Legacy (27 page)

Chapter 32

“S
hit!”

Wes cursed as he watched half of his second Stinger Waffle crumble out of his left hand and fall out of sight. He didn’t even really want the strawberry-flavored disc, but he was approaching his third hour in the race, and he needed to refuel again.

His biggest problem, though, was that he couldn’t stay ahead of his thirst. Which was probably why the thought of the flat, sweet waffle made him slightly nauseous. He shoved what remained into his mouth and tried not to lose any ground as he chewed, the morsel seeming to swell and glom onto his tongue.

As best as he could tell, he was in 17th place. Counting was only possible on the one out-and-back stretch just past the center of town. After the police cruiser blew past him ahead of the lead bike, Wes thought he’d only ticked off 16, but missing one in the tangle of cyclists jockying for the top spots would have been easy. Wes knew one thing for sure: no one had passed him in the last hour, and he had gained on two more riders.

But all remnants of the morning cool had burned off, and the humidity had only seemed to magnify the 10 a.m. sun, already painting the blacktop on the shadeless stretches with a heat mirage.

He sucked out the last of his Powerade from the Xlab in front of him. It was lukewarm, but at least it carried some electrolytes. He was sweating ridiculously, probably losing liters of fluid an hour.

Wes knew that he needed to replace some salts, and he needed to stay hydrated or else he’d start cramping soon, but grabbing a bottle up ahead from one of the volunteers would slow him down.

He licked his lips, which were dry and salty, and he cursed again. Wes angled his bike closer to the line of spectators and volunteers with their arms outstretched, offering bottles.

“Gatorade! Gatorade!” one guy hawked. Wes eased his pace and snatched the offered bottle.

“Thanks,” he muttered, picking up speed again. Filling his torpedo took only seconds, and he tried to pace himself between sips to rehydrate without making himself sick. The 13.1 run that awaited him was going to suck.

But Corinne awaited him, too.

Every time his mind drifted to that thought, he found a little burst of strength to push harder. It was what had moved him up at least 12 spots since the bike leg started. Seeing her as he left transition had completely baffled and pumped him.

What did it mean that she was here? Was it another act of friendship? Was she still trying to make amends? Or was it something more?

When he thought about the last possibility, Wes felt his stomach dip.

Don’t get ahead of yourself,
he thought.
Just ride.

But how could he when he was riding toward her?

The roadside crowds started to grow again as the lead riders ahead of Wes returned to the center of the small town. In a few minutes Wes would pass the cafe where Corinne and Heather had surprised him the second time. The closer he got to the main drag, the nicer the camps that lined the lake were—until houses gave way to businesses, bait shops, and gas stations.

As soon as Wes saw Regions Bank on the left, he started scanning the curb on the right near Satterfield’s where he’d seen the girls before.

And there she was.

Wes could feel his heart hammering at the thrill. His face split with a smile when their eyes met, and he forgot the misery of the heat and the fatigue in his body.

And maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe one had to push the body to its limits to deepen the power of the mind. But whatever it was, in the instant when Wes found his eyes locked with the hazel wonders that were Corinne’s, he knew without a doubt that he would love her for the rest of his life.

Even if it was a one-sided love.

There was no one else for him. Not before. Not after. Just Corinne. And he could accept that. Hell, he didn’t
want
to love anyone else.

Wes pulled his gaze away to check his position seconds before he passed her, and he let himself glance back just as he did.

“Read the damn sign!” Heather shouted, pointing frantically at the poster Corinne held.

Wes frowned and tried to focus on it as it flashed by, but then they were behind him, and looking back would mean slowing down—or wiping out.

What had he seen? Something pink? And words?

“My heart....”

Two words. He’d caught the first two words. But those words had to be good, right? What about her heart? Anything that Corinne wanted to show him about that fierce little muscle that he longed to know—to claim—had to be good.

What would it feel like to lay his ear against her chest and hear its beating? To hold her against him and know that he cradled something so fragile and so strong. To surrender to the sound of the life that owned him.

Wes had to shove these thoughts from his mind, or he’d be tempted to DNF right there, cut back against the flow of riders and head straight for Corinne.

Instead, he carried his pace, followed the flag-waving volunteers, and turned onto North Carolina Street to head toward the second transition.

By the time Wes crossed the fourth mile marker on the half-marathon route, he had passed two runners splayed out on the road with leg cramps. He was making decent time for 90 percent humidity and 84 degrees, but seeing the agony etched on those defeated faces scared the crap out of him. He grabbed two cups at the next water station.

Still, if anything, he was sweating even more than he had on the bike, and he was losing ground. Runners—none he’d passed on the bike—caught and passed him. Running was certainly not his strong suit. Any chance he’d had of breaking or even matching his best time all came down to holding it together now to protect the strong ride he’d had.

At Mile 7, Wes followed the turn on the route and spotted Corinne directly in front of him. She and Heather stood beneath a cluster of oak trees at the edge of Douglas Park, talking, not yet seeing him, and this time, he did look at the sign she held, but it was different from the one before.

“Run, Wes!

Just don’t run away!”

