No, I’d already told him that.
Right, but then you showed him.
But I’ve stopped drinking.
He doesn’t know that.
I tried to tell him.
Not very hard.
I’m running after him, aren’t I?
I almost laugh out loud as this realization thunks through my brain.
Oh. My. God. It’s true. I’m running, for Chrissakes, I’m running after a man to tell him how I feel about him. How did I end up at the end of a romantic comedy?
And if I catch him, if I tell him, what then? Why am I so sure he wants to hear what I have to say? Why am I so convinced that his reluctance is a mask for love?
How stupid can you be, Katie?
My energy drains away. My legs aren’t working very well anymore, and neither are my lungs. I stop running, doubled over, gasping for breath.
Amy stops and puts her hand on my back. “Katie, are you all right?”
I shake my head, unable to speak. I hear Amy call for help, and she and one of the volunteers supports me to the sidelines. I sink to the grass, wheezing. When I can speak, I tell Amy to go on without me, and she reluctantly agrees.
The kind volunteer woman wraps me in a metallic space blanket and hands me a glass of Gatorade. I drink it slowly as she gives me a ride on a golf cart to the medical tents. When we get there, I’m led to a cot, and a young nurse takes my blood pressure. After the air releases from the blood pressure cuff, the nurse tells me my pressure is low and that I should rest until I feel better. I don’t have the heart to tell her that feeling better is not an option.
I lie down on the cot and pull the space blanket up to my chin. I feel utterly exhausted, like every molecule of energy I’ve ever had has been drained away to nothing. Who knew that running flat out for thirty minutes could induce the same feeling as halfway between shit-faced and sobering up?
Runner’s high, I guess. Same damn thing as any other high.
Time passes. After a while, I begin to feel better, and silly. What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? Am I so thin-skinned that one encounter with Henry has me chasing my tail (OK, Henry’s tail) until I hit the wall? All this because of a boy? I’ve got to pull myself together. Like U2 says. I’m stuck in a moment I can’t get out of.
You said it, Bono. And nice guitar riff, The Edge. You work that shit.
I sit up, and the world stays steady. I kick off the blanket, and the cool air doesn’t kill me. I unpin the number from my chest and unclip the tracker from my shoe, leaving them both on the cot. I tell the nurse I’m leaving, and she reminds me to take it easy.
I find Amy waiting for me outside the tent with Rory. Amy’s face is glowing, and she has a medal hanging around her neck.
I give them a small wave. “Hey, guys.”
Rory looks concerned. “What happened to you?”
“Turns out I’m not Supergirl.” I notice the camera in Rory’s hand. “Thanks for coming, Ror. Sorry you didn’t get your shot.”
“I had a place in my scrapbook all picked out and everything.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Amy laughs. “You two always have such intellectual conversations?”
“We’ve known each other since we were five,” Rory says by way of explanation. “It stuck.”
“How did you do?” I ask Amy.
She looks proud of herself. “Fifty-two minutes.”
“That’s great! Sorry I slowed you down.”
“Are you kidding? I beat my goal by three minutes, even with the medical diversion.”
Apparently chasing after Henry makes me a good pace bunny.
“Should we go?”
Amy and Rory exchange a guilty glance.
“What is it?”
“Someone wants to talk to you first,” Rory says, pointing over her shoulder.
I look, but I don’t really have to. I know it’s going to be Henry, and sure enough, there he is, sitting on a park bench with a green-and-orange Gatorade cup in his hand, looking nervous.
“You going to go over there?” Amy asks.
“Thinking about it.”
“You know you have to actually walk to get there, right?”
“Fuck off, Ror.”
“You want us to wait?”
“Nah. I’ll be all right.”
I walk toward Henry with as much dignity as I can muster with my worn-out legs, sweaty body, and disheveled hair straggling out of my baseball cap. Henry’s face is red above his blue running shirt. His finisher’s medal is poking out of his pocket.
“I hear you wanted to talk to me.”
“I do.”
“What about?”
He pats the bench next to him. “Will you sit for a minute?”
I sit. He plays with the edge of the empty cup.
“So . . .”
“So . . . I wanted to tell you why I never called you back.”
My mouth goes dry. “Why didn’t you?”
“It’s kind of complicated . . . but . . . you see . . . shit, this would be so much easier if we could go for a run.”
The thought of running right now is so absurd I almost laugh out loud. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
He looks at me with concern in his eyes. “Rory said you were in the medical tent. Are you OK?”
“I just ran too fast, that’s all.”
“That happened to me in my first race too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We lapse into our standard silence.
Suddenly, I can’t stand it anymore.
“Henry, one of us is going to have to do something, or say something.”
“I know, Kate.”
“You wanted to talk . . .”
He smiles. “Which puts me on deck.”
“Yup.”
“You talking like me now?”
“Seems like.”
He reaches over and takes my hands in his. Surprised, I look into his blue-gray eyes.
“Remember when we first met, what I told you?”
