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to get Tasha excited and work up my nerve, “I’m running the St. George Marathon. Woo-hoo for me, huh?” I pumped my hands up and down above my shoulders. “Woo-hoo, woo-hoo.”
    Tasha’s fork halted mid-launch.  
    I stopped cheering, lowered my hands, and clutched the cloth napkin in my lap. “I won the entry at the 5K this morning,” Hopefully Nana hadn’t told her about the rest of my morning. I swallowed hard, sweat rising on my brow. “I’m so excited,” I rushed on with my story. “I’ve never won anything like this before. Well, you know, I’ve never won anything like anything before.”
    Tasha’s brow squiggled. Her lips flat-lined. I knew what she was thinkinga marathon entry didn’t really count as “winning” something, or maybe that’s what I was trying to convince myself not to think.  
            “Seriously?” Her blue eyes filled with doubt. “You actually won The Health Days Race?” She grinned. “And you didn’t throw up on any hot men?”
    I shrunk lower in my seat. “No, I didn’t win the race. I put my name in a drawing and voila.” I splayed my hands. “I’m a win- ner .”
    “I see.” Tasha returned to separating salad with her fork.
    “St. George is a qualifier for the Boston Marathon,” I explained, “and just doing something big like this has inspired me to start a new business . . .”
    My voice trailed off as my best friend stared at me like I’d grown chest hair. Tasha tilted her head to the side, blonde hair a gauzy curtain over her shapely upper arm. She poked at a chunk of chicken in her salad, set her fork down, took a long drink of water and then said, “ What new business?”
      “Training women in small groups so I can give personal attention but charge less per person.” Faced with Tasha’s discerning stare, my excitement fizzled a bit. “I read about it in Prevention magazine.”
    Tasha rolled her eyes. “Your Prevention Bible?”
    “Hey,” I picked up a fragment of tortilla chip and sucked on the salty goodness of grease, “I read the real Bible too.”
    “More than Prevention Magazine?” She took a bite of her salad, the actual green part, and waited for an answer I wasn’t going to give. Swallowing, she shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”
    “Anyway,” I said, “this is going to be fabulous. I’ve just got to find the right spot and get the word out.” I’d gotten the idea this afternoon when I was doing anything I could to distract myself from thinking about a man with no face. The excitement of getting back into personal training almost blocked the bad memories. Almost. “I’ll be able to use my degree again.”
    “Which degree are you speaking of?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I know. The exercise science degree that you worked four years for, just had to complete, but after one failed business attempt, never use to make money? That degree?”
    “Yes, that one.” I forced a smile, trying to stay positive and ignore the uppercuts. “It’s going to be brilliant. I’m trying to decide if I should design a website or flyers first.”
    “Whoa, whoa.” Tasha held up her hand. “I understand the desire to break free of the receptionist job.”
    “Loan processor .” Why couldn’t she ever get that right?
    Tasha rolled her eyes. “Whatever you want to call yourself. A job that you hate.”
    “I’m great at my job and I make loads of money.”
    “Your boss is a pig and you aren’t happy.” She arched a perfectly plucked and dyed brow, waiting for me to contradict her, which I couldn’t do. “While I hate to admit it . . . this is a great idea. You’re a fabulous exercise scientist, an extremely fit person, and the best personal trainer I’ve ever used for free ,” the lovely eyebrow almost reached her hairline, “if you can really convince yourself to charge people this would be the perfect job for you.”
    “Thanks.” Finally, Tasha was giving me a little credit.
    “But what does any