The words shouted at him above a cartoon. Unmistakable, the houses along St. Joseph stood in miniature as a cartoon Wes ran away from a cartoon Corinne, who chased him with arms outstretched.

The naked admission of the sign shocked him, humbled him.

His breath nearly left his lungs when he looked up and saw her watching him, saw the raw, defenseless look in her eyes. What was it costing her to stand there and hold that sign?

Whatever it was, he’d pay it back a thousand times over.

He closed the distance between them, and Corinne launched herself into his arms, stretching up on tiptoe and offering him her mouth. Wes took it, hungrily, sealing his lips against hers. He felt her come alive against him, grabbing the neck of his soaked tri-suit, pulling him closer, and unleashing little cries from her throat. Wes felt like every race in his life had been a quest for this. This moment.

And it was over much too quickly.

“Save it for later!” Heather shouted at them, gripping him by the arm. “People are passing you!”

Corinne pulled back from him then, and he saw that her lashes were wet, but the heat in her eyes nearly scorched him.

“Go,” she said, never breaking her gaze when she tilted her head in the direction of the finish. But his feet wouldn’t move, and it wasn’t just because his legs were locking up.

Corinne’s hand still on his chest gave him a little shove, but she smiled.

“Go!” she said, again, this time with a chastising lift in her brow. “I’ll meet you at the finish line.”

“You damn well better,” Wes said, pulling away, only half-believing what had just happened. He stepped back onto the road, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off her. When she shooed him away with a regretful smile, Wes picked up his stride again.

If his legs could have groaned, they would have. Loudly. The 20-second stop had been a cruel joke played on his muscles, and they protested now at his demand to keep running. His calves felt like tree branches, wooden and ready to snap. The flesh an inch above his knees seemed to simmer. His muscles weren’t cramping yet, but he was dangerously close. He knew instinctively that pointing his toes too much as he kicked back in his stride would be enough to send his calves straight to hell.

He had dealt with muscle cramps in the early days of this triathlon training, and they were almost unavoidable on a full Ironman, but he’d never had them on a half. But this was his third Hellfire, and he couldn’t remember the first two being so miserably hot.

And he certainly couldn’t remember wanting to finish so badly.

At the next water station, Wes gulped blue Powerade and took the offered to-go size packet of salt. He tore open the little square and shook the crystals on his tongue, and it was like giving the base of his brain a salt-flavored orgasm.

Wes shut his eyes for a moment and let the rush course through him, making his lungs expand and his stride loosen up just enough so that he believed he could finish the last four miles.

I’ll finish, and Corinne will be there
, he knew.

And then they would talk. Talking had been long overdue. And after they talked, would they be able to move on from there? Would there be something more than pain and regret and longing between them?

Wes thought of Michael and the sense of rightness he’d woken up with on that Sunday morning now more than a month ago. He’d believed then—with almost an eerie sense of reverence—that things between him and Corinne were meant to be. It had only taken a few hours for that faith to be shot to hell.

Would that happen again?

Wes searched his memory for every conversation he and Michael ever had about Corinne.

In truth, she hadn’t come up all that much, which in hindsight had to be a good thing. In those days, Wes had dismissed her as bitchy and aloof. If he hadn’t, if he’d seen her for who she was—complex, passionate, brave, and so, so beautiful—wouldn’t he have fallen for her even then?

If he had been the man he was now, yes. Of course.

But he hadn’t become that man until after Michael’s death. Until he started to know Corinne. He hadn’t been someone who looked beyond himself until he’d had to look after someone else. He hadn’t been someone who could stand up to his asshole father until the man’s abuse threatened Corinne. He hadn’t known real happiness until Corinne’s happiness mattered more than anything.

And that thought tapped a memory.

An evening. Another run. His best friend beside him.

It was late October, and the days were shorter, cooler. Wes had been tapering for Panama City, and he’d invited Michael to do an easy 5k through the Saint Streets after Michael got home from work.

Corinne had not been happy to see him, Wes recalled, complaining that she had made a gumbo that was nearly ready, and it would be an hour before Michael was back and showered and they could eat.

At the time, Wes had silently wondered why it was such a big deal. Couldn’t she eat without him if she was hungry? But Wes watched—mildly disgusted—as Michael snuck up behind Corinne as she stood at the stove and wrapped his arms around her middle, nuzzling her neck.

It was an intimate gesture, one that had embarrassed Wes to watch, so he’d stepped into the living room, grabbed one of Buck’s toys, and instigated a game of canine tug-of-war. Moments later, Michael had returned, smiling a conspirator’s smile, but instead of heading to the door, he’d detoured toward the bathroom. The sound of the tub filling had confused the hell out of Wes. It must have surprised Corinne, too, because she stepped out of the kitchen with a look of amused curiosity.

Wes had almost left when he heard the door shut against muffled laughter, but minutes later, Michael emerged alone, grinning, clearly still reliving the scene he’d just left.

“C’mon. Let’s go,” he’d said.

But Wes had remained rooted to the floor wearing his best
what-the-fuck?
expression.

Michael had rolled his eyes and laughed, leading them outside. When he’d locked the door behind them, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Sometimes, she doesn’t know how to let herself be happy,” he’d said, simply. “It’s easier just to show her the way.”