Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

‘ Aw, Martucci’ s not so bad once you get to know him,’ I said. ‘ He’ s just rough around the edges.’

Chapter 17

M artucci twisted, hands on his waist, warming up for the run. The morning of the 5K race was cool, with a gray, heavy sky that we at the beach call haze but anywhere else they’ d call drizzle. ‘ Here we are. Together again. Can’ t get enough of me, can you, Parker.’

‘ You consume my every waking thought,’ I replied, pulling my leg behind me to stretch my thigh muscle.

‘ Damn. Not in the dreams yet. It’ ll happen& only a matter of time.’

I’ d worn a tank top, stretchy shorts, and a sports bra so industrial that it could hold the lid on a boiling pot. Martucci was in a similar outfit-only minus the bra and with a terrycloth band around his head. Later, when the sun peeked through the gloom I’ d be glad not to be overdressed, but for now I had shivers and goose bumps all over. Or maybe that was the thought of Martucci showing up in my dreams.

Hundreds of people stretched and jogged in place around us. The race was due to start in fifteen minutes. It would begin at the pier in Manhattan Beach and then proceed through town-a town, I noticed on the drive over, that was much hillier than I’ d remembered. I hadn’ t encountered anyone from my cheering section yet, but they’ d promised to be there, standing near the finish line so we could go to breakfast after the race. Not only was Susan bringing her family, but Kip and Sebastian were coming, stopping to pick up Deedee on the way.

‘ By the way, we’ re set for Vegas,’ Martucci said. ‘ I scored rooms at the Flamingo.’

‘ Oh, good!’

‘ Last weekend in June. Friday and Saturday night. My contact there coughed up three rooms. I figure that’ s a room for me, one for you and Brie to share, and one for Mom and Grandma.’

‘ Perfect.’

‘ Damn shame I couldn’ t swing getting you your own room-you about to be a mother and all. You need to find a stud and have a last fling.’

‘ Forget it. There will be no flinging.’

‘ I don’ t know& from what I hear, babies suck up a lot of your energy. It could be a long time before you get any action. Maybe months.’

Months? Ha! ‘ I once went three years without sex,’ I said.

I might as well have slapped him. His eyes welled up. ‘ My God. How did you stand it?’ His hand grasped my shoulder as he said earnestly, ‘ We’ re friends, and I want you to understand that I’ m here for you. And that I’ m not above a mercy fuck.’

‘ Thanks. I can’ t tell you how much I appreciate the offer. But I’ m going to Vegas for one reason and one reason only: to get things done on the list. Anything else is-’

Before I could finish, a kid bumped into Martucci and sent him stumbling into me. ‘ Watch it, buddy!’ he snapped.

‘ Dude, it was an accident.’ The kid appeared to be about ten years old, with red hair, wiry limbs, and wall-to-wall freckles on his face. ‘ You okay?’

‘ He’ s fine,’ I said. ‘ He didn’ t mean to yell.’

‘ Yes, I did,’ Martucci snarled. ‘ Crap. My ankle’ s twisted.’ He sat on the ground to examine his ankle, and the boy bent over him. Above the race number he wore on his back he’ d written in thick marker ‘ Flash.’

‘ Flash?’ I asked. ‘ What’ s with that?’

He turned to me with a smile. ‘ That’ s what my dad calls me. ‘ Cause I’ m so fast.’

Martucci motioned to the boy to help him up. ‘ I saw a guy selling sodas by the pier. I’ m going to see if he has ice.’

‘ I’ ll go,’ the boy said, and he was off, as they say, in a flash. Minutes later, he returned with cupfuls of ice and paper towels. We wrapped Martucci’ s ankle.

‘ Is it a sprain?’ I asked. ‘ Should we hop you to a medic?’

‘ It’ ll be fine, but I’ ll need to keep off it,’ he said to me. ‘ Afraid you’ re on your own for the race.’

‘ On my own?’ Hands on hips, I gazed bleakly up at the hills. ‘ Boy, I wished we’ d trained on hills.’

‘ You never ran hills?’ Flash asked.

‘ Not a one. Not so much as an incline. Plus, I’ m used to this guy barking orders at me,’ I said, tipping my head toward Martucci.

‘ What’ s your time?’ the boy asked.

‘ I’ m running a nine-minute mile.’

He nodded, considering it. ‘ Be right back.’

The race organizers started lining people up to start, so I did my final stretches. Martucci coached me from the curb. ‘ Keep your pace. When you get to a hill, you’ re naturally going to slow down. Don’ t let it intimidate you. And nothing flashy, Parker. You just want to make it to the finish line.’

‘ Got it.’

He held out a fist to me. When I stared at him, perplexed, he said, ‘ You’ re supposed to tap my hand with yours. Like ‘ rock’ in rock-paper-scissors. It’ s a jock thing.’

Jeez, what happened to plain, old-fashioned high-fives? I did it, then left to line up in my spot. People jockeyed for position around me, even though this was a community event and not a hard-core race. Trying to ignore everyone, I jogged in place, waiting for the pop gun to signal ‘ go,’ when the boy came up next to me.

‘ Hey, Flash,’ I greeted him. ‘ What’ s up?’

‘ Don’ t jog so hard right now. Move back and forth a little bit or you’ ll wear yourself out.’ I did what he suggested, and he said, ‘ My dad said it’ s all right if I run with you.’

‘ Thanks, but you don’ t have to do that. I don’ t want to slow you down or-’

‘ I injured your trainer. It’ s only fair.’

With that, the gun sounded and we were off. Instantly, it was as if everyone were running through a sieve. The fast ones slipped through to the front, and the rest of us found our places slogging along at our own paces.

We started along the Strand, the boardwalk that runs adjacent to the sand, with the ocean to our left and multimillion-dollar homes to our right. A light breeze blew off the water, and my body kicked effortlessly into gear. My training was paying off. I tried to make conversation with Flash, but he put a stop to that, saying, ‘ Lady, if you can talk, you’ re not running hard enough.’

I’ ll be darned-he was a mini Martucci.

A mile later, we turned up a street to run past shops and restaurants and-yum! I smelled pancakes! One more turn and, ‘ Oh no, look at that hill-it’ s a wall!’

‘ You can do it,’ Flash assured me. ‘ Go like this-’ He showed me how to lean forward a bit. ‘ And then follow my pace.’

‘ Isn’ t there supposed to be special equipment for mountain climbing?’ I huffed irritably. Ow. Ugh. Arrrrgh. Errrrgh. ‘ Don’ t you get-’

‘ Don’ t talk,’ he admonished. ‘ Run.’

Muscles arguing and protesting all the way, I made it to the top. Flash high-fived me without breaking stride. ‘ I knew you had it in you!’

That was the steepest hill, and after that the run was cake. The route wound us around so we ended not far from where we began. Yards from the finish line, I heard my name being screamed, along with catcalls and various inspirations such as ‘ Work it, honey!’ and ‘ You go, girl!’ I gave a victory wave to my pep squad and then, heart pumping, crossed the finish line. Twenty-nine minutes. Not bad, considering the hills.

There were plenty of runners doing their postrun stretch-for all I knew, a few were already home eating bon-bons. But I’ d made it, and not even in last place. Not even close to last. It was especially sweet since I’ d never successfully done anything athletic before in my life. My sports history was tragic. Like in fourth grade when my brother talked me into signing up for softball, where it turned out that the only skill I learned was the art of the deal. I’ d negotiate with the pitcher, the shortstop, and the third baseman as I ran out to left field, briefing them on the ways they were to cover for me should the ball come my way. But nobody had to cover for me today. I was officially a jock.