“Wowsiedoodle.” Carmen was as gaga as I.
“Right?”
Z’s tiny dark green running shorts paired with a faded shirt the wrong size for his height showed his hairy gut every time he moved. The outfit also revealed an “I don’t really care about fashion” attitude I liked right away, seeing as I’d worn white shorts and a navy blue polo shirt that made Carmen holler, “All aboard!” This was after my sister had already reminded me that we were headed for a walkathon, not a yacht race.
“I’ll let you have some private time while I get footage of the crowd and the park. Sound good?”
It did. Carmen was an excellent wing person.
Moving across the green as if carried by Cupid’s wings—more like dragged by Abby’s brute force—I was partway to Z in no time. His muscular legs indicated he walked a lot, and
