Every Girl Does It E-Book

Rachel van Dyken

• Herausgeber: 8th Note Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 279

Beschreibung

Amanda turned down nerdy Preston's prom invitation a decade ago. And now she suddenly regrets it. When a grown-up Preston comes to her rescue in the most embarrassing situation imaginable, he has completely transformed... he looks like a god, fit to be Mr. December on his firefighter calendar. Now she's the nerd, and he's the sexy one. And he remembers how she treated him back when they were teens. Preston is quick to infiltrate her circle of friends, and she is forced to hang out with him all the time. Before she knows it, they're headed to Hawaii. This vacation isn't going to end well... but will it be because karma's back to get Amanda... or because she's falling head over heels in love?

Leseprobe

every girl does it

RACHEL VAN DYKEN

Every Girl Does It

by Rachel Van Dyken

www.rachelvandykenauthor.com

Copyright © 2023 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

contents

Author Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

To Laura Heritage,

who, when I received my very first book contract, held my hand and walked me through editing as painlessly as possible…

Also, thanks for stealing my celebratory frappuccino thinking it was yours — that was awesome.

author note

Letting people read this book is a stressful journey… mainly because it was the very first book I wrote! See? Trying not to pass out right now… I wrote it when I had no idea how to use past and present tense and refused to add quotations for dialogue. You can laugh now. ;)

When I re-wrote the story, it was like trying to match two opposite pieces together. As a writer, you grow with each book, so eventually, I could only change a few parts of the story in the end.

For those of you who have read the original copy, this one does have new content and chapters. I tried to keep it as close to the original story as much as possible without changing the voice. ;)

If you read this book and then read my most current work, you'll most likely see a shift in how I write, but it's kind of cool to have some of my earlier works out there.

I hope you enjoy Amanda and Preston's story! Keep reading to the end to see a sneak preview of my latest book, The Dare.

prologue

Oh no. This is not happening, not happening!

I wipe my hands over my pleated skirt, a painfully nervous habit. Sweaty hands are not attractive, or so Brad Macintosh said when he held them during the couple's skate in my seventh-grade year.

It is my first choir solo ever. Why couldn't it be our fall concert instead of our Spring Spectacular? I feel ridiculous standing in front of the entire school with my mouth gaping open, trying to find a middle C. Not to mention the fact that my mother, who is now standing up in the middle of the audience and waving with video camera in hand, forced me to wear a pleated skirt. Thus, the outfit is now screaming uncool on my lanky body.

Never am I this mean, but when I get nervous, I tend to snap at people. All week, I was at odds with my mom for taking pictures of me. She was literally documenting every day of my life up until the big solo or, as she put it, my discovery! Leave it to my mom to make a high school solo into the performance that will get her daughter discovered and a record deal all before her eighteenth birthday. Somehow, I don't think MTV is going to be knocking on our door anytime soon for the amateur footage my mom shot to do a diary on my life before I was famous.

Shaky and clammy, I begin my solo, praying I remember the words. When I finish, I feel like I've run the fifty-yard dash with the way my heart is hammering against my chest, but I then realize everyone is clapping. And the clapping? The cheering? All for me!

In fact, people are beginning to stand up and clap, and I actually feel famous, like I'm a pop star giving my first concert and people love me. THEY LOVE ME! I. Am. Awesome. Move over Britney Spears. There's a new princess in town.

I bow and do a little curtsy, just so they know I'm still humble and wave like Miss America all the way back to my seat with the rest of the choir. Blushing, I try to avoid eye contact with them as they whisper, "Good job." I look humble, but I'm soaring because of how proud I am. I actually did it! Now if only my mom would turn off that ridiculous camera and sit down. My dad gives me a thumbs-up, and oh yes, my mom is wiping a stray tear from her eye. Looking at them, you'd assume I've never done anything exciting in my entire life. I mean, come on, pretty sure my birth was at least a Kodak moment, am I right?

Our choir director grabs the microphone and clears his throat. The entire audience falls silent like he's the president of the United States about to make his State of the Union address.

Our town is small.

And when I say small, I mean everyone knows everyone. I sneeze, and my parents ask if I have a cold when I get home. Just because our choir director used to be a somewhat-famous musician does not mean he should be elected mayor or given the key to the town; however, few agree with my practical assessment. After all, he did give me my starring solo, so I should probably act a little more thankful. So I, like everyone else, hang the stars in my eyes and listen intently for what he is about to say.

