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My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm. Right, left, right, left to the beat of Linkin Park's Bleed It Out blasting through my earbuds. The hard driving drums push me further despite the vice grip on my thigh muscles, faster despite icepicks stabbing my lungs.

Neither the trail nor the music— despite the lyrics about bleeding out frustration to throw it away — is on my mind.

The Kiss.

It's now a full-blown incident that deserves Capital Letters. The Kiss.

It bobs to the surface at the most inopportune times, bringing with it the swell and arc of emotion—elation, attraction, fear, anger, confusion. I haven't let myself analyze it or make up reasons to myself as to why it happened. It can never happen again.

Rooms and airfare have been booked. Bridesmaid dresses, wedding dress, and tuxes have been fitted. Shoes have been purchased. Excursions have been planned. I've been packing for two weeks. Seven days on an island requires extra preparation. Swimsuit shopping alone took me a month.

The engagement party is in a few days; then the bachelorette/bachelor parties and the shut-in, our all night, co-ed party. And then the wedding. I am so, so close to shoving Preston out of my life forever.

And then I lost my mind and gave in to a kiss. Not only did I give in, but I kissed him back! What was I thinking? I don't know. I only know that I don't want to talk about it.

I didn't want to sit at home, and I couldn't sit at work. I couldn't go to Morgan's, because her house is Wedding Central. If I think about the wedding, I will think about Preston and Preston is the last person I want on my mind.

Running is my only obsession that exerts energy and clears my mind. I hope to tire myself out enough to not think about The Kiss.

Or about how well I remember his full, soft lips.

Or about how I loved his moans, the sound rumbling through his chest, my body absorbing waves of pleasure.

Maybe I'll exhaust myself enough to go home and go straight to sleep instead of restlessly flipping from one side to the other before reaching into the bottom drawer of my nightstand and unearthing my rabbit vibrator. Preston was halfway right—it's not a big, black, Mandingo dildo that gets me off. Lately, his face and the sounds he made while kissing me and the weight of his body against mine seeps into my fantasies. It's disturbing how fast I climax when he's on my mind.

The thrash of my music is loud and I'm in a zone, ignoring the pain, blocking out my thoughts. I catch a glimpse of a runner falling into step beside me. I grunt, push the buds further into my ears and speed up, hoping to eclipse him, but Preston matches my pace.

I yank one bud from my ear as I slow down. No way could I keep up that pace. "Go away."

"I'm out for a run. Free country."

"Over here, by my apartment?"

"Strange coincidence, huh?"

Preston's breathing is off. He works out, but he's not a runner. He's pressing hard to stay on pace with me and it's taxing his system. His forehead and neck glisten with sweat; his shirt is already sporting a ring around the collar. I almost laugh aloud.

"I'm trying to get some time to myself. You need to pace slower anyway. Like, a half mile behind me."

I replace the bud in my ear and try to speed up again. Preston pulls the bud from my ear.

"Not until... you talk to me."

At least I think that's what he says. He's panting so hard I can't understand him. I'm seriously concerned for him, so I slow my pace and then stop. We're deep into the wooded area of the trail. There's nothing but trees, wild grasses, and short brush around us.

"Let's take a break, so you don't die. I won't have Morgan blaming me for killing Nate's Best Man."

We pace back and forth, hands on our hips until our heartbeats return to normal.

"What do you want, Preston? And how did you find me? Are you following me?"

"You like to run here; it's not a secret. I figured I'd catch you out here. And, obviously, I want to talk."

"So, talk."

"I want us to talk. To each other. About what happened. About... what now?"

"What now? There's nothing now. We kissed. So what?" I shrug a shoulder, nonchalant. "It was a mistake. We both had a little to drink. We were talking about old times. Someone got a little caught up in the moment."

"I wasn't the only one caught up in the moment, was I?"

"When someone kisses you, do you stand there? Or is it second nature to kiss them back? It didn't mean anything, Preston."

"Bullshit."

"It isn't bullshit. You said yourself, you know I don't think about you like that."

He paces slowly, with that smile, the one I hate. The one that says he knows everything. "I don't think that's the case anymore, Angie. I think you're scared that you feel something for me."

I suppress a bout of laughter. The thought that I'd have any feelings for Preston is cute. "Where'd you get your degree in psychology, Preston? A cereal box?"

"You can't win this with insults. I saw something in your eyes that night that I haven't seen in a long time, Angie. And I'm not talking about the kiss. We had a moment. I know you felt it."

"You imagine the craziest shit, Preston. There was no moment."

"You kissed me back. Pretty passionately. That wasn't an automatic reaction. You wanted to kiss me."

"I didn't."

"You did. And now you don't want to admit it because it means you might have to swallow your pride and do away with those feelings you wear on your sleeve."

"I don't want to talk about it because it meant nothing. You would assume that I'd get over whatever it is between us because you kissed me."

"Angie–"

"No, Preston. You thought I would swoon over your heartfelt confession because you decided to grace my mouth with your tongue. I'm supposed to pine for you and wish for you to stick your dick in me because you had some grand realization that you miss me?"

