Matching Heartbeats E-Book

Valerie Best

• Herausgeber: 8th Note Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 340

Beschreibung

For fans of If He'd Been With Me and The Quiet Part Out Loud, a heartfelt and heartbreaking novel about endings and new beginnings.   Seventeen-year-old Susanna runs. Too much, if you ask her mother. She's at loose ends in Brooklyn; her best friend has moved away, her parents might be getting a divorce, and the only time she feels any peace is when her feet strike the pavement. She's less than excited to find out that she'll be joining her mom's two-month documentary research trip to the Arctic Circle. Not quite the change of pace she's looking for.   But Susanna's summer outlook abruptly changes when the film crew discovers a family living in the remotest reaches of the Northern Canadian wilderness. They've lived cut off from civilization for over twenty years, meaning that Benjamin—eighteen, with blue eyes and a smile as warm as the sun—has never known another life. He's a runner, too, and when he and Susanna meet, they strike up an unlikely friendship.   Benjamin's existence has always been isolated, but together under the never-setting midnight sun, he and Susanna begin to imagine his life somewhere else. Somewhere together. But when tragedy strikes, Susanna is left with the pieces of what could have been—and the bittersweet realization that she had to go thousands of miles to find what was there all along.

Leseprobe

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by 8th Note Press

Text Copyright © 2024 by Valerie Best

All rights reserved.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-961795-35-8

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the publisher.

Cover design by Alexandra Allden,

Images ©️ Shutterstock.com

Typeset by Typo•glyphix

To my own girls, Edith and Posy.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Acknowledgments

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t mean to run sixty miles.

My mom had been insisting I take Sundays as a rest day. She’d even stopped by my room Saturday night to remind me. So I’d woken up early Sunday morning to get in a few miles—five or six—before she and my dad woke up.

But after I’d finished that first loop of Prospect Park, the morning had felt so cool and my legs had felt so strong, it hadn’t felt right to stop. So when I eased to a walk outside the house, I’d just finished twelve.

Bringing my weekly total to sixty-two.

I quietly unlocked the door, hoping my parents would still be asleep two floors up, but when I heard voices coming from the kitchen, I figured the jig was up. I walked in, trying not to look winded and sweaty.

Without any apparent luck, judging by the suspicious look from my mom. My dad was standing at the center island unloading coffee, a bag of bagels, and four kinds of cream cheese which he arranged neatly on the butcher block.

“How was your run?” my mom asked me, annoyed.

“I wasn’t running,” I said, though it was clear we all knew I was lying. I kicked off my running shoes into the bin by the back door. “I was just out getting a bagel.”

“Then I guess you don’t want another one,” my dad said.

“I could probably fit one more,” I said, reaching for the bag.

“Susanna—” my mom started.

“You know,” I said, quickly, “some seventeen-year-olds sneak out of the house for much worse things than a morning run.”

“Well, I’m not talking about those seventeen-year-olds. I’m talking about the seventeen-year-old in front of me who has to be reminded that running anything over thirty miles a week is too much. How many have you done?”

I didn’t answer and she took a breath, gearing up for another lecture. My dad, apparently trying to head off an argument, handed her a breakfast sandwich and her coffee. She glanced at him like she knew what he was doing, but unwrapped the foil on her sandwich anyway.

“How was the meet yesterday?” he asked.

“Good.” I shrugged as I sliced my bagel. Two years ago I had passed out after I hacked into my finger trying to slice a stale bagel, so I was always careful with the long, serrated bread knife. “It was the last one of the year, so it was just for fun.” I winced as I reached across the butcher block. “I decided to try hurdles.”

My mom took the lid off her coffee and blew at the cloud of steam that billowed off the top. “I got the final schedule this morning. Eight weeks, door to door.”

“Is that going to be enough time?” my dad asked.

“It’ll have to be—that’s all the Canadian government is willing to pay for. National Geographic is just putting their name on it, more or less.”

“Wait, what is this? Cookie dough cream cheese?” I asked, disgusted, staring into the container.

My dad was nuts about cream cheese. He always bought whatever new flavor they had at the bagel shop. He laughed and shrugged. “Who doesn’t like cookie dough?”

“Bagels are supposed to be savory,” I said piously.

“Speaking of which,” my mom started, “I noticed my pad thai from yesterday was gone this morning. Know anything about that, Suz?”