"Now, I know we normally end after the starring solo…" He turns and winks at me while I feel my face turn red and hot and hear people chant my name.

Naturally, the damn video camera makes another appearance. My mom waves behind it.

"But…" he says, holding up his hand, "we have a little treat for all of you today. Preston, why don't you come down here?"

Preston? Weird, I didn't know he was in the choir. Poor kid. He'd be more attractive if he turned in the Star Wars T-shirts for some button-ups or at least a white shirt. Seriously. Hanes would do wonders for that boy. He's the only member of the Star Wars fan club; he refuses to acknowledge that George Lucas did in fact make more of the films. He says it's blasphemy to even speak of it. I think it's painfully clear why he's the only member of the club.

Rather than his usual uniform sporting R2D2 or Luke Skywalker, he's wearing an over-large sweater vest and Wrangler jeans way too short for his height. As I'm assessing his wardrobe, my eyes land on Peter Macintosh, my obsession. And I don't say that loosely. For the past two years, I've scribbled his name on my Trapper Keeper in the hope that one day he'll magically look over and ask me to be his girlfriend. I'm a firm believer in hopeless optimism. Besides, what guy wouldn't want to feel more wanted, right? There was always a slight chance it would creep him out, but again, optimism. Say it with me.

I sigh and tilt my head to the side. It helps that he's gorgeous and talented. He's the best basketball player my high school has seen in years. I bet he'd get keys to the town, too.

Hopefully, he asks me to prom. I stare longingly across the way, willing him to make eye contact. I mean, it's only natural for the starting point guard to ask out the soloist of the year, right? Deciding to be bold, I wink at him and notice a faint blush stain his cheeks as his eyes shift downward in nervousness. When he looks up, he lifts his hand in a friendly wave and winks. Wow! A starring solo and the most popular boy in school? Someone should give me a high five. No, really. I'm ready to nudge the girl next to me when I hear screeching feedback from the microphone.

"Amanda Lewis!"

I hear my name; why do I hear my name? Turning, I see Preston staring at me then I notice the entire audience seems to be waiting in suspense.

"What?" I ask in hushed tones. The girl next to me tells me that Preston asked me to approach the front. Strange, but maybe I won an award? Without further hesitation, I walk up and smile brightly as people clap. The temptation to wave again is overwhelming, and I succumb, beaming as I receive another round of applause. Wow, I could get used to this kind of attention. Finally, I reach Preston, but there's no trophy. Bummer.

He grabs for my hand, and before I can pull it away, it's already stuck to his. His thumb rubs over mine. This is awkward. I try to jerk away, but he's stronger than he looks.

"Will you go to prom with me?"

He's kidding. I'm getting pranked. I try to pull away harder. His grip is so freaking firm it's like he's Superman. This can't be real. Is this Candid Camera? Looking around, I notice that everyone in the audience is dead-silent. Even my friends in the choir are sitting there with their mouths gaping open. This is social suicide.

Social suicide, thy name is Amanda Lewis. Goodbye, Peter, so long, keys to the town, any future prom dates, and or lunch-table buddies. Gone.

Taking the microphone out of his super strong hands, I feel the collective hush of people holding their breath. Somehow, I manage to press on as gracefully as possible. "Wow, that's so sweet to offer," I say cheerfully. My mom still has the video camera trained on me. Curse her. We'll have words later.

"But," I say, unsure, my voice wavering, "I already promised that I would go with my cousin. Maybe if you would have asked sooner…?" This is my peace offering, a pathetic one.

"Prom's in two months," Preston replies, defeated.

"I know," I say quickly. "But I wanted to get an early start. So sorry, Preston." I give him a quick side hug, the same hug I give my creepy uncle every Christmas.

He grabs the microphone and tries to smile. "It's okay. You're right. I should have asked sooner. Hey, let's give another round of applause to the soloist of the night!" He backs up and claps for me, but I can see tears in his eyes. Humiliation and it's all my fault. All I want right now is for the floor to open up and swallow me alive. Unfortunately, sudden death doesn't seem to be an option, so I wave with little enthusiasm and find my seat.

