I looked at him with an eyebrow raised.
He shrugged. “I was going anyway.”
“I’m sure you actually run,” I said. “This will probably be more like a jog…or for you, a walk.”
“If I get bored, I’ll leave you alone to your trot.” He grinned, his sapphire-blue eyes shining.
“Whatever.”
We started with a jog down my long driveway. As my muscles loosened, jogging wasn’t enough. My body wanted more, so I picked up the pace to a slow run. Then a faster run.
“When’d you start running?” Owen asked as we picked up speed for the third time, neither of us breathing heavily.
“Now.”
He looked down at me, his blond hair falling across his face. He wore it long now, past his ears but not quite to his shoulders. He gave me a strange look. “Really?”
“Really. I’m wearing Mom’s shoes because I don’t even own any.”
“Huh.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say and let the subject drop.
Once off my property, we’d taken a right and ran down the middle of the quiet, residential street for several blocks. All the homes on the street sat on a minimum of two acres, most with gates at the driveways and hedges at least six-feet-high lining the street. The neighborhood featured privacy and the people who lived here could afford to pay for it. We moved here nearly three years ago, when my books really started taking off and the media started paying attention.
We’d stayed in the safe house in Northern Virginia until a few months after Dorian’s birth, when Mom deemed us healthy enough to move. The safe house was supposed to serve as a place of refuge for Amadis people needing to escape or who were newly converted. With me there, Rina refused to let anyone else come. So my presence created a few issues and we couldn’t stay permanently. We moved to a house near Virginia Beach. I liked life there more than Atlanta, but we’d lived in a small town. Small towns weren’t always conducive for the famous—or semi-famous, anyway. Especially when they’re loony. Atlanta and this neighborhood provided a better environment for me and my insanity.
There were really just a couple of incidents that indicated to the world I wasn’t quite right in the head. But they were enough. The first time occurred several years ago at a book signing in New York City. I sat by the bookstore’s window and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man with sandy-brown hair walk by the store. I ran outside and took off after him, leaving a line of fans awaiting my signature. When he turned the corner and I saw the unfamiliar profile, I collapsed to the sidewalk bawling.
The second time, Mom and I were eating lunch with my publishing team when someone made a remark about the absence of my son’s father and suggested I start dating. I flew off the handle. Finally, during a televised interview, my mouth open in mid-sentence, I caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows off-set. For a moment, I thought I’d seen Tristan, that he’d made his homecoming a surprise. Then I realized someone had set down a life-sized, cardboard cut-out of a young Brad Pitt. I remembered the conversation of the actor’s character in Legends of the Fall the night of my first-ever kiss and burst into hysterical laughter. I couldn’t stop chortling, though the tears streaming down my face were those of grief. Someone finally dragged me off the set.
The first incident happened before I became too famous and the luncheon was private, so they were easily covered up. But the last one took place on live television, aired nationally. The country woke up that morning to quite a show. That was two books ago. The publisher took me off the circuit and I didn’t have to make any public appearances for the most recent book. Fine by me. I hated them anyway. I preferred this private life.
We would have to move again soon. People would notice Mom wasn’t aging. But, then again, maybe we could just switch places. She looked like how I should at my age—twenty-seven, rather than her true one- hundred-twenty-three years. And I didn’t look exactly a hundred years older, but I did look old enough to be her mother. As I ran, I thought about mentioning this idea to her. It would at least make her chuckle. I owed her that.
Owen indicated a left turn at the intersection we approached and I followed his command. What the hell? I don’t really care where I go. I just want to run! Though the sudden urge made no sense, the actual activity seemed like a positive action. It was probably Swirly messing with my mind, but I really felt like running was a rightness among all my wrongness.
But then Owen had to blow it and almost make me regret the whole thing.
“Rough night last night?” he asked once we turned the corner.
“You heard?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I sighed. “Not your fault I’m messed up in the head.”
“It’s just hard to see you like this. I remember when you…”
Damn it, Owen. I interrupted him. “Let’s not go there. Please?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We ran in silence again for about half a block. Then Owen had an idea.
“See if you can keep up with me.” He lengthened his stride and I kept pace with him. Then he increased his speed again. I could start to feel the push this time, but I could do it. He went even faster and got away from me.
“You’re pretty fast,” he said after jogging back to me. “You’re sure you didn’t run before today?”
“Don’t you think I’d know that?” Okay, maybe not. I do have a few screws loose. “Just look at me, Owen. Do I look like a runner?”
He chuckled and, obviously a smart man, avoided answering.
“If you want to go, go,” I said. “Don’t hang back here on my account.”
“I’m fine.”
We ran through and around a park about a half-mile from my house. Georgia pines, surrounded by brush, lined parts of the paths, giving the feeling we ran in the wilderness, and other parts took us past soccer and baseball fields. As we approached the playground, I decided I should probably turn back for home. I didn’t feel out of breath—even though I’d been smoking for who knew how long (I seriously didn’t know; I had a vague memory of someone handing me a cigarette when I felt especially stressed during a book signing)—and my muscles weren’t sore. But I knew I would pay for this asinine impulse later and I saw no need to make it worse by continuing. Owen was about to head on for a longer run when I suddenly stopped as if I’d run into a wall.
There he is! He stood across the playground, about sixty or seventy yards away, and I immediately knew he was the same person who stood in my backyard yesterday. I could feel his eyes on me again. He stood a little closer now, but I still couldn’t see his face. His brown hair hung way past the shoulders and it whipped around in the March breeze. The shade of the large oak he stood under also concealed his face. Something, maybe the long hair, told me he was young. Just a boy. But his body looked more developed than a boy’s. Much more. No, a man. Too young for me, but definitely a man. Just like the day before, he felt…familiar. I started toward him again.
“Alexis? You okay?” Owen asked, after I took only a few steps. I turned and looked at him.
“Huh?” I asked distractedly.
“Are you okay? You look…odd.”
I looked back at the stranger. He had disappeared again. Damn it!
“I’m, uh, fine. Go on. I’ll see you at home.” I started jogging again, which seemed to be enough for Owen. He took off in the other direction.
I wanted to search for the stranger. I had to know he was at least real. But I had no clue in which direction he’d gone. Or if he really was just a figment of my imagination. Or wishful thinking. I walked home, mentally and emotionally feeling like crap again.
Physically, however, I felt great. Owen ran up behind me just as I walked up to the beige-and-brick, ranch- style house. He said he’d run another three miles to add to the nearly two miles we did together. Two miles? Oh, this is going to hurt. I wanted to do it again, though, and went to the store to buy my own running wear. Of course, I would probably be over this idiotic impulse by tomorrow and would never run again, but right now, it made perfect sense that I needed my own running shoes. Which was how Swirly operated—making the most irrational thoughts seem logical.
“You’re sure you want running shoes?” the pock-faced kid at the sporting goods store asked, his nose slightly crinkling. “I mean, we have walking shoes. Or my mom really likes these cross-trainers.”
