs of diapers.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you really love playing taxi.” Not to mention, Willow always insists that I sit in the back with her, so it literally is like Grace is taxi-ing us around.
“Violet, my idea of ‘me time’ is getting to hit Target alone. Let me have this.”
I slip on my tortoiseshell sunglasses, stashing my purse between the captain’s chairs. “’Kay. At least let me pay for Starbucks.”
“Starbucks?” Willow claps her hands so quickly, they’d give the wings of a hummingbird a run for their money. “Can I get a pink drink?”
“I want a cake pop!” Lincoln shouts, kicking the seat in front of him.
“Inside voice, honey, your baby sister is napping,” Grace says gently. I consider myself a fairly patient person, but her patience still amazes me. Her blue eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, but there’s a smile behind them. “Now look at what you’ve done, Auntie.”
I lower my voice, leaning closer to them. “One treat each, okay? As long as Mommy says it’s okay.”
“If you hop them up on sugar, you have to play with them,” my sister singsongs.
“Deal.”
When we get back to Grace’s, I send her upstairs with her coffee for some quiet time. Or try to, because my sister is the epitome of someone who has trouble accepting things from other people, including help.
“You don’t have to.” Grace tucks a lock of curly dark blonde hair behind her ear, stealing a glance at the upstairs landing where her bedroom is. A hint of longing gleams in her eyes, betraying her protests. We both know she wants nothing more than to escape for a couple of hours. With Michael gone as much as he is, she rarely ever gets a break.
“Yes, I do. Now, shoo.” I balance my vanilla latte and pumpkin bread in one hand, taking her by the elbow with the other and leading her to the stairway. “Go upstairs. Nap, take a bath, read a trashy magazine, watch Bridgerton. Do whatever you want. I’ve got the kids for a few hours.”
“Okay. But I’m still establishing my milk supply and we’re not doing bottles yet, so come get me if Abigail starts to fuss and I’ll nurse her.”
“I will. I promise.”
I lead the kids into the kitchen to start prepping lunch, placing Abigail in her swing. By the time we’re due to leave for our parents’ house several hours later, everyone has napped but me. Lincoln and Willow have somehow consumed two entire boxes of Annie’s Bunny Macaroni and Cheese between the two of them. Abigail spits up on two clean outfits, then blows through a diaper with a third. Grace has the chance to blow-dry her hair for the first time in two weeks. And I’m exhausted, but happy.
***
It’s practically a family reunion between all of the aunts and uncles, cousins and their children swarming my parents’ sprawling two-story house. My mother ushers us inside, alternating between thanking me and scolding me for buying them a present, even though it’s only a modestly priced bottle of Merlot. Difficulty with accepting things runs in the maternal side of our family, clearly.
A glass of champagne is thrust into my hand and then I’m inundated with a good half-hour of questions about my dating life and degree, heavy emphasis on the former.
“Violet.” Aunt Ruth wraps me in a warm embrace. “How are you, darling? Do you have a boyfriend yet?”
You’d think I was a spinster, if that were even still a thing. I politely dodge and weave questions like this until dinner, during which I proceed to stuff my face with shrimp bisque, Boston salad, garlic mashed potatoes, and red pepper mousse-stuffed chicken. If I’m going to die alone like everyone seems to think, I might as well die well-fed.
Dinner wraps up with flourless chocolate cake that’s good enough to marry. It might actually be better than sex. Wait. That’s not entirely accurate. It’s better than sex with anyone other than Nash. Nash blows this cake straight out of the water.
Oh, God. Claire’s right. I am in danger.
Over in the living room, my father spins my mother around while a cheesy rock ballad pours out of the built-in speakers. They’re laughing like drunken teenagers, traces of burgundy lingering on their lips from a few too many glasses of wine.
Whenever I start to become too cynical about love—which is fairly often, because I’m a college student in today’s Tinder-riddled society—I look at my parents, and I know that it can happen for some people.
Of course, that’s not to say it’ll ever happen for me. Maybe it won’t. But seeing them so in love after thirty years of marriage gives me some semblance of hope. It’s out there, and it is possible.
“Thirty years,” I murmur. “And they’re still sickeningly in love.”
Grace nods, a smile playing on her lips as she watches them. “They really are.”
From beneath her black-striped nursing cover-up, Abigail’s chubby little hand pops out and finds Grace’s hair, yanking a curl, and I stifle a laugh.
“I don’t think that kind of love exists nowadays.” When I turn to face my sister, she raises her eyebrows, probably because she’s been happily married to my brother-in-law Michael for four-and-a-half years.
“I mean, for people my age.” Then I realize I just implied that my twenty-six-year-old sister is old.
Fortunately, Grace isn’t one to take offense easily. Her cornflower blue eyes crinkle at the corners and she shrugs off my comments, reaching over to embrace me in a brief, one-armed hug. “Don’t be silly, Violet. It absolutely does.”
Does it really, though? Grace met her husband back when they were in high school. She’s been happily paired up for more than a decade, before dating apps doused the dating landscape in kerosene and lit a match. These days, love seems like a losing bet.
“You’re only twenty-one,” Grace adds. “There’s no rush. Look at Kayla. She’s perfectly happy.”
Our cousin and I are different breeds, though. Our twenty-nine-year-old cousin Kayla enjoys living alone in her modern loft downtown, pulls eighty-hour work weeks at her high-pressure job, and takes vacations only when her job forces her to use her paid time off. She doesn’t want to get married. Not now, not ever.
I do. Someday.
It’s not like it’s my only goal in life. But it’s one of them.
Sometimes it feels taboo to admit that I want to get married. That’s not to say I think there’s anything wrong with Kayla and her priorities. I don’t, at all. But there are times when I feel like I’m being simultaneously pressured to partner-up and judged for wanting to do so.
“Did you have butterflies?” I ask Grace.
She looks at me questioningly. “I’m sorry?”
I’m not making sense. I’ve only had a single glass of champagne, which means I must be drunk on chocolate cake.
“When you first met Michael, I mean.” I trace the droplets of condensation coating the outside of my water glass with my finger absentmindedly, playing connect the dots. “Did you have butterflies around him?”
A wistful look appears across her face. “Absolutely.”
I pause with my finger on the glass. “Do you still?”
Maybe butterflies aren’t worth chasing if they fade over time.
“Sometimes. I mean, it’s not all roses and champagne with three young kids. But when he kisses me . . .” She bites her bottom lip, her cheeks pulling into a smile, and I could swear, she literally glows. “Yes, I still feel them.”
Selfishly, I think part of me was hoping she’d say no. Then I could tell myself that you don’t need that euphoric rush; that all-consuming desire; that inexplicable thing I can’t seem to find. At least, not with anyone new.
“Why?” Grace inclines her head, studying me.
“Just curious.”
In my world, butterflies are on the endangered species list. Experienced with precisely one person, never to be found again.