A girl next to me nudges my knee. "That was close, huh?" Her eyes are laughing like she's making a joke, but I just want to cry. How cruel can a person be? People around me are muttering words like, ouch, harsh, bummer, and I fight the tears as they start to blur my vision. My throat constricts with a sudden onslaught of emotion as I see Preston slowly move back to his seat and hang his head in his hands. I silently pray for him to lift his head and look in my direction. Instead, nausea overwhelms me as I watch a single tear slide down his cheek. It feels like I just shot Bambi, and the worst part is I can't seem to find the strength to get up, walk over to his seat, and apologize.

one

Four Years Later

How I ended up here, I have no idea. Well actually, I take that back. I do. The whole thing started when my boyfriend of two weeks asked me to be his date at his best friend's wedding. Being the naïve idiot that I am, I said, "Well, of course," because naturally I'm in love with him after fourteen days and will do anything he asks (cue large sigh here). Don't hate me for falling in love so fast. You would too if your date looked like a hotter version of Zac Efron.

So, you can imagine my surprise at the predicament I'm in — not that I shouldn't have seen it coming. A girl should have a sixth sense about some situations. He never let me see his place, nor did he take me out in public, nor did I ever actually meet any of his friends. It was a series of coffee dates and quick, yet promising kisses on the cheek, which led me to this church on this particular day. Desperate? No, I am not, but perhaps I'm a little too hopeful.

Dear friends, who also happen to be happily married, are always reminding me I am young enough to be independent, and free, and I should enjoy this time in my life. Please. I'd roll my eyes and say choice words to them if they could take their eyes off each other long enough to notice. Oh and P.S., they can't. I swear, groping should be an Olympic sport for some people.

Which brings me to why I'm too hopeful — I want what they have. I don't even need a gold in groping. Heck, I'd take a participation medal. I just want to know what it's like to be wanted so desperately that you can't help but starfish yourself to another human. However, my desire to starfish or attach my person to someone else isn't an excuse, not by a long shot.

Crap. I would do anything short of committing a federal crime to leave this place. But I can't. My only ride is with my stupid (you guessed it) ex-boyfriend, who is still in the corner sobbing his eyes out. And you may ask, "Amanda, that's odd. Why is your now ex-boyfriend sobbing his eyes out?" To which I will answer, "Because he's lost his mind."

Literally tossed every brain cell in his possession into a trashcan and set it on fire. No joke.

Looking at him just makes me all the more sick to my stomach. As I said before, I should have known. Used, like some worthless replacement for what he'd really wanted all along, that is what I feel right now, and it's the simple truth.

With all the snot running down his face and the tears, I find myself wondering what I ever saw in him. What is wrong with me? Normally I'm not this stupid. I go for the jocks, but because of bad experiences — which we don't need to review — I'd decided to go for the sensitive, pensive guy with bedroom eyes. Sensitivity might be a nice change, I thought. Well, I got the sensitive part; not what I had in mind.

It would have been nice to know an important little detail. The best friend, whose wedding I just inadvertently destroyed, is a girl. Furthermore, there was no way for me to know this girl was the love of his life, and I was actually going to a wedding to witness my date stand up in the middle of the town — mayor and everyone else I have known since high school — and say, "I object!"

I can't make this stuff up, not even if I tried. Naturally, the groom was a little ticked off. You could tell by the fact that his face and neck got so red his head looked like it was going to pop right off his body. Next thing I know, my ex-boyfriend was grabbing me, yes, GRABBING ME — by my dress strap, I might add — and tugging me to stand up with him. Sorry, but my loyalty didn't run that deep, asshole. Worst. Day. Ever. I briefly contemplated slamming my head against a wall and setting my dress on fire. At least then people wouldn't feel sorry for me because my boyfriend was a deranged lunatic — but rather because I was hurt and clearly needed medical as well as psychological attention.

You can imagine the ruckus he caused, since the bride not only fainted but took all six of her bridesmaids down with her, simultaneously knocking over the giant candle which set part of the church on fire. The highlight of my day was watching the incredibly muscular fireman put the small blaze out. Sometimes my life is pathetic — but I try to find the silver lining.

Firefighters? Silver lining, my friend, silver lining.

