I Professed My Love at Mile 15...But Not to My Husband

I married my childhood best friend when we were still young...then fell in love with my running partner. Welcome to a love triangle more intense than any marathon.

When this Narratively Classic was published in September 2020, I was simultaneously proud of the piece and utterly terrified of what the reaction might be. For years, I had been trying, and struggling (and failing, and trying again) to tell this story. Too often, it came out feeling corny, or cliché, or narcissistic — just never quite “right.” But eventually, as Junot Díaz puts it:

“You scribble the ex’s name and … bust out a couple more things. Then you put your head down. The next day, you look at the new pages. For once, you don’t want to burn them or give up writing forever. It’s a start, you say to the room. That’s about it. In the months that follow, you bend to the work, because it feels like hope, like grace — and because you know in your lying cheater’s heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get.”

Life, and love, are messy. This story isn’t perfect. It never was. But it’s a start. 

—Christine Ochs-Naderer

Illustrations by Julia Vohl | Story edited by Naomi Zeveloff

We ran past mile marker 15. Between breaths, I managed to stammer, “I’m in love with you.” Casey ignored me and sprinted ahead.

I’d met Casey in college, three years before that marathon. Back then, he had shoulder-length hair, super short running shorts, and a thigh tattoo. He tried to flirt by bragging about running his fourth marathon in three months. I Googled his times and figured out that he was slower than me.

Casey was a carefree, goofy college boy. I brushed him off.

Just before graduation, he texted me, asking if I wanted to coach high school track. Unenthused by the idea — but bad at telling people no — I stalled and replied, “Hmm. Maybe.”

His response to my implied “Thanks, but no thanks” was “Perfect. I’ll pick you up tomorrow so you can meet the team.” Not exactly what I was going for.

We began working together, and Casey transformed before my eyes, from college goofball to model mentor and leader. (He did cut the way-too-long hair, which was a great start.) As I watched him effortlessly guide and counsel those kids every day at practice, I remember asking myself, “Who is this person?”

It happened almost imperceptibly; soon, days spent with Casey felt more exciting — more alive — than days without him. I found myself thinking about him during the day — texting him funny stories, or picking up breakfast sandwiches for us before early-morning track meets.

I started to notice just how blue Casey’s eyes were. And how good it felt to be looked at by him.

But as Casey and I grew closer, a deep, piercing dread began to claw around my heart.

An hour and a half after that mid-marathon profession of love, we crossed the finish line. In the haze of Gatorade cups and bananas, Casey and I shared a hug that might have been awkward if I weren’t so exhausted. I fought back tears. We parted ways as I scanned the crowd for my husband, waiting with a blanket and a smile.

There’s no good way to say it: I was married. And not to Casey.