I was walking. As usual. To relieve stress. That's what my therapist said. I should walk, run, jog, do some sort of sport. To relieve stress. According to what my thirty-sixth therapist had advised, I was wearing my matching gray ALO set, the one that felt soft against my skin, paired with my blue P9 headset hanging casually around my neck. Another shade of gray Skechers hugged my feet, scuffed slightly from my usual routes. I usually didn't listen to music while walking; I liked the hum of my own thoughts, the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Across the street, a flash of red caught my eye. A bike, parked there, vibrant against the muted neighborhood. My heart skipped. Evander. That same red bike. Memories surged: the afternoons we raced, me on my pink glittery bike, laughing as he sped past me. He had suggested the race; I had, of course, lost. But I hated losing. So I suggested a rematch, fueled by stubborn pride. My throat was parched after almost one and a half kilometers at that age, so I stopped at the public tap water station, downing two cups without a second thought. Water was water, after all.
Back on our bikes, the rematch began. Endless. Our rule was simple: whoever got tired first lost, and no rematch would follow. I knew Evander wasn't built for cardio. Neither was I, but I liked to think I was stronger. We pedaled, uphill, until the path led to the cliff. I hadn't realized where we were; a sudden sense of vertigo hit me. Evander, quick-thinking, jumped off and held me, steadying my wobbling frame. But a tiny rock betrayed us. Balance lost, we plunged together into the water. We couldn't swim. Panic clung to us like a second skin.
Through gasps and splashes, he whispered that I should use him as a ladder, that I should call for help. The words weren't there, but I understood. I climbed over him, screamed until someone arrived. A biker did. 911. An ambulance. Fainting came easily afterward.
A car horn jolted me from the memory. I was running, really running, faster than I'd expected. I rounded a familiar corner and there it was: my brother's black Hennessey Venom.
"Oh, sheesh, sis. You're running so fast, my car might need a rest. Which one of you has a V8 engine, you or my car?" he joked, grinning.
"I'm training," I panted. "And… I need to tell you something tonight."
He leaned back, eyes squinting in mock seriousness. "Training, huh? I hope your legs are ready, because my car just challenged you to a duel. I don't think your legs can beat this V8."
"I'll take my chances," I said, trying to catch my breath. "And, I mean, your car looks scary, but I'm scarier."
"Ha! That's cute. I'll let my car know it's being threatened by a human. Might need therapy after this," he quipped, and I laughed despite myself.
"Would you like a ride back to your house? You wouldn't mind, right?" he added, still teasing.
I climbed in, brushing against the polished leather of his seats. He wore his Brioni onyx-colored suit, crisp and commanding, the kind reserved for meetings with people he respected most.
"Who's that meeting for?" I asked, curiosity tugging at me.
"Mark," he said without looking, adjusting his cufflinks.
"How did you know I'd be meeting someone?" he asked, glancing at me with that familiar teasing eyebrow raise.
"Umm, I'm your sister, duh. I know every move you make," I replied, smirking.
He paused, then shook his head with a grin. "You're terrifying. But I love it. How do you always know?"
We drove in silence until we arrived at my house. "Bye, have a good day. Good meeting with Marcus," I said as I stepped out, waving.
"Juliet," he called, opening the car door again. "The thing you're going to tell me tonight… is it bad or good? I don't want to worry. You can tell me now if it's bad."
I smiled, that protective side of him tugging at my heart. "No problem. My shield's up. Nothing bad. Actually, it's two or three pieces of news, but it can wait until tonight. Bye." I winked and closed the door, heart already racing with anticipation.