But back to my snotty-nosed ex-boyfriend. Maybe if I sneak away quietly, he won't notice I'm gone. I gather my purse and coat and walk toward the door.

Sweet freedom.

I can see it. I can smell it.

Light pours through the windows. YES! Out of my cage! On with my life! Maybe I'll just be done with dating for a while. I could get another cat!

"Amanda?" Ugh, I knew I was lying to myself; I never made it out of my parents' house back in high school. Why would I be able to sneak out now?

Defeated, I turn around to see who had said my name and notice it was one of the firemen. Now I'm curious, but I see the ex-boyfriend slowly look my way as well. Oh no, this is not good. Doing what I do best, I smile at Mr. Hot-Fireman and say, "Hi."

"You don't remember me, do you?" The deep voice sends shivers up my spine; it's like hot buttered rum on a cold winter night.

The ex-boyfriend has a crazed look in his eyes as he stands and runs toward me and Mr. Fireman. Next thing I know, Derek is on top of the fireman, and I'm on top of Derek, pulling him off. Derek, still snot-faced and angry, is throwing punches Ultimate-Fighter-style at the back of Mr. Fireman's head.

"Derek! Get off of him, what are you doing?"

"I'll fight for you, Amanda! Don't worry! I love you!" Men. What the hellfire is his problem? Does he have a cold? Who has that much snot? And what grown man cries when he doesn't get his way? I'll tell you, the ones I date. The definition of lucky is not Amanda. Believe me, I know these things.

The poor hot fireman doesn't even know what hit him; lucky for him he was still wearing his helmet, which blocked part of the blow from Derek. The unfortunate part is, although it did block the hit from Derek, the blow sends the hat flying off the fireman's head into the giant cake, sending the bride yet again into hysterics and more judgmental looks my way. I feel the need to shout, This is not my fault! as I point in Derek's direction. Damn wedding ruiner.

Derek is finally thrown off the fireman, and I escort him outside amidst the entire town shaking their heads in disapproval. Thanks for the help, guys! No one even bothered to get up from their seats. Rude. Whatever happened to community involvement?

"Derek, what the hell are you doing?" I just said ‘hell’ on the steps of a church. Dear God, please don't smite me, but I need a strong word!

He shoves his — now I realize — small hands into his pockets and sniffs, "Well, I just thought… maybe… since things didn't go well, you know, today, that we could try again."

Holy rainbow goldfish, is he for real? This cannot be happening. He's actually serious. This is not his joking face. Is he drunk? He must be drunk out of his mind. It's the only explanation I can come up with at this point. Maybe he's one of those perpetual drunks; he does tend to carry around a lot of water bottles. Vodka. I'd bet my life on it.

"Derek…" I try my stern voice, the one I use when I volunteer at the retirement home and Mr. Bluett steals his wife's cookies. I hope Derek will get the hint without me having to slap him across the face. I don't like criers. His tears must stop now. THEY MUST STOP, I TELL YOU! Okay, calm down and tell him how it is. "Derek, you're an ass."

His lower lip trembles. Great, kick the puppy while it's down, Amanda. Well done. Maybe that was too harsh, make it better. "So, please stop crying! I won't try again with you when there was nothing to try in the first place. You took me as a date to your best friend's wedding, then tried to ditch me to hook up with the bride, and because it didn't work out as you planned, you want to try with me?" The shrill pitch of my voice was rising and getting louder, but I couldn't control myself.

Tremulously, I try to reclaim some shreds of dignity, so I add, "I will have you know, there are guys who would kill for an opportunity to date me!" What? Just because they aren't lining up doesn't mean it's not true. "How dare you think you can have a second chance with me! You're lucky you even had a first." My fists are clenched so tightly against my sides, I know if I breathe one more word, I will release all my pent-up hostility all over his face. At this point, it's a toss-up on whether it will be naughty words or a fist fight.

The sobbing baby turns suddenly into a little monster and retorts, "Well, that's not what I hear. Did you know they had to bribe me to even go out with you? I'm doing you a favor!"

Where did that come from? Where is Mr. I-Cry-All-the–Time-and-Have-Feelings-Too man? My mouth drops open as I am rendered speechless. Then out of nowhere — like a flash of lightning — Mr. Fireman storms up to us and punches Derek straight in the nose.

