“We can talk this weekend, okay?”
In a way, I’m the girlfriend who got left behind.
I shove the emotions away and fake a smile. Mom once said a fake smile will make your voice brighter, even if you don’t mean it. And I definitely don’t mean it now, when all I’d like to do is scream at Margo to come home.
Stop it, Riley.
“This weekend is great,” I say. “Have fun!”
“You, too. Go meet a cute nice boy or something.”
My stomach inexplicably twists. “Will do.”
I’m not a broken person. In fact, I’ve come a long way since last year. Just a few months from now will mark a full year of being single.
I shower quickly, unable to allow even that time to feel sorry for myself. It’s easy to cry in a shower—that’s common knowledge—but the truly difficult part is holding yourself together. It’s torture in a way.
Instead, I focus on school. Everyone’s been leaving me alone since Eli graduated. I dropped off the radar, plain and simple. I need to stay off the radar and concentrate on my grades. It’s the last push before I send in my NYU application…
That, and my personal essay.
What sort of devil invented the personal essay? Who likes talking about themselves? Not only that, it has to be interesting and individual. Unique.
There are over seven billion people on the planet.
I’m not unique.
I’m just trying to survive.
I latch on to that: survival instinct. I don’t need emotion. I’ll just do the work. Run on the damn cross-country team. And wish on a shooting star that I get into NYU.
2
Eli
Riley Appleton thinks I’m hours away.
She would prefer that I forgot about her, left her behind.
That was never my plan—only hers.
We were going to be happy, her and I. That was the path we were on before the fucking path blew up in our faces. Now we’re both coated in the ashes of our former relationship, and I can’t wait to smear it across her pretty face.
Show her that the bully she knew before has nothing on the person I’ve become.
Ruined.
She moves in front of the window, carrying a plate of food. Her brother is right behind her. He’s thinner than I remember, lost some of the muscle he carried in high school. They transferred in his senior year, but he made an impact as a soccer player. And little Riley, the quiet freshman, had been tucked under Amelie’s wing.
Hmm, now that I think about it, Riley has a way of detonating all her relationships.
It’s a wonder she’s still close to Margo.
I suppress the rage rattling my bones.
I came here for one thing: to see her. To give in to the need clawing at my throat.
It’s been a year since she spoke to me, and I craved the sound of her voice. I dreamt of it for months. Of us. Of what could’ve possibly happened for her trust in me to shatter.
She and her brother sit on the couch and turn on the television. A bit of the screen is visible through the window, the couch positioned perfectly to give me a profile view of Riley’s upper body.
They’re not talkers, those two. I’m not sure they’ve ever had a real conversation in their lives. If I were there—as I often was—I’d be the one running my mouth. Sometimes I can’t shut up.
I stay at their curb in a borrowed car for far too long.
Long enough that the neighbors might get suspicious about the idling, older-model car. Dad just bought it a few months ago to fix up, but he hasn’t got very far. He said he wanted something to keep his hands busy when he wasn’t working.
It’s laughable. He’s always working.
I spent more time on this car than he ever did, meticulously following books and diagrams to switch out engine parts, to clean the undercarriage and replace broken or damaged pieces.
It runs just fine now, but it sure is ugly.
I lean forward when Riley does. It’s unconscious, mirroring her movements.
My enchantress.
She once snared my attention without trying, and she’s held it ever since.
If only it wasn’t laced with real anger. If she hadn’t stabbed me in the back.
If, if, if.
There’s no fixing the past. We’re beyond that.
I craved her voice, but now all I want are her screams.
3
Riley
My alarm is an awful, horrible thing. It beeps at me at five o’clock, when the sky is lightening, but the sunrise is still a long way off.
I roll out of bed and stumble around my room, doing my best impression of a morning routine. Brush my teeth, pull my hair back into a ponytail, dress in running gear. I lace my shoes up tightly and slip my water bottle’s elastic around my wrist.
Noah’s door is shut, and my parents’ bedroom door is closed, too. It seems to be the new normal—everyone locks themselves away.
My dad appears in the doorway and follows me downstairs.
“You should carry pepper spray,” he says for the hundredth time. “Just in case.”
“It’s Rose Hill, Dad.” Nothing bad ever happens in Rose Hill, where the median income is over a hundred thousand dollars. I don’t run close enough to Stone Ridge to justify it.
“Think about it.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ll have coffee on when you get back.”
I smile. The first real one of the day. They’re generally reserved for Dad. He’ll leave for work as soon as I get home, and we won’t see him until after dinner… maybe not at all.
His job in the city exploded in the last year. He works longer hours because he’s in high demand, and no one deserves it more than he does.
“How far today?” he asks.
“Five miles on Thursdays.”
He nods. “And another three at practice?”
“I’ll be a marathoner before you know it.”
“Have fun. I’ll pick up Mace or something.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s nice that he cares. It’s the little things.
The air is colder than I expected for mid-September, and the clouds hang low.
I shake off my nerves—they always creep up before a run—and break into a jog. I’ll take the first mile or so slow, then pick up the pace.
Running invigorates me. I can actually breathe at this time of day.
I zip along the familiar streets, navigating cracks in the sidewalk. Our neighborhood has a little park in the center, a grassy lawn and walking paths. It connects to a recently renovated trail through the woods. It loops neatly, but there’s also the option to keep going, all the way along a fast-paced stream to the state park.
I stay away from the state park.
Fog lingers there, obscuring most of the far end and houses beyond.
My breathing becomes shallow, and I subconsciously speed up.
Still, it isn’t enough to deviate from my route.
Goosebumps prick the backs of my arms.
It’s just the fog. I’m imagining the worst—boogeymen jumping out and carting me away, a hungry bear, a serial killer.
The ache in my legs is the first sign that I’ve pushed myself too far—and I’m only at the halfway point. The trail loops around and connects back to where I had passed five minutes ago, and I take a deep breath.