“Eleven miles, huh?”
“We’ll run so fast the wasps can’t catch up, Andrew.”
I give him a sour look. “That’s not the point, Vince.”
“The point is to get you outside, moving. Everything else is window dressing.”
“I don’t need a trainer to do that.”
“Then why am I here?”
Because I’m scared shitless. The minute we leave the relative safely of the paved parking lot, we’re on nothing but grass and path, weaving between potential death and certain humiliation.
Not that I’m admitting any of that to Vince.
“You’re here to help me train.”
“For what?”
“Life.”
He nods, corners of his mouth turning down in an evaluative look, hair off his face with a combination headband and ponytail holder that would look extremely effeminate on any other guy, but on Vince it looks downright 300. I half expect Gerard Butler to come crashing through the bushes screaming “Spartans! What is your profession?!”
“Water on?”
I adjust the backpack hydration system. “Yes.”
“Go.”
For the first mile, I’m Frankenstein’s monster, an assemblage of parts stuck together with nothing but adrenaline and testosterone. The combination sucks.
Mile two, the first dive-bomber appears. I twist out of the way of a big, black drone of death and trip, skinning the hell out of my knees, covering half the front of me with regurgitated electrolyte solution from the hydropack.
“Get up,” Vince huffs from ahead of me. “Keep running.”
I do. As I stand, the damn wasp lands on a small puddle of the liquid I’ve spilled, pausing on the water.
I hold my breath and stare at it. Knives jab my exposed skin from a thousand angles. My breathing takes on an even more labored quality, like my throat is closed by a boulder in an Indiana Jones movie, my will squeezing through in those final few inches that allow for escape.
I catch up to Vince.
“You still married?”
I show him my bare hand. “No.” Talking helps. Talking makes about half the knives stand down.
“But you love her.”
I give him a look of disgust. “You want to talk about love now?”
“No better time.”
“We’re not here for love. We’re here to burn.”
“Same thing. Just a different kind of pain.”
He has a point.
“Hey, man. You’re a risk taker. You always know what you want, and go for it. Why should this be different?”
“Because the stakes are higher.”
“Are they really?”
“It’s my entire life.”
“And business isn’t?”
I hate when he’s right.
But when he is, my life improves.
“Business is different. It’s calculated risk based on known and unknown variables, and—”
“I know a variable.”
“What?”
“You wore that wedding ring for days longer than you needed to.”
“Not this again.”
“The fact that it’s ‘this again’ is exactly why that fact is a variable, Andrew.”
“You’re ascribing too much meaning to it.”
“I think you need to think that.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you’re scared shitless.”
“Scared of what?”
“Wasps.”
I shrug.
“And scared to admit you know she’s your woman. Forever. Done. You’re scared because it’s too easy.”
I would scoff, but my heart is stuck in my throat, along with a frightening amount of bile. Vince must be running at a four-minute mile pace. The greenery is a blur and my calves are threatening to turn to butter.
“When did you become so wise?”
“Since I cut out carbs and started the green coffee bean enemas.”
“Jesus, Vince.”
He shrugs. “I don’t really do that shit, but I thought this conversation was veering into Fuller House territory.”
“DJ grew up and got hot, didn’t she?”
Vince’s face splits into an evil grin. “I knew you were a closet pervert, Andrew.”
Closets. If only he knew....
“Why would you think otherwise?”
“You know what I do with pervert clients?”
Gina’s comment from the other day flits through my memory. “What?” I ask, with great caution.
“I make ‘em row until their lats peel off one by one so I can make human jerky out of them.”
“Are you related to Amanda Warrick?” She made the same joke. This is getting creepy.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
He shrugs. “And just for you, I’m queueing up the first episode of Fuller House in front of the rowing machine next time we train. In public, at a gym. That’s your penance.”
“Dude, I was joking. Don’t make me actually watch that shit.”
Evil grin.
That’s what I get for changing the topic.
Wait.
He changed the topic.
I think I’ve been had.
“Can your limo dude drive us back here and get our cars?” Vince asks. He’s not even panting. His voice is as even as if we were lounging by a pool.
“Sure. Why?”
“A little adjustment and we can just run back to your office. You care about being seen all sweaty and pussified?”
“Don’t care about sweat, and the other won’t happen.”
“If it doesn’t happen, I’m not doing my job.”