"Holy crap!" I yell at the strange; hot man and I lean down to see if Derek is okay. Wow, this guy is going to need therapy after today.

"He's an ass," the fireman states truthfully as he rubs his large hands. Not even a scratch from that hit. Nice.

The claim is valid; there's no way to argue that point. Glad to know I'm not the only sane one here at the wedding.

"Thanks," I manage to mutter as I meet the craziest green eyes I have ever seen in my entire life. Oh good, the world is spinning now. Perfect. Maybe I'll pass out on top of Derek, looking all kinds of inappropriate. The mayor would love that. Ten bucks the entire town would come out to help at that point because that's just my luck.

"You're welcome, Amanda." Mr. Fireman grins smugly before he turns around and walks back into the church.

"Who is that?" Derek is still whimpering on the ground.

I feel like kicking him, but I'm not the violent type. I'm outside, so it is easy to make an escape. I'm sure not going to wait around.

On the way home, I keep wondering about Mr. Mystery Fireman. He looked so familiar. Do I know him? How does he know my name? Our town of Melba, Idaho, isn't very large; we only boast enough people for one high school. Then again he could have easily gone to school somewhere in Boise or Meridian too. But he was definitely a Melba fireman.

* * *

I want to kiss whoever invented search engines. It may appear like I'm stalking, but I like to call it research. Yes! Found it. Melba Firehouse, click. Bingo. Wow. I should have majored in detective work.

Oh, be still, my rapidly beating heart. They have a calendar for a suggested donation of only ten dollars! Plus, it's for charity! Who wouldn't want to buy a calendar? Of course, he's Mr. December. Merry Christmas, Amanda.

My strict Nazarene grandma is probably rolling in her grave, not that I didn't give her enough reasons to be in that grave while she was living. What with my dancing and going to the movies. She was a dear, sweet lady who, I am thankful now, is with her Lord. Let him deal with her, am I right? Sorry, God. But it's true.

I am silently praying to God that He is the only one who can hear my thoughts. Amen. And girls, if you could see this… A-M-E-N.

You could do laundry on his abs. Is he airbrushed? How can abs look this way? His chest is perfectly chiseled like God cut him out of a mountain. I suddenly have the urge to go hiking and collect rocks.

Crap, those green eyes aren't even his best feature. His hair is so thick and glossy, it should have its own Facebook page, and I would easily be the number one fan.

I need to focus. Where is his name? I scroll down to the bottom of the page and see Staff. I click and pray it will be the correct information. Moving down the page again, I see his picture and click on it. They have stats right next to the names. Wait.

No.

Well, I just almost swallowed my tongue — didn't know it was possible, but here you see it documented. It almost happened to a perfectly healthy twenty-one-year-old, and my parents would have found me in my apartment, asphyxiated on the floor with my computer screen opened up to a hot fireman. The shame would be unbearable; my poor parents would be humiliated and have to lie to everyone about how they found me.

Death by fireman porn.

There is no way it could be him; the irony would be too perfect. I have to look closer to confirm my eyes aren't deceiving me. With a sinking feeling, I remember him when he had braces, ugly sweater vests, and high-water jeans.

It is Preston, and the memories of egging his house more than once during high school hit me with full force. I remember him holding my hand with those sweaty palms as he asked me to prom in front of the entire town. Right now, the only one with those sweaty palms is me. Truth.

Oh, no. I turned him down.

The sad part is, if he would ask me now, I would say yes. At the time, it was more important for me to look cool, so I said, in front of everyone, Thanks, but I'm already going with my cousin. I DON'T EVEN HAVE A MALE COUSIN.

Just wait.

It gets worse.

He showed up at prom with his sister, saw me dancing with and kissing another guy, and, I'm sure, assumed I probably wasn't that close with my family.

Ladies, let this be a lesson. People always say you need to be nice to nerds because you might end up working for them some day. The same goes for nerdy guys who ask you out. You should be nice to them because one day they might be smoking hot.

two

As women, I am sure we can all agree that when we see a man who is gorgeous, cut, and confident, we automatically assume he's an arrogant prick. So the natural road is to search for the one who is slightly unfortunate looking, with the hope that his personality makes up for any other deficiencies. We wouldn't have this assumption if we didn't have a good reason. Few men are as attractive on the inside as on the outside. And if you're shaking your head, it's just because you're one of those horrible women who are blissfully happy with one of the few men who aren't gay and hold your hand while you watch Up and bawl your eyes out. Oh and P.S., all women hate you. You're welcome.

