Fools Rush In. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ medical student, no pride, nothing to lose. And Katie had been with me, so it was more of a hoot. We’d snickered and whispered and tried not to wet ourselves when we laughed too hard, snorting into our arms to muffle our noise. And although my running plan hinged on Joe leaving home when I thought he did, I was nonetheless acutely aware of how ridiculous this was. Local Doctor Caught Lurking Outside Handsome Man’s Home. Charges Being Pressed.

      6:05. The birds had settled down a bit, getting to work, finding their worms and bugs and the like. The wind quieted, too, sighing gently through April’s new leaves. My feet tingled from lack of proper blood supply. The tingling quickly turned to pain. I stretched out a leg from my squatting position and instantly tipped over, plopping into the cold mud, which seeped through my sweatpants, freezing my already-cold skin. My sense of idiocy grew.

      6:15. I began hearing the noises of people waking up and getting ready for the day. A dog barked. Don’t find me, I prayed. Doors opened and closed, cars started. Mr. Snow (Nick, not John) drove his blue Oldsmobile gently over the bumps and ruts as he left for work in Orleans.

      6:20. I felt itchy. Could I have touched poison ivy, or was that just regular, unshowered, morning itchy? Couldn’t tell. Cramp in blood-deprived legs. I stood up slowly and let the old circulatory system have a break. Not too much of a break, though. Would rather suffer agonizing pain than have Joe see me here.

      6:28. Thank God! A door slammed, a dog barked, an engine started, and Joe’s battered truck lurched out of his driveway. He didn’t see me. I waited a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back, then stood up. On painfully buzzing feet, I made my way back to the road, brushing clumps of mud and oak leaves off my clothes. Luck decided to join me, and I didn’t see anyone I knew as I walked quickly down the road. Once on Massasoit, I was safe. I made it to my car as Father Bruce, my pastor, opened the doors for 7:00 mass. He looked a bit startled to see me but waved as I got into my car. I ignored him and drove away.

      Back home, I showered, made some coffee and got ready for work. Now that the deed was done, my feelings of stupidity faded. I had secured my information. I was armed with knowledge. Tomorrow would be the Day of the Run. Day One of Getting Joe.

      

      THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE UP at the horrifying hour of 5:30. I had gone to bed at 9:00 the night before but hadn’t been able to fall asleep for some time. The mirror was not my friend as I gazed at my puffy eyes, dark circles—and what was this? A pimple on my chin topped off my attractiveness for the day.

      Never mind. I had to do this. If I didn’t get started, I’d never get my man. So this was just a tiny sacrifice compared to the happiness that I would find as Joe’s girlfriend/fiancée/wife.

      I showered and shaved my legs, even though I would be wearing long pants. I washed my hair and conditioned it, then spent twenty minutes applying gel, drying and spraying it into place so it looked adorably tousled and unaffected. Because I was desperate, I drank one cup of coffee as I fed Digger. Then I got dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I had finally settled on one that said Massachusetts Department of Correction.

      At 6:10, I left the house with a leaping, frenzied, joyful dog and drove to the Little Creek parking area on Doane Road. This site was used for the beach shuttle in the summer, so as not to have too many cars clogging up the area. Tourists and locals alike could park here and hop on an electric shuttle bus that would chauffeur them right to the beach. It was convenient, environmentally sound and wicked fun. It was here that I would hide my car, only about a mile and a half from my house. I could, theoretically, run from home to the Joe meeting point, but this morning was not about exercise.

      Little Creek was not yet open, but I drove down the fire road and parked illegally. Even if I was caught, most of the rangers knew my Honda (thanks to my M.D. plates) and wouldn’t mind, I reasoned. It was off season, after all. My watch read 6:19. In approximately thirteen minutes, I would be talking to Joe Carpenter. Time to go.

      Digger and I trotted easily down Doane Road, which led to two of the world’s most beautiful beaches, Coast Guard and Nauset Light. My goal was eventually to be able to run around my “block,” which was roughly four miles in circumference, past these two gifts from God, past the Outer Cape Senior Center and back home. But I was still at the two-mile stage, two and a half if I was lucky.

      Heart pounding healthfully away, I turned onto Nauset. I trotted along, trying to lengthen my usual trudging stride, opening up so I would look more natural and less tortured. Digger enjoyed our brisk pace, as he usually had to adjust his fast little legs to an awkward walk-trot when we weren’t trying to impress a man. Now, as I glided along, he could actually canter, which no doubt looked much better to the idle observer. I looked at my watch. 6:30. Perfect. Joe would be leaving his house, perhaps already on Massasoit, headed my way. As I ran, waving occasionally at a walker or bike rider, I pictured Joe’s progress across town. Now he should be at the Route 6 intersection. If the light is green, he’ll be here in less than a minute. If red, maybe two minutes. Three, tops.

      Mr. Demers was out in his yard, doing a little early morning gardening. He had been a friend of Gran, and I was happy to see him out and about. A tall, imposing, white-haired gentleman, he was from one of the Cape’s oldest families and had that regal sense of belonging. He knew everything there was to know about local history, from native tribes to shipwrecks to Hurricane Gloria, and occasionally gave talks at the library.

      “Hi, Mr. Demers!” I called, waving.

      “Good mawnin’, Millie Baahnes!” he bleated, his accent thick even by Massachusetts standards. He stood up from his planting. “Goin’ to be a beautiful day!”

      “Yes, sir!” I answered. Happy with the world, I checked my watch. Any second now.

      It was at this moment that Digger decided his bowels couldn’t wait. Right at the mouth of Mr. Demers’s pristine oyster-shell driveway, he entered into the telltale squat.

      “No, Digger!” I snapped. “Heel!”

      Digger didn’t heel. I was absolutely not going to have him poop on Mr. Demers’s driveway, especially with the homeowner watching with a frown. I dragged my still-crouching dog along until we were off Mr. Demers’s property. Then I relented, glancing anxiously down the road for a maroon truck, and let Digger have his way. When he was done, on we went.

      It was now 6:36, and I was starting to breathe more heavily. That was okay. I was running, after all, I rationalized. It had been seventeen minutes, and only very athletic people can maintain this level of exercise. But I did slow down. I was a little sweaty, and I didn’t want to overdo the glowing thing.

      No Joe. Where was he? I kept running. The senior center was about a mile up the road, which gave me a comfortable cushion of time. I could make a mile last a good ten minutes. Twelve, even.

      Oooh! I heard a truck. Don’t turn around, Millie. I opened up my stride again, delighting my dog. Here came the truck…it had to be him. Stride, stride, stride. Truck passed. Not Joe.

      Damn! Where was he? It was now 6:42. He was downright late. Maybe he’d stopped for coffee, I reasoned. That was possible, though not what my research showed. Still, it could certainly happen.

      Things were getting pathetic. I was out of breath but had to keep running because this part of road was straight, and I would see a car or truck before I could hear it. Thus, I would be unable to break into a run before the driver spotted me, and hence, I would look stupid. I slowed down again. Again my dog stopped, this time to pee.

      “Hurry up, Digger,” I instructed. He looked at me, wagged and continued peeing. And now that he was doing that, I realized СКАЧАТЬ