Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

RUN RUDOLPH RUN

Jack

S aturday morning, Holly pads into the bedroom before the sun to wake me with a gentle shake and a cup of coffee.

“It’s time to get up,” she whispers.

I reach over and click on the bedside lamp. Even though Rule 1.8 is in the rearview mirror, we’re still sleeping separately, taking turns on the cramped couch. I plan to change that soon—tonight if possible. But last night, she made us go to bed both separately and ridiculously early to prepare for the Run Rudolph Run 5K Fun Run, sponsored by Rudy’s Bar.

I rub my eyes and squint at the clock.

“It’s five-thirty.” I flop back on the bed and roll over.

“Right,” she chirps. “Up and at ‘em.”

“The race doesn’t start for two more hours.”

She grabs my arm and tries to drag me upright. “And you need to warm up your muscles and eat something.”

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into the bed. “I have some ideas for warming up my muscles,” I say, rubbing the scruff of my beard along her cheek.

She squeals, pretends to struggle, and then nestles against me. I drop a line of kisses along her jaw down to her collarbone and smooth her hair out of her face. Her chest rises and her eyes go liquid as she looks up at me.

My heart thumps in anticipation and I lower my head.

But she says, “We really should conserve our energy until after the race.” She rolls over and slips out of the bed. “Come on. Up.”

She flips on the top light and jogs out of the bright room, her knees high.

When I join her in the kitchen, she’s crouched on the floor threading jingle bells through the laces of her trail shoes. I lean against the island and give her a curious look. “How seriously do you take this fun run?”

She stands up and dusts off her hands. “Here’s the deal. I ran cross country in high school and college. I have never placed outside of the top two runners in my age group and gender.”

“In this run?”

“In any run,” she clarifies.

“Huh.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll remind you, I wasn’t planning to run this year. This was your idea.”

“I didn’t realize you were so competitive about running,” I explain.

“Wait, you do run, right?” she asks, reaching past me for the refrigerator. She takes out the giant Greek yogurt parfait she prepared last night, hands me a spoon, and digs in.

I dig out a bite of mostly granola, trying to avoid the yogurt. “I run,” I tell her.

“Well, what’s your mile time?”

“I don’t time myself.”

She blinks at me as she tries to process this clearly foreign concept.

“You don’t time yourself,” she muses.

“I run in nature. I’m not in a hurry. I’m taking it all in.”

She puts down her spoon and the yogurt bowl to take what I can only imagine is a centering breath. “Okay, that’s fine,” she says. “This is your run. We can just do it for fun. It’s through the woods. We’ll take it all in. It’ll be nice.”

I can tell she hasn’t quite managed to convince herself. I lean over and plant a kiss on the crown of her head. “It will be. You’ll see.”

Holly

W hen we get out of the car in the parking lot at Santa’s Cellar, I see Anderson and Tabitha warming up by the check-in tables. When I told Jack I run competitively, I neglected to mention that so does Anderson, or that every year I took first or second place, so did he. It was one of the things we enjoyed doing together, pushing each other further, faster.

But I’m sure I can ignore my competitive instincts. Probably. Maybe.

Jack wanders around the parking lot, slapping people on the backs and chatting while he gnaws on a sesame bagel like it’s not destined to sit in his stomach like a rock. I sip some water and watch out of the corner of my eye as Anderson gets his hydration vest in place and fills the pockets with gels—complete overkill for a 5K, but that’s Anderson. I notice Tabitha is wearing a pair of white racing shoes. They’re obviously brand new, shiny, spotless, and stiff. The cranberry pink details pop against the dirty snow. The shoes are an interesting choice for a trail run, I think, as I hear my name and turn to see my sisters, Noelle, and Dad with a group of guests from the inn.

I jog over and Noelle reaches out to unpin the number I’ve pinned crookedly to my shirt. She straightens it, repins it, and gives it a pat. “There.”

“Thanks. Are you guys running?” I ask.

“No, some of the guests are doing the 1K walk,” Dad says.