I think back to the memories that are still crisp and clear. “You told me that women don’t like the strong, silent type.”
“Right, and that’s what I bring to the table. And I know that’s not easy to deal with, but . . .”
“You met me in rehab.”
“It wasn’t just that, Kate. I could deal with that . . . but then, when you were drinking again, and the rest of it came out . . . everything just seemed way too complicated.”
“And the beginning’s supposed to be simple.”
“It is.”
“It’s funny, because I thought it felt simple most of the time.”
“So did I.”
“So it wasn’t just me?”
“No. It wasn’t just you.”
We smile at each other. My hands feel warm in his.
“Do you think we could make it simple again?” I ask.
“I’d like to try.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
We smile again, and I begin to feel a little silly. I pull my hands away gently.
“So, what happens now?”
“I don’t know . . . do you want to maybe get dinner with me?”
“You mean, go on a date?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going to happen on this date?”
He brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Oh, you know. You’ll wear something sexy, I’ll press my chinos, and we’ll talk.”
“You’re going to talk?”
“I promise.”
“What about?”
His thumb skims the bridge of my nose. “Maybe I’ll tell you about my new job teaching rich prep school kids King Lear.”
“So, you’re not dating Olivia?”
He drops his hand. “No. God no.”
“Good.”
“Why did you ask me that?”
“Oh
, I saw this photo . . .”
“In People ?”
“Yeah.”
“You of all people should know better than to believe anything you read in there.”
“Why? Everything I wrote was true.”
His face clouds. “I guess it was.”
“Shit, Henry, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”
“But I want to . . .”
“No, Kate.”
Henry leans toward me, and our lips touch gently. His feel soft, firm, warm, welcoming, and I give in to the kiss.
Someone lets out a whoop near us and we pull apart.
“I’m afraid that might’ve been my friends.”
He smiles. “Let’s give them something to really whoop about, then.”
He slips his hand to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. This time the kiss is hotter, wetter, firmer, full of promise. And, oh yes, I remember this. I remember, I remember.
I pull back, and when I look into his eyes I see the same promise I felt in his kiss.
“So you think we should forget the past?”
“I think that’s best. Don’t you?”
Kiss me one more time, and I’ll agree to anything.
I concentrate. “I think that . . . ‘I am but mad north-north-west; but when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.’”
“You’re quoting Shakespeare to me?”
“It feels like that kind of day.”
“We’re not crazy, Kate.”
“Aren’t we?”
He tips my chin toward his, and this kiss is one for the record books. Like the last kiss in The Princess Bride, it leaves all the others behind. They’re dust.
“OK, maybe a little crazy,” Henry says when we pull apart, breathless.
“I told you.”
“Still, I’m willing to risk it if you are.”
Henry waits for me to answer.
Here it is, Kate. Here’s the moment. Here’s where you have to choose. Are you ready?
“I was running after you. That’s why I was in the medical tent.”
He laughs. “If I knew you were running after me, I would’ve slowed down.”
“Henry, that might just be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, it’s a start.”
It’s our start, anyway.
Katie’s Playlist
Chapter 1: “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree,” KT Tunstall
Chapter 2: “Redemption Song,” Bob Marley and the Wailers
Chapter 3: “Hey There Delilah,” Plain White-T’s
Chapter 4: “Displaced,” Azure Ray
Chapter 5: “Blackbird,” The Beatles
Chapter 6: “One Headlight,” The Wallflowers
Chapter 7: “Suffragette City,” David Bowie
Chapter 8: “Hello Goodbye,” The Beatles
Chapter 9: “Come on Get Higher,” Matt Nathanson
Chapter 10: “Love Song,” Sara Bareilles
Chapter 11: “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda,” The Pogues
Chapter 12: “Home,” Sheryl Crow
Chapter 13: “Bad Day,” Daniel Powter
Chapter 14: “The One Who Loves You the Most,” Brett Dennen
Chapter 15: “Hide and Seek,” Imogen Heap
Chapter 16: “Tangled Up in Blue,” Bob Dylan
Chapter 17: “You and Me of the 10,000 Wars,” Indigo Girls
Chapter 18: “What’s That You Say Little Girl?” Stephen Fretwell
Chapter 19: “Back to Where I Was,” Eric Hutchinson
Chapter 20: “Fix You,” Coldplay
Chapter 21: “When the Stars Go Blue,” Ryan Adams
Chapter 22: “The Boys Are Back in Town,” Thin Lizzie
Chapter 23: “Gangsta’s Paradise,” Coolio
Chapter 24: “Hold On,” David Gray
Chapter 25: “Details in the Fabric,” Jason Mraz (feat. James Morrison)
Chapter 26: “Apologies,” Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Chapter 27: “Running to Stand Still,” U2
Bonus Track: “World Spins Madly On,” The Weepies
Acknowledgments
Since the birth of her son, my sister has been taking all the credit. Hey, she says, I grew him inside me, and then I breastfed him until his six-month size. That kid is mine.
