Who Do You Love(117)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

Andy nodded.

Martin’s face grew comically somber. “She dump you ’cause of the dope?”

“That’s right.” Andy didn’t feel like going into specifics. They made one trip to the greenhouse in silence, with Martin sneaking looks at Andy.

“Must be rough,” Martin said as they set down their load. He didn’t say anything else on the subject, and Arturo, who’d been up on the ladder, restocking the shelves of plant food, hadn’t spoken, either, but the next night when they’d had their break Arturo had carried back three trays instead of two, and at the end of the night Martin had mentioned a Saturday-­morning pickup game on the high school basketball courts, open to anyone, including ex-marathon-running, gold-medal-winning pretty boys with shrunken testicles. Andy thought that was when he’d felt things start to turn, when he’d sensed the possibility that someday he could be reasonably happy again.

On Saturday morning, Martin and his friends, who ranged in age from eighteen to forty, had more or less mopped the court with Andy, who discovered that he was disgustingly, terrifyingly out of shape, that he had no shot at all and no way to defend himself against the bigger, brawnier guys who’d come for him under the boards. Early the next morning, bruised in a dozen places and aching all over, he’d started driving toward Philadelphia . . . but then, instead of taking the exit that would have brought him to his mother’s house, he’d decided to keep going, over the Walt Whitman Bridge and onto the Atlantic City Expressway, following the signs reading BEACHES until he found a parking spot. It was just after seven in the morning. The sun was turning the sky the color of orange sherbet, glinting off the water, making each ripple shine. Lifeguards with zinc-coated noses were climbing up into their chairs; waves were spending themselves gently, leaving lacy foam on the sand; walkers and joggers were making their way along the boardwalk.

After everything that had happened, Andy had privately sworn that he would never run again, not even to catch a bus. But that had been years ago. Who would know? More important, why should he deny himself the pleasure of something he’d once loved? Running had once taken him to a place beyond thought, a place where there were no questions, no conversations, no debates about right or wrong, fate and destiny. Would it still work?

Andy unlaced his work boots and peeled off his socks. His feet had the unhealthy pallor of mushrooms that had sprouted during a rainstorm, and there was a basketball-induced blister on his left heel. His jeans would chafe if he went too far, and he hadn’t brought sunscreen. He rolled up his cuffs and walked down to the water, feeling the sand, cool and firm, underneath his feet. First he started walking, swinging his arms, getting a feel for the sand. Then he eased into a slow trot. It felt, for a few hundred yards, like he was relearning something basic, like he’d somehow managed to forget to breathe and had to figure it out again. His legs felt clumsy; his arms were as stiff as sticks shoved into a snowman’s side; his breath burned in his throat. He veered toward the water and stumbled as the sand shifted, almost bumping into a pair of optimistic surfers, chatting as they zipped up their wet suits. Then it started coming back to him, the rhythm and the flow. His stride smoothed out; his arms began swinging with a purpose; his heart and lungs took up their assignments. His skin tingled as he sped up. The sun shone down on his head and his shoulders, and sweat sprang up on his face and back, good, cleansing sweat, not the acrid excretions of a man who felt trapped. The air had a salty tang, the sky was suddenly full of birds, wheeling and squawking overhead. He didn’t feel trapped anymore. For the first time in a long time, as he jogged, then ran, then sprinted along the water, Andy Landis felt like he was right where he should be, doing the thing he was meant to be doing, like the constant chatter of criticism in his mind had finally stilled. For the first time in a long time, he felt free.

•••

That had been five years ago. He’d gotten merit raises, promotions; he’d become a section manager and had eventually started teaching those classes he’d once wondered about, instructing stressed-out dads and blissed-out newlyweds on how to paint a bedroom, how to install tile, repair drywall, stain a deck, build a grilling cart. When Mr. Kincaid had retired, the regional supervisor had offered Andy his job, and Andy, who’d never imagined his life after running at all and had certainly never imagined spending it in charge of a cavernous, concrete-floored megastore, had agreed.

He walked into the office that had once been Jack Kincaid’s, picked up the telephone that Paul had remembered to place on hold, and braced himself for the news he’d been expecting, and dreading, for the past six months, ever since Mr. Sills’s pulmonary disease had gotten worse.