And maybe I get too confident. Because the next thing I know, I’m sort of toppling over Brenden as his legs swing in a wild arc through the air and he winds up on his back with me half on top of him. A whoosh of air leaves my lungs as I land.

“Shit! Are you okay?” I ask, rolling off him.

When he doesn’t move, I panic, but then I realize he’s actually shaking with silent laughter.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

“It was my fault, my hand slipped,” he says. “But hurry up, get me back into position! We can still finish.”

I eye him critically, but he quickly pushes himself onto all fours and insists, “Come on, come on!”

Ignoring the slight ache in my knees as I stand, I hoist his legs up in the air again. Those teams we’ve pulled ahead of have all passed us now, but Brenden’s clearly not a quitter, and I guess I’m not either.

As we start moving again, I’m cautiously building up speed, and then I see May with her hands on the ground, coming up beside Brenden. She and Elise must be going a little crooked, but at least they’re still going. May sticks her tongue out at her dad when she’s beside him, and Brenden laughs.

I keep pace with Elise, not fighting too hard to beat them. I don’t want to fall again, plus I wouldn’t mind watching May gloat to Brenden if they finish before us. But Brenden yells at me, “Go, go! Faster!” and my body just obeys him as we edge them out.

I’m winded when we cross the finish line, but relieved we’re in one piece. While we don’t come in last, and we’re apparently not the only ones who fell, we’ve got to be in the bottom half of the rankings. And I immediately feel guilty for letting Brenden down. Even though he said it was his fault that his hand slipped, I feel like the blame is on me for going too fast for him to keep up.

That’s why I’m determined to win the next event, even if I groan when I hear it’s a three-legged race. Fuck these races. I enjoy running, but certainly not like this.

A volunteer comes over to us and ties my right leg to Brenden’s left one, from knee to ankle. I feel ridiculous, and this seems even more dangerous than the wheelbarrow race. But I can’t say I mind being tied to him like this.

He slips his arm around my waist and gazes up at me with his painfully lovely blue eyes. “Thank you again for doing this. I know you hate it.”

It must be the eyes that get to me and have the words, “Anything for you,” slipping out of my mouth without my permission.