“It’s not that I’m stressed. There are a million reasons why I should not give a speech, but it would also be entirely inappropriate for me to spend ten minutes of our graduation ceremony talking about my own personal growth when it’s supposed to be a celebration of the entire graduating class.”
I rant to him until I run out of breath.
He laughs at my attitude, and I huff in response. It’s cold enough where I can see the air expel from my mouth.
I pull my jacket tighter around me. It was supposed to be sunny today, but a cloud bank moved in this afternoon.
James loves to run when it’s overcast outside, but I’m not looking forward to sitting on the metal bleachers and freezing in my tights and skirt.
Thankfully, he is only sprinting in two events today and both are toward the beginning of the meet.
He jumps up and down in quick succession, kicking his feet back to invigorate his muscles. “Oh, come on, H, I’m just trying to loosen you up.”
“You’re doing a terrible job,” I say, but I bite back a smile.
When they’re in motion, runners look incredible, but the warm-up process makes them look like baby animals testing out their legs for the first time.
I told James this once, and he was not amused.
“It’s not that cold out,” he says.
“You’re wearing, like, eight layers,” I retort, glaring at his fleece warm-up gear, then pointedly eyeing my tights.
He rubs his hands over my arms in an attempt to warm me up. I don’t feel it between the layers of clothing, but it’s a nice gesture.
“Well, you can put this on while I run,” he says. “Maybe it will bring me good luck.”
He starts pulling off his sweatshirt and sweatpants before I can answer, but I’m grateful for the extra layers and accept them without complaint.
“Oh, cool, a free coat rack,” Dylan’s sharp voice says behind James.
Dylan is completely unbothered by James’s glare as he strips down. They’re both wearing tight shorts and Under Armour long-sleeve shirts that will keep them warm and show off their muscles while they move, and I’m not mad about it.
“I’m a helpful human, not a piece of furniture,” I tell him.
Dylan gives me a mocking half-smile. “Lucky us.”
I roll my eyes but hold out my arms so I can accept the extra layers of fabric.
“Remember what I said about being nice to the people who are doing you a favor,” I shoot back.
“Am I doing you a favor?” Dylan drawls. “Seems like you’re ill-equipped to deal with the elements.”
“You admit to doing something selfless, then?”
James watches us volley back and forth until we’re interrupted by the horn of the loudspeaker.
“All eight hundred meter relay runners at the start,” the deep voice announces, made crackly by the speaker. “One hundred meter runners on deck.”
Dylan turns and walks off toward the starting line without another word, but James pulls me into a quick hug, then plants a kiss on the side of my head before he follows.
“Good luck,” I call out.
I’m not sure who it’s aimed at, but James is the only one who acknowledges it.
I find a spot in the stands that’s more in the middle of the crowd. Most people congregate at the finish line, but I want a good view to watch the entirety of the race from beginning to end.
A few parents wave to me, recognizing me from years of sitting in proximity, and I smile back.
I scan the crowd for the Lawsons, but James’s parents are nowhere to be found. I’m like a daughter to them, and we get along really well, but I admit I’m relieved to not have to keep up small talk with them.
Instead, I wrap myself up in the inherited clothing and force myself to be interested in the events happening on the track and in the field.
As well studied as I am, I hate to admit that my minimal knowledge of the metric system is credited to staring at the track and learning what the different events mean.
Each lap around the track is four hundred meters, and it takes a little more than a minute to run.
Well, for these people. Definitely not me.
Four laps is a mile. The longest race at the meet is two miles—eight laps, which is more than three thousand meters.
Math isn’t my favorite subject, so I tend just to watch people during these meets.
My eyes move back toward the starting line where James and Dylan stand actively ignoring each other.
It’s funny to see them stand in close proximity and wearing their matching uniforms, but it’s clear from my vantage point just how different they are.
I always associate Dylan with a darker, edgier persona, but he’s actually the fairer, taller, and leaner one of the two. His blond hair is slicked back a bit today, no doubt to keep it out of his eyes while he runs.
James, of course, has the physique that I’ve studied for years, but I give myself a few minutes of shameless public gawking to notice how he has really filled out. I guess he does get some use out of that weight set and bench in his garage when I’m not paying attention.
As the other race finishes up, the two of them, seemingly in unison, get prepared for theirs. They’ve both already stretched, but they move their limbs quickly again through the motions to shake out nerves.
Spikes are checked to ensure they’re within regulation before they adjust the starting blocks and get in position.
This is the shortest race at the meet at one hundred meters, one-fourth of a lap.
They’ll start and finish within eleven seconds, and I’ll hold my breath the entire time.
James is in lane one today, and Dylan’s in lane three.
The middle lanes are ideal for the other events because of how each runner takes the curve of the track, but for this one, it apparently doesn’t make too much of a difference. I’ve come by this information somewhat reluctantly, but over the years of watching, I was forced to learn a few things.
The voice over the loudspeaker starts again, announcing the winner of the last race and the start of this one. The chatter around me dies down as the focus shifts to the lanes in front of us.
This is my favorite part of the whole event.
It’s the stillness before the start.
The one final breath before the jump.
The serenity before the chaos.
When James runs, he transforms from something light and airy into pure ferocity. It’s an interesting transformation, like he’s shifting into an alter-ego to tap into a more competitive part of himself.
But when the starter says, “Ready,” my eyes are drawn to Dylan.
He rolls his shoulders to release that tension he wears like armor, as if he’s giving permission for his body to shed its sharpness.
Only he’s not changing into something else. Dylan’s himself to a fault, but he’s revealing something deeper in himself, exposing a new layer to everyone who watches him.
I doubt anyone notices or appreciates it like I do at this moment.
The muscles in his body are more defined when he drops a knee onto the track, like they were made to support this action and nothing else.
“Set.”
His hips lift in the air, and he effortlessly holds his weight in his arms and core. His feet press against the starting block, ready to launch.
He closes his eyes, just for a second, and then he waits.