S PART OF THE Eaton Falls Gazette’s community relations, the paper is one of the corporate sponsors of a ten-mile road race to raise money for breast cancer research. For a week now, the paper’s banner had been run in pink, and those little ribbons and pink bracelets were everywhere. The idea was to get people to sponsor you, pay your entrance fee and run, walk or otherwise finish the race. It’s a lovely tradition. I’ve run in it a time or two before in college and after, but now, as an employee of the sponsor, my participation was mandatory.

I arrive at the meeting point, clad in my lycra running shorts and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—Mordor is for Lovers. There’s a stage swamped in pink balloons, vendors selling hot dogs and pretzels, and hundreds of people there to watch the start and finish of the race. The course starts on the green, goes down River Street for a couple of miles, crosses the bridge into Jurgenskill, runs parallel the river again and then crosses the Eaton Falls bridge by the energy plant and comes back into town for the finish.

In addition to the Gazette, the hospital has a team running, as do the fire department, Hudson Roasters, Adirondack Brewing and the electric company. I look around, full of smug love for the scenic little city I live in. Pink flags are flapping from all the streetlights. Several of the buildings on this block have pink bunting hanging from their windows. The high-school band plays somewhere nearby, and I can hear the brass section bleating, feel the drums reverberating in my stomach. It’s quite the event. I’m pleased to see how it’s grown.

Then I see him. Mr. New York Times! The cheekbones, the hair, the six-feet-two-inches of male perfection—shit, where did he go? Craning my neck, standing on tiptoe, I still can’t see him. Damn it! Aside from Trev, that man is the first guy who’s done it for me in ages. I need to meet him. I need to.

“Hey, Chastity!” It’s Angela. “Oh, wow! Love your shirt,” she continues. “That’s my favorite movie. In fact, I have a life-size cutout of Legolas in my office at home.”

“I think that’s sad,” I say. “Because Aragorn is much hotter.”

She laughs. “No, he’s not. And Legolas is so much cooler. Remember that flip thing he does onto the horse?”

“Onto Aragorn’s horse,” I remind her. “Aragorn saved Legolas’s ass.”

“You guys are such losers,” Pete from advertising says from behind us. “Really. Do you play Dungeons and Dragons, too?”

“Not anymore!” I say.

“Not for days,” Angela echoes and we laugh.

“Are you girls walking or running today?” Pete asks.

“I’ll probably walk,” Angela says.

“If I ran, I’d probably die,” Pete admits affably. “Walking is bad enough. Ten miles! Crap! What about you, Amazon Queen?” Pete takes a minute to scan my frame and smiles appreciatively. “I’ve always been drawn to domineering women.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Pete,” I say.

“I want you to hurt me,” he says. “Oh, there’s my wife. Pretend we’re just coworkers.”

Pete’s wife, whom I’ve met a couple of times before, rolls her eyes. “As long as the life insurance is paid up, I don’t care what you do, hon. Have fun today, you guys.”

“Where’s the rest of the Gazette Gazelles?” I ask.

“Over there,” Angela says, gesturing. Sure enough, my coworkers—Penelope, Alan Graytooth (I can’t seem to get that nickname out of my head), Danielle and one of our freelancers, whose name escapes me. Lucia, clad in bubblegum pink, stands close to Pen. She’s holding hands with a tall, thin man wearing very tight, black running pants and a bright yellow shirt.

“I see Lance Armstrong has joined our group,” I murmur.

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met,” Angela says as we walk over to the group. “Ted Everly, Lucia’s fiancé.”

“Ah,” I breathe. “At last. The man, the legend, the bear.”

“Hello! Hello, everyone!” Penelope calls. She’s wearing an oversize T-shirt that says “Eaton Falls Gazette—Committed to the Cure” and yoga pants. “The race starts in about ten minutes, so let’s get over there!”