“So we’re here for moral support and to cheer on you and Jack. Run like the wind,” Ivy adds.

I grimace. “Jack wants to run it for fun. Take it all in.”

My family exchanges knowing looks.

“Did you tell him?” Merry wants to know.

“Tell him what?”

“That you only play to win,” she says.

“I can do it,” I protest. “Run for fun.”

My dad snorts and rubs his hands together. “This was definitely worth getting out of bed for.”

Nebula turns off the pre-race music and tells all runners to report to the starting line. I dismiss my family with a wave of my hand and run off to find Jack so we can line up. We jostle into place near the middle of the pack just as Dawn fires the starter’s pistol.

And we’re off. The middle school students have lined the trail with bright red ribbons so there’s no chance of veering off the path in the snow. We jog along, the sound of jingling, jangling bells filling the air as dozens of pairs of feet hit the frozen path.

Jack runs easily, his limbs loose. His form is solid, but he looks around and keeps up a steady stream of conversation as we run. Up ahead, I see Anderson sprinting as Tabitha strides a pace behind him. I resist the urge to pour on the speed and nod along to Jack’s observations.

As we’re chugging uphill past the waterfall, he comes to a stop and reaches for my arm, maneuvering out of the path of the runners. “Look!”

I glance toward the thicket where he’s pointing. “What am I looking at?”

“A purple finch.”

I follow the line of his finger and see the pinkish bird. I smile and take a deep breath of chilly mountain air. Jack’s right. This is a richer, fuller experience than running the trail as fast as I can, searching for nothing more than a personal best.

We’re about to return to the path when I spot a velvet brown doe and two babies blinking at us. “We have company,” I say.

He turns, spots the deer, and then brushes a hot kiss over my cold lips. I forget all about the race and kiss him back harder. He backs me against a tree, the bark rough against my neck, and braces an arm on each side of me, boxing me in.

That’s when I hear the moan. Faint, and low.

He pulls back. “Was that you?”

I shake my head no.

He pulls me upright and we run around the curve in the trail. Tabitha leans against a boulder, her right foot hovering a few inches above the uneven ground. She moans again.

We run over to her.

“What happened?” I ask.

Her face is tear-stained and twisted with distress.

“I tripped. Rolled my ankle.”

Jack squats to inspect her ankle. She inhales sharply and winces when he touches it. Even through her running tights, it’s obviously swollen.

“Can you put any weight on it?” he asks.

She tests it and yelps. “No. I think I sprained it.”

“Where’s Anderson?” I look around for him. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. He’s probably crossing the finish line by now. He left her here.

A red stain blooms across her cheeks and she averts her gaze. “I think he went for help.”

The silence that follows is heavy until Jack says, “You’re going to get cold standing here. Holly and I can help you up the trail."

“No, please, go ahead,” she grits out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

“Tabitha, don’t be ridiculous. Let us help you,” I tell her.

She exhales and nods. Jack and I position her between us, and she loops one arm around each of our shoulders. She hops on her good foot and we support her as we inch our way up the hill toward the finish line, waving runners and eventually walkers around us. Our bells jangle out of rhythm as we walk, hop, walk.

By the time we cross the finish line, Anderson’s already posing with his winner’s medal, Nebula’s spinning post-race tunes, and the raffle prizes have been drawn.

We maneuver Tabitha to the first aid station and wait with her as the paramedic on duty proclaims she has a severe sprain. Two pain killers later, she’s hobbling around in a walking boot. The parking lot is basically deserted. And Anderson’s long gone.

“We missed the free beer. Can I buy you one back in town?” She asks in a hopeful tone.

“You really don’t need to,” I begin. Then I realize she needs a ride.

Freaking Anderson left her here. He’s no doubt well on his way to his traditional post-race brunch at the North Pole Social Club. Tabitha made this bed and there’s a part of me that wants to let her lie in it, but I can’t. I just can’t.

“A beer sounds great,” I tell her.