“Do another quarter mile.”
I shoved off behind him. “Boy, I'm really out of shape,” I said again. Guess running once every three months wasn't enough for maximum fitness.
“Two more minutes,” Ranger said. “You can make it.”
“I really think I'm going to throw up.”
“You're not going to throw up,” Ranger said. “One more minute.”
The sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I wanted to wipe it away, but I couldn't lift my arm that high. “We there yet?”
“Yes. Mile and a quarter,” Ranger said. “See, I knew you could do it.”
I was unable to speak, so I nodded my head.
Ranger was jogging in place. “Want to keep moving,” he said. “You ready to go?”
I bent over and threw up.
“That's
not gonna save you,” Ranger said.
I gave him a stiff middle finger.
“Shit,” Ranger said, looking down at the mess I'd made on the ground. “What's that pink stuff?”
“Ham sandwich.”
“Maybe you want to just shoot yourself in the head.”
“I like ham.”
He jogged a few feet in front of me. “Come on. We'll do another mile.”
“I just threw up!”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I'm not running anymore.”
“No pain, no gain, Babe.”
“I don't like pain,” I said. “I'm going home. And I'm walking.” He pushed off. “I'll catch you on the way back.”
Look on the bright side, I thought. At least I didn't have to worry about breakfast going straight to my thighs. And throwing up is so attractive that chances were real good I wouldn't have to worry about Ranger having a libido attack over me anytime in the near future.
I was walking one block from Hamilton, in a neighborhood of small single-?family houses. Traffic was picking up on Hamilton, but one block over, where I walked, activity was centered in kitchens. Lights were on, coffee was brewing, cereal bowls were being set out. It was Saturday, but Trenton wasn't sleeping in. Kids had to be chauffeured to football and soccer. Laundry had to go to the cleaner. Cars needed washing. And the farmer's market was calling . . . fresh vegetables, eggs, baked goods, and sausages.
The sun was weak in a murky sky, and the air felt cold against my sweat-?soaked clothes. I was three blocks from my apartment building, planning my day. Canvass the area around the strip mall, showing Uncle Fred's photo. Get home in time to pour myself into the little black dress. All the while keeping an eye out for Bunchy.
I heard a runner coming up behind me. Ranger, I thought, steeling myself not to get coerced into racing him home.
“Hello, Stephanie,” the runner said.
My walking faltered. The runner was Ramirez. He was dressed in sweats and running shoes, but he wasn't sweating. And he wasn't breathing heavy. He was smiling, dancing around me on the balls of his feet, alternately shadowboxing and jogging in place.
“What do you want?” I asked.