and poured herself some water, spilling a bit thanks to the tremble in her hands.
“When you’re writing a feature story for the race organization’s magazine, you carry a bit more sway.”
Angela looked to Eva for help. But Eva wasn’t paying attention, and Angela didn’t miss how she winced as she leaned into a stretch that involved her ankle.
Finally, Angela groaned. “Fine. But you can’t distract us with a bunch of questions, all right?” Goodness. She sounded like an irritated Kylee. Simon was her friend, and he’d done nothing wrong. And this was his job—it wasn’t like he’d purposefully arranged to hang around in order to bully her into a relationship. It was a difficult situation for both of them.
She stepped closer to him, lowered and softened her voice. “I’m sorry. Today has been kind of rough.”
His shoulders relaxed. “I can imagine. But you’ve done, what? Seventy miles?”
“Sixty-nine. But who’s counting?” Angela forced some levity into her voice.
“Right.” Simon winked, and something fluttered to life in her stomach.
Uh-oh.
They all finished their water and took off walking again, Simon chatting with Marc about the experience so far. Since he couldn’t very well write and walk at the same time, he used a digital recorder to tape the conversation. Marc oozed enthusiasm for the scenery and the opportunity to honor his two friends. Sometimes Angela forgot that Marc had originally planned to do this race with Brent and Wes—and then he’d gotten stuck with her and Eva instead. Not that he minded being with Eva, although Angela imagined it must feel strange to be out here with his best friend’s wife.
Angela relaxed into the walk, commanding her heart rate to slow, her feet not to feel the rub, rub, rubbing of foot against wet sock, to embrace the pain as motivation. As remembrance.
Then Simon moved on to chatting with Eva, and Angela felt the adrenaline build in her veins, rushing, rushing, never stopping. Her heart seemed to throb to its own rhythm as Eva chattered, her thoughts a jumble of musings about why she was here and what she was feeling. What would it feel like to understand her own emotions?
Why was it so difficult to know her own heart? Angela had made progress, sure, but would she ever come to the point where she could be an open book emotionally—to herself and the world?
“Your turn, Ang.” Simon dropped back to walk next to her.
Angela checked her watch. They had approximately one mile until the final checkpoint for the night. That meant she only had to spend fifteen, maybe twenty more minutes in Simon’s presence for today. “Okay.”
The path clung tight to the side of a curving hill, and the front pads of her feet smoldered against her shoes as they descended. But suddenly the passage straightened and plunged downward, large boulders on either side. A view of some lake overtook the entire horizon. From where she stood, she couldn’t see the rest of the trail.
Simon clicked on the recorder once more. “How has the race been for you so far?”
Angela eyed the device in his hands and then focused on the roadway in front of her so she didn’t stumble. “Look around us. It’s amazing.” That was the truth, even if her aching body and fuzzy brain couldn’t allow her to fully appreciate it.
“What about the race itself? What emotions have you been feeling?”
“Pretty much the gamut. It’s been a challenge.”
Silence. “Anything more specific?”
The trail became steep, and she planted one foot in front of the other. “Who’s asking? Simon the journalist or Simon my friend?” Come on, Angela. He’s just doing his job. Don’t make it worse. “I’m sor—”
“I didn’t think Simon your friend existed anymore.” He stuffed the recorder into his pocket. “Or that you acknowledged him, anyway.”
Angela yelped as her right foot slipped. Thankfully she regained her footing quickly. “I thought you said you were going to keep things strictly professional.” Her tone . . . ugh, so nasty.
Her stomach cramped with hollowness. She needed this to end. Now. But she couldn’t leave Simon in the dust. Like a good teammate, she had to stay within fifty feet of Eva and Marc at all times.
At last the land leveled out, and in the distance she saw the Stage 3 overnight checkpoint and hundreds of tiny tents beyond it.
“You’re right, I did.” He blew out a breath, his tone exasperated. And who could blame him? He was dealing with the worst version of Angela at the moment. Still, he should