It’s a beautiful, clear day, with a light breeze off the river—perfect for running. We walk over to the start line with hundreds of other participants. I do a few stretches to warm up, and Penelope frowns at me. “Everyone, do what Chastity’s doing,” she says. “Chastity, you’re a bit of a jock, aren’t you? Show us a few good stretches.”

“I prefer the word ‘athlete,’ Pen,” I say. I demonstrate basic runner’s stretches, isolating all the major muscle groups of the legs, hips and lower back.

“Teddy Bear and I do Pilates,” Lucia announces. “We don’t need these.”

“Hi, Teddy Bear,” I say as I loosen up my ankles. “I’m Chastity O’Neill.”

“So I’ve heard,” he mutters. “Nice to meet you.” Judging by the expression on his sharp-featured face, it’s as nice as, say, drinking poison, or severing one’s finger just for the fun of it. Well! He seems perfect for Lucia, whose hair is sprayed into a spun-sugar cloud of Doris Day blond. Her lips are deep red, her mascara visible at twenty paces.

The mayor of Eaton Falls gives a little speech, thanking the sponsors, getting us revved up. I look around for Mr. New York Times, but I don’t see him. There are hundreds of runners. I do peruse the crowd wearing EF Hospital T-shirts, but I can’t make him out. That’s okay. I’m still pretty excited. Dad and Matt definitely are running today—it gives me a thrill of pride that my father can still do ten miles—and I think Mark was planning on it, too, and possibly Tara, who ran track in college. But the rest of the O’Neills will be positioned at some point along the course, ready to cheer on the runners and possibly spray us with a hose.

The starting pistol is fired, and off we go with the rest of the crowd. With the walkers. The runners lope up ahead, and my feet itch to join them. The EFG staff walks briskly, but it’s not the same. I jog almost in place next to my coworkers. “Anyone feel like running a little?” I ask. Pete shoots me a glare. “Except for Pete?”

“I may have a slight lung condition,” Penelope says, patting her chest fondly. “Chronic bronchitis, possibly walking pneumonia. I was worried about TB, but my skin test was clear.”

“Ange? Want to run?” I ask.

“Um…not really, Chas,” she admits.

“Okay,” I sigh, circling our group. Lucia and Teddy Bear do not deign to look at me, simply pump their arms in rhythm and heel-toe, heel-toe with vigor.

“Chastity,” Penelope says, “if you can run this course, go for it! It’ll make the paper look good. Go ahead, go ahead.”

Just the words I’ve been dying to hear. There’s something about a race that brings out the competitor in me. “You sure?” I ask.

“Go!”

That’s all it takes. I’m off, my long legs eating up the street. There are times when being built like an Amazon teamster is a plus, and this is one of them. I already rowed this morning, but running uses a different set of muscles, and I love to run. Granted, I won’t win, since I started off with the slowpokes, but I’ll catch quite a few, no doubt. Sure enough, I see a few T-shirts that began with us in less than half a mile.

My breathing is even and smooth, my stride long and fast. Ten miles is not the longest course I’ve ever run; I finished the New York City Marathon twice, Boston once. Still, it will take some gumption. “Looking good, O’Neill!” I turn my head and catch a glimpse of Bev Ludevoorsk, my EMT instructor, and I wave and smile. “Nice job in class last week!”

Last week was patient lifting, and as Bev predicted, I’m a natural.

I cross the bridge at the three-mile mark. Lots of people have stopped here to catch their breath and admire the view, but I cruise past, into the shopping district of Jurgenskill. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn is rich in the air, and people cheer and wave and offer us sprays with hoses. The area becomes residential and hillier. People are sitting in lawn chairs, playing inspiring songs on the radio. I catch a few bars of “Chariots of Fire” and grin. There’s even a band at one driveway. Of course, they’re playing “Born to Run.”

At the bottom of a rather long, gradual hill, I hear a wonderful sound.

“Go, Auntie, go! Go, Auntie, go!”

