“You’re about to run a marathon. Do you think it matters if you come in last as long as you finish it?” he asked.
I blinked and let the anxious tears pool in my eyes for the first time. “But what if I can’t finish it?”
The voice on the other end let out a sigh. “You can finish the marathon. Graves aren’t quitters.”
Graves. Graves weren’t quitters. I didn’t want to cry. I wasn’t going to let myself lose it now of all times. At least not completely. “But I’m not really a Graves, and I haven’t even been able to finish twenty-six miles, much less twenty-six point two. Not once. I’m dying by twenty.”
“Vanessa,” he rumbled my name in a way that felt like a caress to my spine. “You’re a Graves where it matters. I don’t know anybody else who could do what you’ve done. Come out on top of what you have. You can do this. You can do anything, do you understand me? Even if you limp your way through the last sixteen miles, you’re going to finish it because that’s just who you are.”
This weird hiccup thing crept up my throat, and the next thing I knew, I dropped my hand away from my face to control myself. It didn’t take long, but it was the most difficult control I’d ever tried to get ahold of. With a few deep breaths, I put the phone back to my ear, emotion overwhelming my nostrils. “In case I die on my run, I want to tell you something.” I wanted to tell him I loved him. Fuck it. What the hell had I been waiting for?
He was a good man. The best type of man—for me at least. The more I thought about what was between us, the more I picked up on the breadcrumbs he’d been leaving for me for some time now. He cared about me. He more than cared about me. I knew it from the bottom of my soul.
“Tell me afterward. You’re not going to die,” he replied, smoothly with conviction.
“No, I need to tell you now just in case,” I insisted.
Aiden let out a sigh. “You’re not going to die. Tell me afterward.”
“But what if—?”
“Vanessa, you can do this. I’m not doubting you for a second, and you shouldn’t be doubting yourself either,” he demanded. “I know you’re hurting right now, but I’m willing to bet none of your sisters would be able to do what you’re about to do.”
He’d gone for the killing blow. The one thing in the world to resuscitate me. Aiden got me and he got me good. “I’ve got this,” I said in a muffled voice. I had to have this. There wasn’t a choice, was there?
“You’ve got this,” he repeated with more conviction. “You can do this.”
Now or never right? “I’ve got this.”
He made a light noise, a tender one. “That’s my girl.”
His girl? “I am?” I just outright asked him, hoping more than a little he wasn’t just… that was stupid, Aiden wouldn’t just say that.
“The only one,” he said it like there was no other choice in the world.
How could I not tackle universes with that kind of possessiveness from the most driven man I’d ever meet? “I might not be able to walk after I cross the finish line, but I’m going to do it. Can I call you after I’m done when I’m lying on a hospital bed?”
“You’d better.”
I have been through some shit in my life. I knew what pain was, I’d dealt with it on and off for years, sometimes more on than other years. I understood the basics of working hard and succeeding. And I liked to do my best at everything I attempted. I always had, and I wasn’t going to worry or wonder why that was.
But the marathon…
I’d prepared as much as I could to run it, considering everything. I knew my limits and my body.
But after that fifteenth mile marker…
Everything began to shut down.
I wanted to die.
Each step began to feel like hell incarnate. My shins were crying invisible tears. All my important tendons and ligaments thought they were being punished for something they’d done in another lifetime.
And I wondered why the hell I’d ever thought doing this would be my crowning achievement after my long road. Couldn’t I have just raised money for a charity or something? Was I too young to be a foster parent?
If I lived through this, I could do anything, I convinced myself. I’d do an Iron Man competition, damn it.
Okay, maybe I’d prepare for a triathlon if I finished this prison sentence.
If I finished it.
If.
If I didn’t die. Because it sure as hell felt like I was on the cusp.
I was thirsty, hungry, and every step sent a streak of pain straight up my spine and into my head since I’d begun to lose my stride and run sloppier. I might have had a migraine too, but my pain receptors were too focused on everything else to notice.
But I thought about Aiden, my brother, and Diana. I thought about Zac.
And I closed my eyes and pushed. Each mile got harder; hell, each foot became more difficult to move. I was slowing down because I was crossing into the Underworld.
But I could die after I crossed the finish line, because I hadn’t trained and busted my ass for months not to. If anything, I became more and more determined to drag myself across the finish line if it came down to it. By the time I made it to the last mile, I was more limping and lurching than even walking. My calves had locked up on me. My shin splints were going to be a serious pain in the ass for weeks to come, and my quads were shredded.
Honestly, I felt like I had the flu, Ebola, and strep throat combined.
Thinking back on it, I wasn’t sure how the hell I managed to cross the finish line. Sheer will and determination, I guess. I’d never been so proud of myself or pissed off at myself than right then.
I thought I started crying, mostly because every bone and muscle in me was crying, and because I couldn’t believe I’d actually made it.
But when I spotted that giant, brown-haired man bee-lining through people like a runaway train, I definitely started damn near bawling. People cheered me on, but I couldn’t find it in me to thank them because I wanted only one thing and it wasn’t close enough.
I wanted the big-headed mirage coming toward me, and I wanted it three hours ago. I wanted it two weeks ago.
Even from the forty feet that separated us, I could see him through my blurry eyes, frowning as he found me mixed up in the crowd. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the personnel that surrounded me, making sure I was okay. Realistically, I knew I wasn’t dying. Not really.
It was just… traumatic. And all I wanted was a hug, a shower, food, and a nap.
Mostly though, I wanted that human-sized steamroller barreling through the people who separated us with even more urgency. He was like Moses parting a sea of people. The second he stopped in front of me, I held my arms out and let him grab me under the armpits, deadlifting me before engaging those giant biceps and pulling me up to be eye to eye with him. I didn’t appreciate that incredible feat of strength because what he did afterward…
I threw my arms around his neck and he hugged me. In front of everyone, he hugged the living shit out of me as if he hadn’t walked out on me and left me alone when all I wanted was him. I wrapped my legs high above his hips like a spider monkey, not giving a crap about the wedgie my shorts were giving me, much less that there were photographers, who were supposed to be busy taking pictures of the marathon runners, circling The Wall of Winnipeg and me in our moment.
Yeah, I cried into his neck and he pressed his face against my hair. His words were low, reassuring, and whispered.
“That’s my girl. That’s my fucking girl.”
“What are you doing here?” I practically bawled into him.
“I missed you.”
“You what?”
His arms tightened around me. “I missed you very much.”
Oh hell.
“I had to come see you,” he continued on.
“You were here, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to distract you,” that low voice explained, his hand cupping the back of my neck. “I knew you were going to do it.”