Pepped Up Forever

by Ali Dean

  That part seems like an afterthought to her, like it’s not earthshattering news. When I found out, I was kind of traumatized. But my history with the two of them was different.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “About his feelings for you? No, because Jace said something that one time, and I kind of suspected. It was actually sort of nice he cleared up that he didn’t still harbor some big crush on you, because, I’m not going to lie, I’ve always thought he might.” Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  “No, I mean about Jace being his brother. Jim being his dad. Wasn’t that a shocker?” It’s weird, for some reason I’m not as relieved that she knows about it as I thought I would be. It’s like she’s part of our inner circle now, and I don’t know where I stand anymore. She’s special to Wes in a way I never will be, and Jace and I, well, we may never be like that again either. I almost feel pushed out, like she’s replacing me. But I know that’s stupid, so I swallow it down and try to be happy for her. Happy that Wes trusts her with this.

  “Yes and no, you know? I mean, when you found out weren’t you kinda like, hot damn, I see it now. They are so totally similar, it’s almost amazing no one’s figured it out, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So yeah, it’s just, awesome being in love. And how’s it going back with Jace? I bet the sparks are flying!”

  “Uh, no.” And I tell her about everything, how I’m not sure I trust him, and that even before running into Veronica things weren’t like they used to be.

  When Zoe reacts similarly to my housemates, and barely even entertains the idea that Jace was cheating on me, I start to detach from the conversation. Is my life so crazy that a girl scheming about hooking up with Jace is more believable than her actually hooking up with him? Is it Jace who makes my reality so twisted? Or is it me? Are my friends so accustomed to the unexpected in my life that they don’t see things clearly? Or am I the one with blurred vision?

  When we get off the phone some time later, I’m tempted to go on a run, even though we had a brutal workout several hours ago. Like, so tempted, I start to change into running clothes. Jace opens my door, and I head over to my computer to do homework while he sits in the armchair to do his. He’s been coming over every night this week and sleeping on an air mattress. It’s a pretty twisted arrangement.

  But instead of taking my cue to ignore each other, he breaks the silence. “You didn’t tell me Buns and Wallace are getting married.”

  Refusing to glance away from my laptop, I simply shrug. “Yeah, they’re engaged.”

  “That’s great. I’m so happy for Bunny, you know? She’ll have someone to take care of her and to take care of as she gets older. He really loves her.”

  I spin in my chair and glare at him. Who does he think he is saying this lovey dovey stuff? “I can take care of her, and she takes care of me. She doesn’t need him. That’s not why they’re getting married.”

  He keeps a steady gaze on me, and doesn’t seem to react to my words.

  “It’s okay to need someone, Pepper. It doesn’t mean she’s not totally awesome on her own, but he’s good for her, and it’s easier doing things with someone else sometimes. They have fun together and look out for each other. Lulu’s done that for her, but this is different. And you’re going to be busy and some day you might have kids of your own, and this way she’ll have –”

  “Jace,” I cut him off. “You’re not being very subtle, okay? Are you trying to say I might be fine on my own but I’m better with you? Because you didn’t think so two years ago,” I say, turning back to my computer, and hoping I’ve closed the conversation. But when he shifts to the edge of the seat and opens his mouth again, I know I’ve done the opposite. Without meaning to, I just opened that door, and we’re going there, whether I’m ready for it or not.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jace

  She wouldn’t look at me, but I kept talking anyway. “Do you not believe in happily ever afters anymore? Or just not for us?” I asked.

  “Just not for us,” she said to the computer screen. “Let me rephrase.” She tilted her head but still wouldn’t make eye contact. “I’m happy. You seem happy. We will not be happy together.”

  “I don’t believe you. And you don’t believe that either. About us not being happy together. Yeah, we can be good on our own, but we’re better together.”

  “Why are you so confident now? Where was this confidence two years ago?”