The clan! They’re camped out about halfway up the hill on the lawn of Sarah’s parents’ house—and all my nieces and nephews are jumping up and down, screaming for me. “Go, Auntie, go! You can do it! Go, Auntie, go!”

Just for them, the sweet little bunnies, I step on the gas, flying up the hill, past the laboring runners, past those who’ve been reduced to trudging. The kids go nuts. Jack rings a cowbell, Mom calls out encouragement, Lucky flips burgers on a gas grill.

“Teeeaam…O’Neill!” I yell, sticking my hand out for high fives as I race past. The kids’ faces are shining and proud, and I feel such a rush of love for them, cheering me on like this, that a lump comes to my throat.

“Looking good, hottie!” Elaina calls, holding Dylan.

“Chastity, you’re ninety-four seconds behind the fire department!” Sarah calls, glancing at her watch. “Go get ’em, girl!” She raises a drink—looks like a Bloody Mary—and toasts me.

“You got it!” I call back. The fire department. I can definitely catch a bunch of muscle-bound men.

It’s pure joy to run today. The people lining the streets become a blur. I’m almost sprinting—I’ll have to curb my pace later—but I’m already at the five-mile mark and barely feeling it. The breeze is strong and dry and feels like heaven against my damp forehead. My feet pound out a hard rhythm on the street, my breath keeping time. And then I see them, the dark blue shirts of the Eaton Falls Fire Department, running in a pack, five across, like it’s a parade. My dad, Matt, Mark, Santo and Trevor. Another brief sprint and I’m next to them.

“Oh, hello, boys,” I pant. “I thought that cluster of heterosexuality was you.”

They laugh. “Keep us company, Chas,” Trevor says.

“You’re too slow for me,” I answer. “Did you hear that, Mark? I’m going to kick your ass.”

Mark shoots me a calculating look and takes the bait. “You think you have a chance in hell?” he asks. “That’s fine with me.” He lengthens his stride. “See you, guys.”

“Good luck, Porkchop,” Dad says.

For the next mile, Mark and I stay neck and neck, each of us testing the other. It’s been a while since we ran together, and the competition fuels us both, just like when we were kids. Mark was always the one who took winning most seriously—Jack would let me win, Lucky would run at my side, Matt didn’t like competing, but Mark made it his life mission to be the victor. And I always had a lot to prove—that I was as good as the boys. That I could do what they did. That they didn’t need to look out for me, because I was fine on my own. Better than fine, really. Superior.

“Care to place a little money on this?” I ask my brother, who, damn him, is showing no signs of fatigue.

“What were you thinking?” he asks.

“Finish my upstairs bathroom?” I suggest, trying not to pant.

“Nah,” he says. “A hundred bucks.”

“Done,” I say instantly.

We’re at the seven-mile mark, and the crowds seem to know we need them at this point. Three miles to go, most of it uphill, until we get to the bridge. We round a curve and come to the next challenge.

It’s a hill so steep it’s like climbing a stepladder, and my calves start protesting immediately. There’s a grinding sensation in one knee that wasn’t there the last time I ran in a race. But I can’t slow down, so I dig into the hill with everything I’ve got, keeping pace next to my brother.

“This is where I get off,” Mark says, and just like that, he’s sprinting up the hill. I try to keep up, but he charges up that thing like it’s the Battle of the Bulge. He’s five paces ahead, eight…ten. My step slows. My shins are killing me, my calves sore. The grinding is more pronounced.

“You’re not just gonna sit there and take that, are you?”

Trevor is running beside me. He glances over, grinning. “Come on, Chas, we can catch him. You know Mark. He’s all show. This hill will be his last hurrah.”

With Trev next to me, smiling, I can’t help feeling invigorated…and so bleeping fond of him. Damn it! The man is a prince. We chug solidly up the hill. “Hi, Trevor!” calls a feminine voice, and Trev waves but doesn’t look over. “You doing okay?” he asks.

“Great,” I say. We’re at the top at last. From here, it’s about two miles to the bridge, then just six more blocks to the green.

