As I run, I pass through the fog of memory and back into the sweltering heat and still-dark morning, turning right along the white fence lining Matt’s family’s property and picking up my pace. As my limbs loosen, my muscles heat, my heart rate increases, and my mind slips into its sweet spot: the unequaled silent peace you get from exercise. Somehow I skip the horrible middle part of any workout when my body’s usually screaming and my mind can’t stop repeating I hate this, this sucks, I hate this, and dive straight into the nirvana of being soaked in sweat. Unbothered by the thick clouds of mosquitoes riding the grass around my ankles. Moved by the intense thumbnail of sunrise visible beyond the hills.
I run across the tumbling fields, down to the Kincaids’ big white farmhouse and their junky rental property adjacent, then turn and start climbing back toward the stadium and track as the sun crests the trees. The gates are locked, but I climb the chain-link fence pretty easily and make my way down the bleachers toward the field just as the world—my world—is bathed in rosy light. Except it’s not just my world anymore. Someone else is down there, running on the track.
I lean out over the railing and watch the boy circling the field. He’s tall and broad but fast, too—a football player for sure, I’d guess a running back. At the far end of the field, he curves around the track, and I feel myself smiling involuntarily when he notices me.
“What are you doing, sweating all over my track?” I shout down to him.
He comes to a stop in front of me, resting his hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “Well, nice to see you too, Natalie Cleary.”
7
“Do you live around here?” I ask.
He walks forward to the bleachers and reaches his hands up through the chain link separating me from him. His white T-shirt is worn out and horribly mud-and grass-stained, the sleeves cut off to reveal long stripes of tan skin on either side of his rib cage and stomach. “Not too far,” he says. “What about you?”
“Down off Wetherington,” I tell him. He nods but doesn’t say anything, and his smile is unnerving. I nudge the fencing with my foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothin’,” he says. “Those are nice houses.”
“And?”
He looks out across the field, the intense yellow of the rising sun catching his hazel eyes and painting caramel highlights at the tips of his hair. “You dress real nice. I bet you come from a nice family.”
It occurs to me that maybe my calling in life is just to make Beau say nahs as many times as possible. “They’re nice,” I say. The elaborately strapped gray sports bra and moisture-wicking running shorts are also probably the nicest clothes I own. My mom thinks workout gear is sacred, and thus is constantly throwing out my old stained stuff and replenishing my supply. “What about you? You play the piano like Mozart—your family must be all right.”
Beau lets go of the chain link, walks around to the steps, and comes to stand beside me. When he leans out over the railing he eases his arm up against mine, and I’m careful not to move at all, so he won’t either. I want to stay there, touching him. “I live with my brother, Mason, and sometimes my mom,” he says. “She made me take lessons when I was little because she wanted to date the teacher, and now when I wanna play, I come over to the high school.”
“I see.”
“Which one of those guys from the other night was your boyfriend?” he asks.
“Neither.” I feel my blush worsening, and when it’s at peak severity and my whole head might actually be on fire, I add, “I don’t have a boyfriend.” I risk a glance at him. He’s looking at the field, but the corners of his mouth are turned up, and I like the way his eyelids dip when he smiles.
“So now I know why you haunt the band room,” I say, breaking the silent tension between us. “But why do you run on our track?”
“Our track?” he says. “I thought this was your track.”
“Well, I’m really good at sharing, especially things I hate using.”
His eyes rove over me. “You’re here right now.”
“Yeah,” I say, because I had a vision of you might come off a little too strong.
He pushes his hair back from his face. “Do you wanna come over?”
“What—right now?”
He shrugs. “Whenever. Now. We have cereal.”
I laugh. “What about milk? Do you have milk, Beau?”
“Mason usually just uses beer, but yeah, if you want milk, I can get you milk, Natalie. There’s a gas station right up the road.”
“You know what? I’d try it with beer,” I tell him.
“So you do?” he says. “Wanna come over?”
“I can’t right now.” I wave vaguely toward the school. Beau nods, and I hurry to add, “But some other time, later in the day, would be good.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have your phone with you? I could give you my number.”
He feels his shorts pockets. “Nah.”
I realize then that I left my phone in the school, although I did manage to bring the pepper-spray can Mom attached to my keys, which I self-consciously remember I’m wearing on a wristband. “You could find me online,” I offer helplessly.
“Okay.”
“Or you could find me here again.”
“On your track,” he agrees.
“Yeah.”
“That you never use.”
“Well, it’s a small town,” I say. “How hard could it be?” A little voice in my head points out that I’d never seen Beau until a week ago.
“I’ll find you,” he says.