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.