"That's not—"

"Am I supposed to feel lucky to come after Stripper Name Girl? Once again, I should be happy to come after someone you fucked? I get to be your sloppy seconds again?"

Preston glares at me, nostrils flared, arms crossed over his chest and feet apart in an ominous stance. If I didn't know him so well, I'd be afraid he might hit me.

"I never slept with Jade."

A cynical, haughty laugh falls out of my mouth. "I do not believe you."

"That day you came by was the first day we hung out. You laid that whole Morgan's Dream Wedding guilt trip on me, and I wasn't in the mood. I sent her home an hour after you left. I haven't seen her since. I heard she quit Prime and got another job."

"Well, lah-dee-fuckin' dah! Good for her."

Preston laughs and unfolds his arms, pacing the area. The grass is flat from many, many feet doing the same. He stops and turns toward me.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You are my problem!"

"Okay, we're getting somewhere. How am I your problem? How can you find so much to be angry about? This can't be about a kiss."

"It's the audacity of the what now question. It's the incredulous reaction you have when I say there's nothing now. You expect us to pick up where we left off. Erase the years of hell I have been through with you–"

"Because you haven't been a bitch since the day we broke up."

"You know why you kissed me the other night? Because you were lonely, I was breathing, I have two legs and a pussy."

Preston huffs a laugh. "That–"

"You took advantage of my feelings for you back in high school. You knew I was naïve and you knew that I liked you. Was Stacey too much woman for you? Did you need someone you could manipulate, and I was more than willing to be that person?"

He is still now. His eyes bore into mine with such intensity I want to step back, but I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's made me uncomfortable. I stand my ground and glare back.

"You are certifiable, Angie. Something inside you lights up when we fight. You love to be angry. You've taken our past and twisted it around in your brain, so that you're justified to treat me the way you do."

Preston closes his eyes, takes a few steps back. As if he doesn't trust himself.

"I manipulated you? Please. You've erased all that time, those years we spent together before I ever even kissed you. You don't remember going against each other on Donkey Kong at the arcade? Or giving you all my quarters so you could play longer and beat my score? Or saving my allowance so we could go to that pizza place on Saturdays? You don't remember me making you Valentines every year? You put them up in your locker."

"I remember all of that kid stuff. So?"

"So, it wasn't all kid stuff, Angie. It's our history. You know it, and I know it, so don't tell me I didn't care about you. Don't tell me what I didn't feel. I know I was in love with you. Whatever you tell yourself that lets you wake up every day and hate me more, that's cool. But don't wrap me and what you think you know about me up in it."

"Fine." I throw up my hands and start to walk away from him. "Poor you, Preston. I've invented all of these reasons to hate you. I must have dreamt how you've treated me all these years. So cool, you're absolved from all the hateful, ugly shit you've ever said to me. I still have crusty shit on the bottom of my shoe that is better than your client list."

"You had everything to do with turning me into the man that I am, so if you hate me, thank yourself. Am I a motherfucker? Your fault. Son of a bitch? Unscrupulous asshole? Congratulations, Angie. You made me that."

"It is not my fault that you couldn't get over me, so you're a piss poor excuse for a human being. I can't wait until this fucking wedding is over and I never have to talk to you again."

"Same!" He hurls back. His eyes glow with fury. "Until then, I'm about to scrub the toilets at the courthouse with your law degree. Again."

He turns and begins a run back up the hill. I lean against the trunk of a tree and listen to his footsteps grow faint in the distance.

I have a knot in my neck that is the size of Preston's ego. I rub at it, kneading through the skin, but it's not going away. I am seething, shaking, but more upset at the thought of being in court with him in two weeks. Sanchez v. Bailey finally gets in front of a judge, and while I know I should win, Preston is too confident in his client and himself as an attorney. The onus is on our side to prove Phillip Bailey is a racist that violates housing laws. It should be easy.

But I'm afraid they have something up their sleeves, and I'd rather be paranoid than naïve.

I push myself off of the tree and trot back up the trail. I am exhausted, not only from a hard run, but the fight with Preston. I lobbed an ugly accusation that he didn't deserve. It hurt him. I saw that. I purposely hurt him. And although I'm confused about why, I am disappointed in myself.

When the parking lot is in sight, I slow to a walk and look toward the spot where I usually park. My car sits where I left it. Next to my car is Preston's Benz. Idling, lights on.

I head toward my car with no intention of speaking to him, unlock my door, climb inside, insert the key into ignition and start it up. I glance to the right, across the interior of my car to his. He's watching me.

I'm watching him watch me, somewhere between creeped out and pissed off. He pulls out his phone. I watch his fingers move across the keypad. My phone buzzes inside the pouch, still wrapped around my arm. I pull it out and read the text message.

Preston Reid: Waiting for you to leave so I can go home.

I toss the phone into the passenger seat, put the car in reverse and back out of the spot, roll to the entrance and pull out into traffic. In my rearview mirror, I watch Preston pull out of the lot and head in the opposite direction.

We had a vicious fight. He went back to his car. And waited for me to be done with my run so he could make sure I left before he did?

Why the fuck does he care?

***

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