Seventeen miles was no joke.

“I’m dying,” Charlie panted, clutching his side.

“Me too,” I agreed.

“We have to finish, right?”

“I think we have to,” I said.

So we ran, together.

The first ten miles weren’t too bad. We were following the marathon training advice of walking through the water stations, which in the real marathon would be about every mile. Still, we were both tired, slogging through the final miles.

“Are you sure you want to run a marathon?” he asked.

“Can’t back out now. We’ve been working too hard.” I wiped my sweaty bangs off my forehead.

“Okay. We’ve got this.”

I glanced at Charlie, and if I’d had more energy, I would have laughed at the look of serious determination on his face.

“My Fitbit says one more mile,” I told him.

He jogged a few feet. “And now it’s less than a mile.”

“Good attitude!”

We were slow, but we kept running. Hearing Charlie’s breaths and the sound of his feet hitting the sidewalk motivated me. Each set of thumps our shoes made brought us closer to the finish line.

Just when I thought I couldn’t go on, my Fitbit beeped, signaling the end of our run. I wanted to fall down on the trail, but I knew if I did, I wouldn’t have the energy to get back up.

“Oh my god, we did it!” I whispered through heavy breathing.

“I knew we could,” he said, his hands on his hips as he walked next to me.

“You totally didn’t.”

“No, I really didn’t.”

We walked up Main Street, both sweaty messes. I wanted to shower, eat a plate of carbs, and take a long, long nap.

“What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Absolutely nothing. It’s going to be glorious.”

“Want to do nothing together?”

“Um…”

He laughed and tugged the end of my ponytail. “Go take a shower. Then come hang out with me.”

I didn’t think about it before I answered. “Okay.”

Hanging out with Charlie, doing absolutely nothing together, was the best offer I’d had all year.

I stood under the cool water of my shower forever, letting the water slide down my twitching muscles.

Our run had been a challenge, beyond what I’d expected. But doing it with Charlie, pulling each other along, made it almost enjoyable. Not that I still didn’t hate running, because I did. But Charlie was the best running mate, which of course led me to think about other things he might be good at as a partner.

Charlie is my friend!

I dressed in my comfiest tank top and drawstring shorts and grabbed two bagels out of my freezer. They were from a Baltimore Jewish deli that claimed to import water from New York to make them. The bagels were good, and I always bought enough to freeze for later, but they weren’t fooling anyone when they called them New York bagels.

I threw the bagels, cream cheese, and a carton of orange juice in a bag and walked very slowly to Charlie’s place.

The entrance to his apartment was like mine, up a flight of stairs on the side of the building. He opened the door when I was halfway up the stairs.

“Why do you live on top of a mountain?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I’d offer to carry you the rest of the way up, but I think we’d both be spending the day on the stairs.”

“I can make it,” I groaned. I really played it up, pretending to use the railing to pull myself the rest of the way.

When I made it to the top, Charlie grinned and hugged me.

“You made it! I was worried.”

I looked back at the five hundred steps I’d just climbed. “It was touch and go there for a minute.”

He laughed and led me into his apartment. In all the weeks since we’d become friends, I’d never been inside his home. I had to admit, I was more than a little curious to see where he lived.

I was struck by how airy and bright the space was. The entryway opened into a great room, with dark wood floors, light walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows. The living room was sparsely furnished with mid-century modern furniture and the walls were decorated with colorful painted portraits that drew me in.

I studied the closest one, a watercolor portrait in blues and reds and purples of Mick Jagger. It was almost abstract, yet the subject was easy to make out. I had never seen anything like it before.

I moved to the next one, a portrait of a woman done in the colors of a sunset: yellows, oranges, and pinks. I didn’t recognize her, but she was beautiful, her hair floating behind her like a stream.

“Are these yours?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie said quietly from right behind me.

“Wow,” I breathed. I moved to the next one, and the next, each more beautiful than the last. Some were musicians, but most were regular, stunning people.

“I knew you were an artist, but you’re really an artist,” I said.

“It’s kind of my main gig,” he said in an amused voice.

I turned to face him, and felt like I was seeing him for the first time. Talented wasn’t enough of a word to describe him. He was creative and original and so impressive.

“Wow,” I repeated.

A smiled grew slowly on his lips. “If I’d known seeing my paintings would get this reaction out of you, I would have brought you up here weeks ago.”

“Now I don’t know how to act around you. I used to think you were just a regular guy, not some super-genius artist.”

He clutched his chest like I’d wounded him. “A regular guy, huh? You cut me right to the quick.”

I laughed. “Well, regular is a bit of an exaggeration…”

Charlie threw his arm around my shoulder. “I’m happy you like my work.”

I looked up at his smiling face. “I really do.”

We stared at each other for one long moment, and then I held up my bag. “I brought bagels!”