  She was asking now, and I took this opportunity to tell her everything, all the things I had wanted to say starting with the day I found my mom’s place empty until the day I approached her at that track cookout several months later. When I got to that part, I told her, “I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life at that point, but I didn’t know how to fix it. And you wouldn’t take me back. That’s when I started seeing a counselor, or a therapist or whatever, for a few months over the summer. He helped me figure out all the stuff I just told you. Why I acted the way I did. We stopped having sessions when football started. I was busy and I think I got all I needed out of it. Mainly, I learned that I was chickenshit, a coward, just like you called it, and if I ever wanted you back I’d have to confront those fears.”

  “You’re saying you changed for me?” she asked dubiously, and the cynicism in her voice almost stopped me. She had changed too, and it was my fault. Because some of the changes weren’t good for her. Pepper had never been a distrustful, cynical person, but when it came to me, she was.

  “For you, because of you, yeah, but for me too. Because that wasn’t any way to live. Hell, I wasn’t really living. After Annie left and I pushed you away, I was holding on by a thread, and I couldn’t keep it up. I couldn’t keep all my resentment and anger and whatever else inside anymore. About Annie, not you,” I clarified. “It’s weird, like, once I realized that it was only getting worse the more I ignored it, I started talking to my dad, and Frankie, and even Buns sometimes, about everything. And I ran too, and just let the emotions out. But you were the one every day I wanted to be talking with more than anyone. That never went away.”

  She was looking at me now, finally.

  “How do I know you won’t do it again?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

  “Do what?” I thought I knew, but I needed to be sure.

  “Hurt me.” She meant everything: the disappearing act that day I found out Annie left, the closing her out, refusing to talk to her, breaking up with her, letting her think I had moved on.

  “You have to trust me,” I forced out. It was hard to say, because I didn’t know if she could and if she couldn’t, I didn’t know where that left us. Or I did, but I didn’t want to think about it.

  A single tear ran down her cheek and she didn’t wipe it away. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Do you want to?” I was in front of her now, literally on my knees, my face inches from hers.

  “I don’t know that either,” she whispered.

  More than anything, my body ached to fold her in my arms and kiss away all Pepper’s confusion and doubts. But we couldn’t go back to that halfway place we were at, where we gave each other our bodies but she held back the most important piece of her. So I rocked back on my heels and told her, “Okay, I’ll be here, waiting.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Pepper

  It’s the third meet of the season, the first official one, and the pressure’s on. After the scrimmage, we had an invitational in California that we go to every year, and I won. So now I have a “winning streak” going and I almost feel like I don’t deserve it, like I haven’t worked hard enough for it. Yes, I go to all the workouts with the team and push myself until it hurts, but sometimes I’m only halfway present. Sometimes I feel like there’s another emotion inside of me, blocking that competitive fire in me from raging with full intensity. I can’t quite reach it. Whatever. I’m just making excuses. Maybe I’m just lazy and don’t want to experience the physical distress that comes with gi
ving it my all, laying it all out there on the course.

  But as we gather in a circle before toeing the line, the familiar, comforting sensation that is so accurately called team spirit overwhelms me, and I remember that this is bigger than my own mind games. I’m part of something that’s stronger than the emotions writhing around inside me. These girls want me to succeed, just like I want the same for them. Lexi offers a short pep talk and I add my three words, “Let’s do this!”, before we cheer and jog to the starting line.

  This is the first year we’ve gone to this invitational. It’s in Kentucky, and instead of racing mostly west coast teams, like we did at the California invitational, this meet has teams from the east coast that we usually only see at Nationals. Jenny Mendoza is here with BU, but I only had a few minutes to chat with her during warm-up. She seems to have hit it off with her new teammates, which is no surprise, and is already one of their top runners. Hopefully we can talk more after the race.

