Sundays were usually slow to start, for the guests. I went for a longer run this time, the need to get away from the fantasies I shouldn’t be having about a guy I should hate driving me insane. I pushed myself, speeding up until I was drenched with sweat and I hurt all over.
By the time I stopped, I was panting heavily, bent over with my hands on my knees as I tried to recover from six miles of pounding. I would pay for this later, I was sure of it.
Straightening after a minute, I stretched carefully, then took a quick dip in the ocean. It felt great on my overheated skin. After sufficiently cooling down, I walked back to the motel, thinking how strange it was to be hit on by Wheeler Ridley—who was gay, oh God—and he didn’t even know who I was. It would have been perfect had it happened