I understand the sentiment, but . . . just like my sister knows others played a part in his existence and growth, I also had a lot of help bringing this book into the world.
So, in no particular order (I have to say that, right?), I’d like to thank:
My best friend, Tasha, for too many things to name here, but especially for being a lifelong friend, for reading the first draft of everything I write, and for having the courage to let me speak at her wedding. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I have two sisters, and you are one.
All those who read early drafts, especially my mom, Katie, and David.
Amy, for keeping me writing once I got started, and for on-the-money, pull-no-punches insights. Also for great dinners and laughter.
Phyllis, for her long friendship, and for collaborating with me on my first writing project, too embarrassing to reveal. OK, it was a script for Remington Steele. Seriously. In our defense, we were thirteen.
The Bromont Gang (in alphabetical order this time): Amy, Annie, Candice, Chad, Christie, Dan, Eric, Katie, Kevin, Lindsay, Marty, Olivier, Patrick, Phil, Presseau, Sara, Stephanie, Tanya, and Thierry. For laughter, good times, and (most of all) encouragement.
My mom, for being a constant reader; my dad, the other writer in the family; my sister, who wants to be called Cam now, but will always be Cammy to me; and my brother, Mike. I love you guys. Also my grandparents, Roy and Dorothy McKenzie, for their love, support, and longevity, and my in-laws, Michael and Jennifer, for always being welcoming.
Janet, for long runs and complaints. Peter, for conversations about music. And the rest of my law partners, for indulging me in this decidedly nonlegal pursuit.
Tish Cohen, Julie Buxbaum, Cathy Marie Buchanan, Leah McLaren, Holly Kennedy, David Sprague, and Diane Saarinen for their early support of my work. And Shawn Klomparens, who always said this day would happen.
My agent, Abigail Koons, for her faith, hard work, and friendship, as well as the whole team at Park Literary. My editor at HarperCollins Canada, Jennifer Lambert, for falling in love with my book and making it better, and my editors at HarperCollins US, Emily Krump and Stephanie Meyers, for believing that more than a few Canadians might enjoy the read.
And David. Thank you for your support, for putting up with me typing next to you while we watch TV, and for letting me talk (a lot).
This is starting to feel like my grad note, so: Carpe diem.
Read on for an excerpt from
Arranged
Catherine McKenzie
Available in May 2012 from
Chapter 1
Enough is Enough
“I read your emails,” I tell Stuart.
His head snaps up from his copy of Maxim. His sock-covered feet are resting on the glass coffee table that sits in front of the leather couch we bought six months ago. An innocent pose, though he’s guilty as hell.
“You what?”
“You heard me.”
The planes of his angular face harden. “I’d better not be hearing you.”
I feel a moment of guilt. Then I remember what I read. “I read your emails. All of them.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “How could I violate your privacy? Is that what you were going to say? Don’t you talk to me about violations, Stuart. Don’t you even dare.”
He shuts his mouth so quickly his teeth click. His wheels are spinning. I can almost see the movement behind his eyes, which can be so warm, so sexy, so everything, but at this moment are so cold, so hard, and so damn blue.
“What do you think you read, Anne?” he says eventually, his voice tightly controlled, a blank sla
te.
“Are you really going to make me say it out loud?”
He stays silent. The light from the reading lamp glints off of his straight black hair. A clock ticks on the mantel above the fireplace, measuring out the seconds I have left here.
I take a deep breath. “I know you slept with Christy. I know you’ve been sleeping with her for a while.”
There. I said it. And even though I knew it, even though I read it, actually saying it brings it to life in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It’s so much larger now that it’s in the room. So much worse. Like Christy is here with us. Like she’s repeating the words she wrote to him, in the soft, sultry voice I heard once on the answering machine. Words I can’t erase.
The clock keeps ticking. I feel caught, waiting for him to do or say something.
Say something, goddamn it. Say something!
He stands up like he heard me. The magazine slaps to the polished wood floor.
“Well, bravo, Anne, you caught me! What’re you going to do about it?”
Jesus Christ. Wouldn’t it be great if you could videotape people during a breakup? Wouldn’t it be great if you could have access to that videotape at the beginning of a relationship?
Look how this guy’s going to be treating you in six, eight, ten months. Look how he treated the girl he spent three years with! Run away, run away!
My breath rattles in my throat, but I get the words out. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re leaving,” he repeats, maybe a statement, maybe a question. Like something he can’t quite bring himself to believe.
“Do you really expect me to stay? After what you’ve done? Is that what you even want?”
His eyes shift away from mine, the first sign of weakness. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, Stuart, please. This is exactly what you want. You just don’t want to be the bad guy. So instead, you’ve made sure I’ll be the one who ends it. And I’ve been too stupid to figure that out until now.”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
“I’ve just finished telling you I’ve been stupid. But, yes, today I think I’m being smart.”
“Well, I’m not leaving the apartment, if that’s what you think is going to happen.”
“God, you really don’t know me at all, do you? After all this time.”
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