  I haven’t felt nervous like this for a race in a long time. I mean, I always get pre-race jitters, but these nerves are new. Instead of pure excitement and “go get ‘em” vibes, I actually have a little bit of “oh, shit, I hope I can pull this off” running through my mind when the gun goes off. In an odd way, it’s refreshing. All that optimism seems false, because as soon as I reach a steep hill or see the finish line, my body trembles in fear, unable to bring it up to the next level, and settling for a more comfortable pace. To be clear, racing is never comfortable, but there are levels of pain, and I know I’m not reaching the black zone – that place where you actually kind of black out from the pain, but you are so proud of yourself afterward. I’m more in the purple zone – the same pangs I get at practice, hazy twinges that make me feel good about myself for working hard but are totally manageable.

  It’s almost like I’ve become complacent, and as soon as I hit a certain level of pain, when it becomes hard, I back off and say, “Enough.” That didn’t used to be me. I used to work through it, but somewhere along the way, I got scared. Jace might have been right about one thing. It’s fear holding me back. Fear that I’m not good enough? Fear that I’ll fail even if I give it my all? I’m not really sure.

  I’m overthinking everything as I stride along with the other runners through the first mile. Is this pace right? Does it hurt too much or not enough? Should I break away now or later? Wait, I’m not even with the front runners here, I suddenly realize, as Coach Harding shouts for me pick it up. What am I doing? I surge forward, passing girls as I look ahead to where the leaders roll through the two-mile marker.

  I’m slightly panicked, but not because I don’t think I can catch them; if anything, I do well when I come from behind, especially if it’s not the very end of the race and I’ve got a couple miles to go. No, I’m freaking out because I completely spaced out the first half of the race. That might be a first. Well, I was thinking, but not in the moment. Shit, I’m doing it again.

  Get the girl in the purple uniform first, then the yellow one, then hang on with the one in baby blue. She looks like she’s got a great pace going, and I should follow her until mile three, then go for it. I start talking myself through the actual people in front of me instead of getting carried away with introspection. Now is not the time for that.

  And for next mile, I’m having fun, enjoying the thrill of chasing someone and catching them and then doing it again. I’ve been with the girl in baby blue, from the University of North Carolina, I think, for a couple of minutes, and I can see mile marker three ahead. There’s a group of five ahead of us, the lead pack, and I’ve been contemplating when to go after them. But my body is definitely in the purple zone already, with edges of black, and if I push forward now, I might bonk before the finish line. College cross courses are 6K, or 3.7 miles, and it’s easy to forget it when I see the three-mile marker. In high school, races were only 5K, or 3.1 miles, and that last marker meant the end of the race, finish line in sight.

  So I settle in behind the girl in baby blue, and when the finish line finally does come in sight, the lead pack is too far for me to reach. A couple of girls try to sprint past me, and I dig a little deeper in order to fend them off, coming in ahead of baby blue and the others and feeling like I didn’t give up entirely. But I know I did give up, early on in the race, when I chose not to go with the leaders. I should have been with them, but didn’t want to test myself.

  Sixth place is a really respectable finish at a big invitational like this one, but I find myself struggling to put on a happy front for my team when I chat with Jenny after the race and when the team stops at the Olive Garden for dinner before catching a late flight home. I’m angry with myself. Why didn’t I just go for the win? I talked myself out of it before it even got tough.

  After the race, Jenny gave me the nitty-gritty on the non-running aspects of her life, like Rollie. He’s been incredible supportive, and they’re finding a new groove in Boston, adjusting to a relationship in the midst of the college social scene and academic demands. A tiny part of me is jealous that the transition is going so smoothly for her, even though I’m relieved and happy the two of them are still going strong. I know better than anyone how hard change can be on relationships. Somehow, hearing about how great things are going with my friends’ relationships – Zoe and Wes, Lexi and Brax, Jenny and Rollie – it fuels a fire in me, and not a good one. Loneliness, regret, betrayal, it all rears its ugly head when I think of what could have been for me and Jace. But maybe I’m just in a bad mood from the race; just like everything seems wonderful after a good race, everything seems uglier after a bad race. Jenny wisely didn’t probe me about Jace, and I was thankful for that.

