Free Broken by Lauren Layne

right?”
    My footsteps falter. This girl looks like a poster child for a church’s youth group, and
penis
is so not a word I was prepared for. Not in this context, anyway.
    “Seriously?” I ask, annoyed at being thrown off guard. Not only does she invade my personal space and invite herself on a walk she clearly wasn’t invited on, but she’s prying into my past, accusing me of being an old man, and now dropping
penis
into conversation like we’re discussing the weather.
    “I’m just saying,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a snake head, and the way you use it keeps it sort of in the vicinity of, well…
your
snake head. I figure that can’t be an accident.”
    Sweet Jesus.
    “It’s a cane. I can’t use it and
not
have it in the vicinity of—shit. Just never mind. Can you
please
just trot along back to the house? Your Barbie shoes are going to get dirty out here.”
    Olivia shrugs but doesn’t make any move to head in the opposite direction. “Personally, I think you should have gotten a jaguar cane. That would have been
really
cool.”
    I frown. “The python’s cool.”
    “No. The python’s creepy and suggestive. But a sleek, sexy black cat? That would up the cool factor.”
    For a second, I almost tell her that I don’t need any help upping the cool factor. Then I remember that I’m not Paul Langdon, Boston hotshot anymore. I’m the crippled, small-town version.
    I take in a long breath of cold morning air to keep myself from letting the despair that’s lodged in my throat come rushing out in an angry bellow. If I let her see even a
sliver
of what’s inside me, she’ll be on her way back to Park Avenue. And tempting as that is, I need her here. At least until I formulate a plan for what the hell to do with my life.
    Until then, I have to keep her around in a way that doesn’t make me want to strangle her—or push her against a nearby tree and kiss her senseless.
    “How long have you been running?” I ask, almost choking on the inane, unimportant question. It’s been so long since I’ve had a casual conversation that it feels both unnatural and strangely familiar. Plus it keeps my mind off the way she fills out her pink running shirt. Practicality tells me she’s got a sports bra under there—probably pink—but it doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about seeing Olivia in less utilitarian undergarments. Or better yet, none at all.
    “The running thing’s kind of new,” she replies, jerking me back to the conversation.
    “Shocker,” I mutter.
    “Well, sorry I’m not Flo-Jo.”
    I smile a little. “That’s the only runner you know, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe. Jeez. What is it with you and running? I didn’t realize that track trivia would be part of the job requirements,” she says, her tone exasperated, as we take a sharp right turn in the path, bringing us closer to the water.
    “I miss it.” My answer is simple and a good deal more revealing than I intended.
    I half expect her to mock me. To inform me that there are more important things in life than the ability to run, or to pacify me by telling me that there are
other
things I can do that are just as great.
    Instead she nods, but not in a pitying way, just a quick acknowledgment of my statement.
    “I started running as an escape,” she says after several seconds of silence.
    I glance down at her profile, noting that her nose is just slightly upturned and kind of cute. “An escape from what?”
    She glances back at me, and our eyes collide for one charged moment. The message is clear: she’ll tell me her secrets when I tell her mine.
    Which will be never.
    “Your breathing’s all wrong,” I say, tearing my eyes away from hers.
    “My breathing’s fine.”
    “Not if you want to run more than three miles. Your breaths are too shallow. You need to inhale deeper. Engage your diaphragm. And get used to matching the breaths to your steps. For your slow pace, inhale for maybe three or four steps, then exhale for the