“Come on, then,” Trevor says. “I can see Mark up ahead.”

The field of runners is considerably thinner here. We’re at the front of the pack…well, in the top quarter, anyway, well behind the true cross-country runners who are probably finishing right this instant. We run along, and I feel my second wind, the runner’s high, the endorphins. Or maybe it’s just Trevor next to me, his hair damp with sweat, face flushed, dark eyes sparkling.

I need to speed up without burning out, to tail Mark to the bridge without letting him know I’m close enough to make a move. But Trevor was right. Flying up the hill was Mark’s mistake, and we close the distance to about thirty yards by the time we reach the bridge.

“Here you go, Chas,” Trevor says. “It’s all yours now. Empty the tank.”

“Thanks, Trev. Couldn’t have done it without you.” I blow him a kiss and do as instructed.

I’m flying now. There’s a slight incline down to the bridge, and by the time I hit the steel grid flooring, I’m flat-out sprinting. When I pass Mark, I don’t say a word, too focused on keeping my stride, on finishing the bridge. I turn onto Ridge Street, taking the corner fast and tight onto the last two blocks of the race. The streets are packed with screaming supporters waving pink flags and cheering madly, and the sight of a flat-out sprinter makes them go a bit nuts. I tear down the last block, cross the finish line, legs rubbery and buckling, and collapse onto the green, heart thundering, lungs burning, happy as all hell.

“You okay?” a race organizer asks, helping me up.

“I had to beat my brother,” I gasp, laughing.

“Good for you,” he says. “Get some water, okay?”

Mark finishes a few seconds later. “Crap,” he gasps, slowing to a walk. “I thought that was you.” He doesn’t look happy, and I know him well enough not to gloat. “Well, shit, congratulations.”

“Thanks, buddy.” We shake hands. Mark slaps my shoulder and goes to get some water without further talking. I catch my breath and stretch my calves and wait for Trevor.

When he crosses the finish line, much more gracefully than I did, he runs right to me and envelops me a big sweaty hug, smelling manly and athletic and somehow of fresh cut grass. “You beat him, of course?” he whispers, making my entire left side tingle.

“Yes, I did,” I whisper back. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Good for you.” He lets me go—oh, it feels so damn lonely!—and takes a long pull from the water bottle the race people give out. “That was a very pretty sight,” he says, wiping his forehead. “You flew over that bridge like you had wings.”

My heart may burst from pride and happiness. “Well,” I say modestly. “It’s a great day for running.” In a flash, I decide to ask him out for a celebratory beer. Just him and me. Maybe the possibility of being with Trevor is not quite as dead as I pretend. Maybe things will shift, and we’ll see that—

“Hi, Trevor.” We both turn. We both freeze.

It’s Hayden Simms, Trevor’s ex-fiancée.

The blood drains out of Trev’s face. “Hayden,” he breathes.

“Hi, Chastity,” she says, her eyes flicking to me. She’s dressed in white jeans and a pink shirt and looks as cool and fresh as a tulip. Her blond hair hangs straight and silky, and she wears several silver rings on various fingers, making her look artsy and cool. Silver bracelets tinkle and slide over her tanned arms. I am suddenly aware that I can smell my own sweat.

“Hi,” I mumble. “Wow. Fancy meeting you here.”

“My mom is walking today,” she explains, tucking some perfect hair behind her tiny ears. “She’s a cancer survivor, so I wanted to come, of course.”

Trevor still hasn’t said anything.

“How’ve you been, Trevor?” Perfect Hayden asks softly.

“It’s good to see you, Hayden,” he murmurs. Then his eyes start with a smile, and the rest of his face follows. A brief flare of hurt fires in my chest.

“Well, I should go,” I blurt. “Um, thanks, Trevor. Again.”

He drags his eyes off Hayden’s blond perfection and looks at me. “Right. Sure, Chas. See you around. Good run.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

No beer. No celebration. No revelation.

Crap.