This book is in honor of all those affected by the tragedy at the 2013 Boston marathon. Your courage inspires us. Run on!
A lanky, sandy haired man on crutches elbowed his way
through the door, alternating between pushing the glass door open
and inching his crutches forward. He wore a red windbreaker with
Lakeshore Track Club embroidered on the chest. Clutched between
his left hand and the handle of his crutch was a wad of papers. It
wasn’t the worst presentation of receipts she’d seen in the last three
months, but it would make the top ten.
She experienced a brief wave of déjà vu. A flash of his face
laughing in the dark. Had she seen him before somewhere? His
physique didn’t match any of the football players she had been in
contact with. Surely the strange bend in his nose would stand out
enough in her memory. It gave him a reckless air she found
“Let me help you with that.” She hurried over to the door
and kicked the stopper down to hold it open while she relieved him
of the fistful of paper. A quick scan of the parking lot told her
Mark’s truck hadn’t arrived yet. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Your sign said walk-‐‑ins were welcome.” His voice had a
pleasant timbre. Tara didn’t miss the once-‐‑over he gave her. She
was used to those. It was one of the side-‐‑effects of having breast
implants not written in the tri-‐‑fold brochure from the plastic
surgeon: every male and one in three females will stare at your
chest. At times, Tara wanted to wear a name-‐‑tag that said ‘and yes,
they are fake’ʹ under her name.
“Walk-‐‑ins are always welcome. We have a small break in the
rush right now, so why don’t you have a seat by my desk?” Tara
released the door then made her way around her desk and righted
The man put the two crutches together and gingerly lowered
himself into the seat. He kept his left leg extended, and Tara could
see the outline of a brace around his knee through his warm-‐‑up
pants. She dropped the pile of receipts into the middle of her desk
and opened a new client file on her computer.
“Have you been here before?” When he answered in the
negative, Tara said, “Okay. Then we’ll need to go through the
basics first. I’ll need all your vital stats.”
“Name, address, phone number, etc.”
“Oh, I thought you meant age, weight, heart rate, and blood
pressure. Guess I’ve been to too many doctors lately. Ryan Grant.”
He rattled off an address she recognized as one of the Ladies Night
Out members. Had Yvonne been holding out on her? They owed
her a favor after she had helped them get Leslie and Mark together.
The last names matched so he must be family. Perhaps Yvonne’s
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I am donating a portion of my proceeds from Climbing Heartbreak Hill to One Fund Boston. Please help make a difference.
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