One time I dated a guy who, for anonymity's sake, we'll call Bob. He was total eye candy: big biceps, tan skin, perfect smile, huge… hands. We met at the gym. Bob and I were running next to each other on treadmills. His towel fell off the side of his treadmill, and I picked it up. It was love at first sight. Feeling rather confident, I struck up a conversation. He asked for my number, and two nights later he called.

We went to a fancy restaurant that weekend, and I fell in love for about five minutes. He ordered for both of us, without asking. "Yes, we'll get a salad with no dressing, chicken with no gravy, and no bread. We don't do carbs."

If you ever want to get into an argument with me, just tell me that I shouldn't eat carbs. Be prepared. I will spit in your face. Maybe not, but the whole low-carb mentality is ridiculous, and for me, a deal breaker. When I heard him say that, I yelled, "But wait! I like carbs!"

He gave me a look I'm guessing he only reserves for fat people and told the waiter that I was "confused" and "please proceed to hold the carbs."

Seething, I went to another table next to us, stole the bread, and ate it right in front of him. In hindsight now, I looked like an insane person. But for argument's sake, let's be clear: I like bread. So sue me.

Bob smiled tightly and never called again.

I may have sent him a freaking bread basket the next day with a card that said Bastard, but it's yet to be proven. They totally couldn't prove it was my handwriting in a court of law. Who gets the last laugh now, Bob? Hmm?

At any rate, since Preston is hands-down the hottest guy I have ever seen, I doubt he isn't aware of this fact and uses it with reckless abandon. Even though he was a good guy back in the day, how could he not know that mere mortals tremble in his presence? With this revelation, I'm bursting with nervous energy. I need a good hard run. Eight o'clock p.m. usually means the gym is empty, and it is Saturday night.

Who goes to the gym on a Saturday night?

Me.

I grab my workout stuff, not bothering to put on anything remotely cute and run out the door.

* * *

The dry air of the valley hits me as I get out of the car. A mixture of rain and cold hit my nose. It reminds me of a fresh start, which is exactly what I need. I already feel better. Melba may be small, but they have an awesome rec center. It's my haven, mainly because not only do I get to run while I watch HGTV, but also because there's a coffee shop next door that makes the best mochas in the history of the universe. I'm one of those girls who need rewards in order to run.

Stop judging me.

Walking through the doors, I inhale the sweet smell of sweat and chlorine and scan my card.

Yes, this is where I need to be. Only one other person is running, and I think he's going for some record. If he keeps running this way, he might actually wear the treadmill out. But something about him seems familiar.

No, I can't. Why would I go to the treadmill right next to him when twenty other ones are open? We all know how things worked out with Bob. I do not want another man telling me I can't have bread. I may go to prison. I move to a machine further down.

But upon closer inspection, this man has the best legs I have ever seen. The formation of muscles that gather at his calf and weave together up to his — Whoops, he just looked this way.

Look busy! Look busy!

I glance up at the ceiling. Awesome. So if he does come over I'll just say, What? Is that ceiling new? Idiot. I tugged self-consciously at my shirt. Why did I choose tonight to wear my old, ratty, high school cheerleading shirt? And why did I also choose to wear the yoga pants that I spilled paint on last year? I grumbled something out loud, not realizing it, and jumped onto my treadmill. Five miles, here I come.

As I run, the anxiety of the day turns into fuel, pushing me harder and faster. No, I don't need Derek, I don't need Bob, I don't — Wait a second. While closing my eyes, I missed something. Mr. Runner is walking toward me. Why? What do I do? Holy hot chili peppers, he's getting on the machine next to me. Be still my heart. Those calves. Since when did I start obsessing over people's legs? Now, I say. Now.

Competition. Whether he realizes it or not, he's in for a race. Why? Because I can't help it. I must win. It's also why I never turn down dares, but that's a different story. He starts running, and again I feel the pressure to win. Please… he may be a fine male specimen, but I am fast… ridiculously fast.

I will end you. I chant this in my head over and over again.