Running with Nick felt good—graceful, even. There was a rhythm to it, a pattern of movement between us. He had called me a runner, and I liked that. Liked the idea that maybe I was, or at least could be.
But eventually, my lungs, first politely and then insistently, indicated that a break was needed. I slowed to a jog and then stopped altogether, standing with my fists propped on my hips, trying to resist the urge to flop down onto the grass and heave in air like a drowning victim.
Nick stopped as well and stood with his head between his legs to catch his breath.
“You’re good at this,” he said between breaths.
“No, but I’m getting better,” I said. “Slowly.” Short sentences were all I could manage.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Our exhaustion saved us from talking more for a while, but then our breathing normalized and it felt like we should begin again. And I was so tired and loose that talking didn’t feel as daunting as it usually might.
“We liked your mom’s casserole,” I said. “It was the best one we got.” It felt good to have gotten that out. A couple of months late, sure, but better late than never.
He looked puzzled for a second and then smiled. “Oh, that wasn’t my mom’s casserole. That was my dad’s super-secret-recipe casserole. He takes it very seriously.”
“Your dad cooks?” I knew, in theory, that men could cook, yet I’d seen little evidence in practice. Birdton was pretty far from progressive in that and many, many other ways.
“Only when he feels we’ve earned it,” he said.
“Do you guys bring stuff to people a lot?”
“Not really. Mom does the occasional bake sale stuff for church, but that’s it. And Dad’s cooking is usually just for family.”
“So how did we end up with the honor?”
He looked away from me, up toward the horizon. “Because I asked him to.”
It was a simple, straightforward answer with infinite layers. Looking at his profile, I wondered what would’ve happened if he’d told Anna how he felt. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything—maybe she’d already fallen for Mr. Matthews or whoever it was, and Nick never had a chance. Or maybe it would have changed everything.
I stood up carefully and started doing some stretching. After a moment, Nick followed suit.
We jogged back to the park. It hadn’t felt that far on the way out, but now that we were tired and going slower, it seemed the route had stretched itself during our break. When we reached the park, we paused.
“Well, I’m that way,” he said, pointing north.
“Yeah. And I’m that way.” I pointed south.
“Okay. So…same time next week?”
“All right,” I said, unsure whether it was a genuine suggestion or just an attempt to make our parting less awkward.
We stood there for a moment and then he jogged off.
Watching him grow smaller and smaller, I briefly found myself wanting to call out and ask him to come back, despite having no idea what I would say if he did.
I was amazed that I got away with as much as I did, disturbed by how easy it was to lie, to act like nothing had changed.
Yet it took me by surprise when one morning Mom said that I looked tired, asked if anything was wrong.
I told her I hadn’t slept well—that we’d had a fight.
I told myself that was the only thing I could think of, the only thing she’d believe.
That’s not true, though.
There were a million other things I could’ve come up with: a bad grade, a mean comment from someone in cross-country, a snub from a boy I liked.
I think what I was really doing was trying to punish you a little, because you should have noticed. You should have seen through the lies about where I was, who I was with. About all those runs I took.
ON MONDAY, I WAS DISTRACTED, out of sync from the moment I woke up. Even the sound of my alarm clock seemed different—louder, more insistent than I remembered it—and when I got out of bed, I promptly smacked my shin against the bed frame, leaving a large welt that I could immediately feel hardening into a bruise.
So it was hardly surprising that as I hurried through the hall on the way to second period, my head down, I smashed into someone.
“Watch it!” an annoyed male voice said.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, looking up to see who I’d bumped into. It turned out to be Charlie. His face was tense, and his hands were raised as if to either brace himself or steady me. A few steps behind me, Nick and Brian had paused and were looking back at us.
“Jess.” Charlie blinked, and relaxed his face into a smile. “Well, I guess neither of us was paying attention.”
“I guess not.”
He nodded. I expected him to walk away at that point, to catch up with Nick and Brian. Instead, he remained standing there. “So did you end up getting ahold of Lily?” he asked. “Brian said something about you having a sweater of hers?”
“Yeah.” I paused. “It turned out the sweater wasn’t a priority for her.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “She’s probably enjoying being by a beach. Probably getting a tan—happy to not be stuck in this dump anymore.”
Brian took a step toward Charlie, looking impatient. “You coming?” he asked.
Charlie ignored him.
“She say anything else? Anything about me?” he asked.
“Of course she didn’t say anything about you,” Brian interjected. “Let’s go.”
Charlie frowned, and a note of anger entered his voice. “Look, just because you and your ex are a garbage fire doesn’t mean I can’t ask about mine.”
Brian tensed. “Watch it,” he said.
“No, you watch it. I’m tired of walking on damn eggshells. You’re the one who needs to move on already. She was just a giant time suck for you anyway—I barely saw you when you guys were together. You’re better off without her.”
Brian’s face went dark and he stepped forward. Nick shook his head and
