You, Again

He’s probably mentally reviewing his running strategy right now.

Somehow sweating and freezing, she skip-walks into a jog, dodging clumps of pedestrians who are probably heading into the park to watch the fireworks.

This is fine. Keep moving. Gonna make it. Breathe in through the nose-two-three, out through the mouth-two-three. In through the nose, out through the—

Ooh…a pretzel stand that’s not mobbed.

It turns out that it’s possible to run really fast (okay, reasonably fast), while inhaling a soft pretzel and clutching a slippery bottle of blue Powerade.

She checks the time on Gabe’s phone. 11:54. Shit.

It’s like someone turned over the little hourglass timer on a board game. It’s no longer just, how fast can I get there? It’s this is actually happening and my face must be the color of a cherry tomato and what the fuck is going to happen if I actually find him? and how, exactly, do you confess your love for someone?

And, most aggravatingly: What if he’s not alone?

There could be a Harper or a Lauren or a Maddie, and wow, the mind really has a knack for some perfectly timed self-sabotage. At least the pain in her tight calf muscles is a good distraction.

In the thick of the crowd at the Seventy-second Street entrance, she feels like a child sneaking into a wedding reception for grown-ups only. Everyone around her is part of a social group or a couple. They all have festive props to wave and selfies to take, and she’s alone and nervous and trying to un-fuck-up a fraught situation by ambushing someone whose feelings might be bordering on hostile.

Her heart’s racing—and not just because of the unprecedented amount of cardio. A series of waist-height metal barriers line the edges of the race route without an obvious entrance. Ari jogs along it, jumping up every so often to scan the crowd of runners.

It’s like a bizarro, life-sized edition of Where’s Waldo?, in which the object is to find the tree-sized emo man wearing all black running gear instead of a bug-eyed nerd in a striped sweater. “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” is booming through the sound system in the band shell, echoing eerily through the trees. Finding a tall, dark needle in a haystack is much more difficult when every racer is bopping around to ABBA.

Except—

There’s one head that’s not bopping: a man with a black knit hat, standing with his arms crossed, mouth turned slightly down, surrounded by a group of young, long-haired, heavily made-up women in matching logo shirts who are really feeling the second verse.

He couldn’t look more miserable if he tried—and it’s possible he did try. What kind of pretentious snob shows up to a giant fun run and puts in their earbuds before the race even starts?

My pretentious snob.

Hopefully.



* * *





AT FIRST, JOSH thinks all the visual stimulation must be playing tricks on his mind. Because sometimes he’ll be walking behind a woman with light brown hair in a messy topknot and wonder…

It never is.

But the girl leaning over the crowd-control barrier on the other side of the road could be Ari’s twin. She’s forty feet away—difficult to see details from this distance in the darkness punctured with flashing lights—but when he catches her glance, he swears her eyes grow large with recognition. At that moment, the race organizers force everyone in his starting group forward.

Fuck.

Josh takes some ineffective clearing breaths. He can’t find Briar in the mob of women surrounding him—all wearing Tshirts emblazoned with the ryan’s racers logo (it’s just an empty pair of gray sweatpants, running—which happens to be an apt description of Ryan himself). A whole universe of art and culture and food and a half-assed jogging club organized by a former reality star is the best entertainment this fucking city has to offer? Josh can’t even properly track his stats on an outdoor run where his progress will be impeded by amateur athletes.

Predictably, Briar thought this would be a good place for him to meet someone, but none of these women are here to meet a man who’s the opposite of Ryan and his gray joggers. He’s the only person in the vicinity not dancing around like a fool or taking selfies with practiced silly faces. It’s a familiar feeling—like his whole life has been a party where everyone else is enjoying themselves while he sulks in the corner.

He cranes his neck and catches sight of the Ari doppelg?nger again. She’s still staring directly at him with an off-putting intensity.

She looks exhausted and flushed, but—

“…thirty seconds. As soon as the ball drops, the race begins. Runners, to your starting marks please!”

Even if he hadn’t had the precise contours of her face memorized for the last eight—nine?—years, he would still know it was Ari because she opens her mouth and screams out—

“Josh!” It’s barely audible over the growing roar of the crowd and the bouncy music, but he hears it.

His heart stops.

“Ten…”

“Josh!” she yells again, her voice louder but ragged.

“Okay, Ryan’s Racers, you’re gonna crush this!” Ryan holds up his hand in front of Josh and folds him into a nonconsensual bro-hug before he can avoid it.

“Nine…”

Josh whips back around and sees Ari reach forward and grab for the metal crowd-control barrier.

She has one leg over the top bar before a police officer rushes over and forces her back behind it. Josh pushes a couple inches closer to the curb, as if that will somehow make a difference.

She argues with the cop. She’s gesticulating. Pointing across the path. At him.

What gives her the fucking right? To show up here and shout his name like that?

“Eight…”

The officer walks away with a warning gesture and Ari looks back over to Josh, leaning forward against the barrier, both hands grasping the bars, with one foot resting on the lower bar of the barricade, like she’s ready to push down and make another attempt.

For some reason she’s wearing an extra-large logo sweatshirt over shorts and glittery tights. She must be fucking freezing. It makes his throat tight.

“Seven…”

Ari’s mouth continues to move, like she’s still yelling something important, something he absolutely has to hear, but the roar of the crowd around him is too loud to make it out.

“Six…”

Ari reaches into the neck of her sweatshirt and pulls out a phone from her bra. It’s the least surprising thing that’s happened in the last fifteen seconds.

He watches—mildly horrified—as she wipes the phone screen on her sleeve, before bowing her head slightly to type.

Two seconds later, Josh feels his back pocket buzz. He reaches for his phone, keeping his eyes on Ari. She’s watching him the way contestants on The Great British Bake Off watch their ovens.

“Five…”

Sun, Dec 31, 11:59 p.m.

Unknown Number: There’s something I need to say to you



He knows it’s more bullshit. She’s going to say something that seems harmless and friendly, while it actually upsets the hell out of the fragile balance of his inner turmoil.

He doesn’t type a response but just looks back up at her, giving a subtle and reluctant nod of assent.

She immediately lowers her head again, stepping down off the barrier, as if this text requires serious concentration. He feels himself grinding his jaw.

“Four…”

Ari remains focused on the phone, thumbs hovering over the screen, apparently writing a thousand-word-long persuasive essay about why they should be friends again. Webster’s Dictionary defines platonic as…

Ryan has already dipped Briar in preparation for their big midnight kiss, while one of the racers steps back to capture a video clip.

“Three…”

Ari’s head is still lowered. Minutes must have passed. Goddamn minutes.

“Two…”

He’ll have to run in a few seconds. Josh glances to either side for any kind of opening to escape from the starting line when his phone nearly vibrates out of his sweaty palm.

“One…Happy New Year!”

Unknown Number: I love you



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