“Thank god. I’m starving.”

We settled on the couch with our toasted bagels and glasses of OJ. With my plate on my lap, I rested my feet on the low coffee table.

“How long have you been painting?” I asked before taking a big bite of my everything bagel.

“Forever, really. My dad’s a painter too, so I’ve had a paintbrush in my hand since birth, pretty much. I didn’t paint as much when I was on the road with the band, but I never stopped. I sold a painting for the first time in high school to a friend’s parents.”

“Have you always done portraits?”

“Nah, it’s what I’m into now. Faces fascinate me. That’s why I’m always trying to push your hair out of your face. I can’t see yours.”

I laughed and pushed my bangs back with my hand. “Here it is!”

His eyes moved around my face as he studied me for a long time. “Do you have any idea how lovely you are?”

I dropped my hand, letting my bangs fall in my eyes. “I feel like there’s no way I can answer that and come out looking good. If I say yes, I’m vain. If I say no, I’m either falsely modest or have low self-esteem.”

He tapped my nose. “It was a rhetorical question, silly. But you shouldn’t hide behind your hair. It’s a tragedy, really.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” I said.

I let out a long yawn.

“Tired, Miss Eliza?”

I nodded. “I could go for a nap.”

Charlie yawned so wide, I heard his jaw crack.

“Me too. Tell me if this is weird, but how do you feel about co-napping?”

“How’s your bed? Are there fluffy blankets?”

“The fluffiest,” he confirmed.

“I could be convinced. I’m pretty sleepy.”

“Come on then, let’s sleep together.”

Charlie stacked our plates on the coffee table, then pulled me up from the couch and held my hand as he led me to his bedroom. The curtains were closed, so the room was dim. In the center of the room was a king-size bed covered in a white duvet. I sat down on the edge and bounced.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“This will do,” I said.

I pulled back the blankets and confirmed their fluffiness, then settled into the crisp, cool sheets. Charlie lay down too, leaving a mile of bed between us. Rolling over on my side, I stretched my arm across the bed, palm up and open. Charlie turned on his side too, his hand meeting mine in the middle.

My eyelids were heavy, and I was so comfortable, I felt myself drifting right away, even as I tried to keep looking at Charlie’s face as he looked at me.

I woke up to a stream of light on my face. Charlie wasn’t in bed, but when I turned toward the light, I saw him facing away from me by the window, shirtless and painting. I sat up slowly so he wouldn’t hear me, giving me the chance to watch him work.

I could only see parts of the canvas, but this painting was unlike the ones hanging in the living room. He was using shades of black with slashes of deep purple. I looked down at my Fitbit and was surprised to see I’d been sleeping for three hours. How long has he been awake?

I cleared my throat softly to let him know I was awake, but not startle him. Charlie whipped around, and his gaze met mine.

“Sleeping beauty awakens, finally!” He smiled and closed the curtain he’d opened so he could paint.

“Did you sleep at all?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I tried. I couldn’t get my brain to quiet down, though. It was nice to just lie next to you and listen to you breathe. You have very soothing breaths.”

I giggled. “I’ve...never heard that about myself before.” I nodded at the painting, now in shadows. “What were you working on?”

He stood in front of me, blocking my view. “Just an idea I had. I don’t really like to show anyone my paintings until they’re complete.”

“That’s okay. I’m not going to push. Although I’d love to see it.”

“You will. Just not today.” He brushed my bangs out of my face once again. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Netflix and chill, minus the euphemism?”

He chuckled. “Exactly. We’ll literally watch Netflix and chill on the couch.”

“Sounds perfect.”

We sat on the couch together, and somehow, halfway through episode one of Luke Cage—my choice—I ended up lying down with my feet in Charlie’s lap. He stroked my calves absently with his fingertips while I melted into the couch cushions from his feather-light touch.

We got through almost the whole first season, ordering a pizza somewhere in the middle, before I declared defeat and said it was time to go home.

At the door, I gave Charlie a hug, and he held me tightly against him. Alex had smelled good, but Charlie smelled delicious. His scent reminded me of pine needles and meadows and fresh, clean air.

When I pulled back, I said, “Thank you for the best Sunday ever.”

“Ever?”

I nodded. “Ever.”

He hugged me again, and this time, kissed my temple softly before he pulled away.

“Ever,” he said.

On my short walk home, I was overcome with a feeling of contentedness. My day with Charlie had been like the concert the night before: floaty and dreamlike. Being with him was so easy, so right. Too many parts of me wanted to fall asleep in his big fluffy bed, holding his hand, every night.

I had to chant, like a mantra, Charlie is my friend.

I peered out the window of my living room one last time before I closed the curtains and my gaze was drawn to Charlie’s building. His curtains were open now and he stood in front of his bedroom window, shirtless again, painting.

I sighed and repeated my mantra yet again.