  Caroline’s beside me on the flight home, and when we’re in the air, she calls me out on my fake happy act.

  “You’re bummed about the race,” she says quietly.

  “Not really, it was fine,” I respond vaguely. I hate this feeling, being upset about my race when I beat my friends and teammates. I’ve gotten over it a bit so it doesn’t feel awkward, but I still feel kind of self-indulgent. I should be happy I’ve got the talent to run so fast, right? But that’s the thing, I know I’ve got a gift, and I want to do it justice, nurture it and develop it like I should.

  “Come on, you suck at faking it, Pepper. I know you’re mad about something. What is it?” There are a lot of ways I could avoid answering truthfully; I could pretend it was Jace, or Wolfe, or Gran’s engagement. But I’ve been shying away from honest conversations a lot lately, especially with Jace, and I’ve got to let some of this turmoil out into the light.

  So I tell her everything, all the thoughts that run through my head when I’m racing, the reluctance to test myself, the inability to break through that barrier and push through to the next level. It feels good, sharing this with Caroline. She’s always been a good listener; she doesn’t interrupt, but her facial expressions tell me she’s listening intently. And she rarely gives advice, so when she does, I listen.

  “Are you angry about something else? Something that might not have anything to do with running?” She doesn’t ask this like a psychologist might, like she knows the right answer, and wants me to say it. Actually, she asks it likes she’s reflecting on something totally unrelated to me and my issues.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just, everything you said, it sounds a lot like how I felt after my dad died.”

  Instantly, I feel terrible. Caroline doesn’t talk a lot about her dad, but I know he died of cancer the summer before her sophomore year in high school.

  “After he died, I lost a lot of weight, which I think I’ve mentioned before. I started running really fast, and the times I ran that cross season are probably the reason I got recruited to UC,” she admits. “But I couldn’t maintain it without injury and I missed track season. I came back for cross season junior year in good shape and at a healthy weight, but I guess I went through what you’re describing. I just couldn’t get to that intense level I was seeking,
the one where you know, without a doubt, there’s nothing left in your system to give. That’s the best feeling, you know? Because no matter what place you get or what your time is, you feel awesome about the race.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe out. She totally gets it. And just knowing that eases some of my regret from the race today. “So, what happened? Do you still feel like that?”

  “No,” she replies with conviction. “Sure, I have an occasional day like that, but it’s rare.”

  “What changed?” Tell me! Fix me!

  She offers a weak smile. “Not to discourage you, but for me, it took time. I saw a counselor for years after my dad died. Actually, I saw one through my freshman year of college. And I realized I was really angry. Have you heard of the five stages of grief?” I nod. “I guess I got stuck on anger. And I got stuck because there wasn’t anyone logical to direct the anger at, besides God, and so it just kind of festered. But over time, the grief got easier and easier, and I think it was really once I got to college that I began to move on and accept it and let go of the anger.”

  “Really?” I’m intrigued, fascinated really. I’ve forgotten all about my own inner turmoil as I think back to Caroline freshman year. She was so quiet most of time, and then occasionally she’d voice an opinion, and it always seemed profound, like she’d really been paying attention. Now she voices her opinions freely, though with more reserve than Gina or Lexi. I knew, of course I knew, that her father dying when she was fifteen was hard on her and affected her, but she’d never shared how it affected her running.

  “Yeah, I mean, I think the biggest turning point for me was when I realized what it was that I was feeling. I didn’t express anger like most teenage girls, I guess,” she says with a little laugh. “I didn’t do anything rebellious, I just kind of shut down, shut people out. My senior year of high school, I realized I didn’t have many friends, and I pretty much never did anything fun. I was still into running, but I knew I didn’t have that same competitive nature I used to have. The one that got me hooked in the first place.”