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The following days were uneventful, filled with Ginger's repetitious questions of if I had made up my mind yet, and---if I said no---then her pouring her soul out into a hopefully convincing monolog of why I should go. Which would then be followed by a quick insult about me being a hermit and "living in the past."
If only that were true, I'd thought. If only I could've been born in the past: 1920-60s to be exact---though terribly vague.
One hazy morning in mid-January, Ginger had the "bright" idea of going on a walk at six-thirty. AM. Apparently, she'd been deeply inspired by several Instagram promotions for active-wear and exercise...things. They didn't have a specific name---not that I searched for one---but somehow, in some miraculous way, she managed to convince me into getting up at six-fifteen in the early morning and slap on some work-out attire.
Lucky me.
I suppose I was feeling a tinge of guilt---over the entire Ben situation. I mean, even though he wasn't her favorite either, he was still a part of the Newsies cast. She loved that show even more (if that's possible) than I did, and meeting him, even if it was an accident, still felt like tresean. And now possibly not attending their show and letting Ginger down made me feel even worse.
But what was I supposed to do?
As I slipped the laces of my sneakers into a careless bow (which, truthfully, resembled more of a knot than anything), Ginger looked up cheerfully and said, "So how far do you want to go?"
A happy smile was spread across her lips as she entered her phone's password. She looked like a Nike promoter from Instagram in her tight black leggings, gray zip-up sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Not to mention her suspiciously perfect ponytail. How did she always look so gorgeous?
I shrugged, stifling an exhausted yawn. If I was already tired, how would I act during or, more importantly, after the run?
"Six miles?" she asked, her voice caked with enthusiasm and pep. Her high school cheerleader days were coming back to haunt her.
"Overachiever," I said dryly, standing up from my previous crouching position. I meant my comment to sound more playful, but the mixture of exhaustion and slight seriousness made it sound like a fact. However, Ginger seemed unmoved.
"Five? Come on---we need to at least break a sweat!" She tapped some random things on her phone.
"If you're doing this just for an Instagram picture, then you need a better motive."
"I'm doing it for my health," Ginger stated matter-of-factly.
"Ginger, the last time either of us ran was to the computer to buy those tickets for Newsies. Over a year ago. And that lasted, maybe, seventeen seconds." I chuckled, remembering the vivid scene.
She only narrowed her eyes at the screen in response.
"Four and a half miles---no more, no less," she decided presently.
