Chapter 1: The Run

Sunday Ritual

I’d tried running with Carla once.

The park trail had been nearly empty, just the sound of my footsteps and hers right behind me. Three miles in, she’d kept pace effortlessly, staying just at my shoulder. I hadn’t pushed hard—it was supposed to be an easy Sunday run—but even then, my knees ached for days afterward.

The trail had curved along the river, and I’d tried to pull ahead just to tease her. She responded with a soft laugh and a burst of speed.

“You trying to ditch me, Eli?” she’d called, bounding past.

I’d grinned. “Just making sure you’re awake.”

We’d slowed to a walk at the edge of the park. Our hands had brushed. It happened a lot back then, and neither of us pulled away.

“Breakfast at my place?” I’d asked.

“You cooking?”

“I’ve got fruit and yogurt. Maybe waffles if you behave.”

She’d smirked. “You had me at waffles.”

It was a sweet memory, but it also taught me something important: I can’t run with Carla. Not unless I want my knees to hate me for a week.

These days, I train at home—weightlifting and low-impact cardio in the basement. Sundays are still sacred, though. That part hasn’t changed.

We do our workouts at the same time. She heads out for her run, and I watch her jog past my window. Tight sports bra, form-fitting yoga pants, everything color-coordinated down to her Nikes. She waves as she passes, and I watch her until she turns the corner.

Those curves almost make me forget my bad knees.

Basement Recovery

After she’s gone, I focus. I’d started working out again after a long depression, one that set in after Renee and I split. Six years together, then suddenly alone. I’d gained thirty pounds and lost track of myself for a while.

Back in my twenties, I’d had a solid 190-pound frame—natural strength, agility, and discipline. I was an All-American caliber D3 wrestler. Never took a title, but I could hold my own.

And I didn’t stop there. Over the years, I trained in karate and jiu-jitsu. I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I’ve got enough skill to keep my reflexes sharp and handle myself in a sparring session.

Not that I’d ever win against Carla.

She’s on another level—multiple black belts, tournament experience, and a sixth sense for exploiting an opening. I’ve watched her spar with trained fighters and pick them apart like it was choreography. Her control, her precision—it’s a different kind of artistry. One I respect more than I usually admit.

Now I train daily, especially hard on weekends. It helps me stay grounded. Sundays are our tradition: she runs, I lift, and we meet up for breakfast and binge-watching. No matter how long the week or how much we’ve both endured, Sunday morning is ours.

Security Layers

The house I live in used to be my mother’s. She moved to Florida after retirement but still calls me every morning, like clockwork.

Before she left, she had me install security cameras—one at the front door, one in the back, plus two discreet indoor cams. She said it was for peace of mind after a neighbor’s break-in.

What she never told me was that she also gave Mama Caceres access to the feed.

Back then, Mama Caceres had a key, helped out with meals and mail, and checked on the house whenever my mom traveled. She was the kind of neighbor everyone trusted. Still is.

And apparently, she never stopped watching.

I don’t know she has access. I don’t know that sometimes, while I’m working out in the basement, she checks the feed to make sure I’m okay—or maybe just to see how much I sweat.

I’d be surprised. Embarrassed, maybe. But not angry.

I trust her more than I trust most people.

Breakfast Rhythm

When Carla gets back from her run, she always teases me about the smell of sweat and the mess in my gym.

I usually have fruit and yogurt ready, maybe waffles if we’re feeling indulgent. We settle in on the couch, comfortable and close. Not quite a couple. Not just friends.

She sits close enough to steal bites off my plate and brush her legs against mine.

Sometimes she slips into Spanish when she’s too relaxed to hold it back. When I hand her the last strawberry, she murmurs, “Ay, gracias, mi amor,” like it just slipped out.

I never correct her.

It’s the kind of quiet rhythm you don’t realize you’ve come to need ... until it’s the thing holding your week together.