Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

that this feeling only exists when I run. It’s why I run. That, and to
feel closer to Dad.
As the sand squishes beneath my Nikes, I lose myself in the
memory of our early-morning training runs. When Dad was training
in the off-season we would run almost every morning. Almost
always on Santa Monica beach. We would park near the pier, run
the three miles down to Marina del Rey, and then race back to the
pier for ice cream. If I beat him, I got a double scoop.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste my tears. Not slowing
my pace, I wipe at my eyes. Why was I even thinking about Dad?
Usually I don’t think about anything when I run. I’m too focused
on the sensation of running.
Clearing my mind, I notice the burning in my quads. How long
have I been running? The world around me is no longer bathed in
pink. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. The
dock is nowhere in sight and the sun has cleared the horizon.
I need to get back.
Dropping to a walk, I’m about to turn around and head back
when I notice another person running on the beach. He’s less than
two hundred yards away from me, close enough for me to appreciate
the loose, easy movement of his gait. I can tell his body is made
for running, and somehow I know that his soul lives for it. I guess
I recognize a kindred spirit.
Before I know it—because I’m mesmerized by watching him
run—he’s jogging to a stop right in front of me. I practically melt
into a puddle of girl drool.
He looks around my age and he is beyond beautiful. It isn’t just
his hypnotic blue eyes or his perfect, sloped nose, or his sculpted
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