“Maybe you should have put your name on it,” I told her thickly, through a bite of a sesame bagel.

She shook her head. “I was going to eat that for lunch.”

“When’re you taking off, Dad?”

“A week from Wednesday.”

My dad was going to Peru for the summer, to document the impact of tourism on the Incan Trail to Machu Picchu.

“That’s just before you go, right?” he asked my mom.

My mom was going to northern Canada to produce a documentary about some research center.

I reached across the counter for half her sandwich. “And when is that again?”

“The second. Not even two weeks from now. Have you started packing?”

I was going with her.

I made an indistinct noise as I turned to the refrigerator for juice.

“I’m serious, Suz. I don’t want to have to pack for you. Are you going to be ready?”

The fridge door slammed shut harder than I’d intended. “Two months as an unpaid production assistant in the remote wilderness of northernmost Canada?” Juice in hand, I spread my arms. “I’m ready right now.”

My mom sighed.

I avoided her gaze as I poured my juice. I was frustrated, but it was complicated. I knew my mom had been waiting for this kind of opportunity for a long time. She’d been an executive producer in cable TV for twelve years, working her way up from personal assistant to associate producer and then to line producer. But her heart had always been in documentaries. She’d told me that’s why she switched her major from film to political science in college.

But I didn’t want to go to Canada. It felt like I was being hauled along like excess baggage because no one could think of anything else to do with me.

My mom set down her coffee. “I know it’s not ideal, Suz, but when opportunities come up, you have to take them. You know.”

I sighed before I could stop myself. “I know.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom shoot a look at my dad.

“You could still go to Grandma’s house, Suzi-Q,” he said.

“Oh, an even better idea. I could spend the summer weeding the blackberry bushes and watching Grandma dress up Buster in patriotic dog costumes.” I realized I was still waving the juice carton around, but I didn’t care. “I don’t want to go to Canada, I don’t want to go to New Hampshire. I just want to stay here. I want to go to the beach, I want to run, I want to see my friends—”

I stopped.

My parents didn’t say anything, but they both stared at me quizzically. They didn’t have to say anything. I knew what they were thinking, because I wondered the same thing, even as the words left my mouth.

What friends?

CHAPTER 2

It all started when Calgary moved to Canada. Which isn’t the beginning of a joke. My best friend Calgary moved to Vancouver three months ago, and I realized I didn’t have any other friends, so I started running more.

I’d been running thirty-mile weeks, but when Calgary left, I started running forty. A month later, her boyfriend Logan asked me out. I ran fifty that week.

Wednesday was the last day of school, which meant I had just over a week before I shipped off to Canada. Thursday, I ran over the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, then up the East River and back down again. Friday, I slept through texts from track friends, and after I got up, spent the day watching TV.

So, when I woke up early on Saturday morning, I had legs itching to run. My room was still dark, and I squinted into the light of my phone: 5:00 am. I lay still for a second more, then sprang up, as if getting up in the pre-dawn had been my plan all along.

It hadn’t been, so when I opened the front door to the early morning air, I didn’t know where I was going. My house was a block from Prospect Park, where I’d been running for as long as I’d been running. My feet beat their familiar rhythm toward it, but I skirted the entrance, running the park’s perimeter till I got to Ocean Parkway, where, for lack of a better idea, I started toward Coney Island.

When I first started running, I would run with my dad, but as soon as he would let me, I would run ahead, so I could pretend I was running alone. I always liked the sound of just my feet. Calgary and I did track together, and the occasional extracurricular run because we both lived so close to the park, but we weren’t well-matched for pace. After she left, Logan asked me to run with him—I think he wanted to improve my stride—but I blew him off enough that, eventually, he stopped asking. I just liked running alone.

With track practice every night, weekends were the only days I got all to myself. I tried to stick close to the five miles my mom insisted should be my limit, but sometimes I did more. Six. Seven. Eight. Sometimes nine. Sometimes ten. It depended on what I needed. Which was why I liked doing them alone. I used the miles to unwind the knot of my worries—walking them back from the aching feeling in my stomach, all the way to their beginning.

And as I started down the long, industrial avenue, I thought about my parents.

Two nights before, my mom had popped her head into my bedroom after she’d gotten home from work.

“Dad called,” she’d said. “He’s going to stay in the city overnight so he can use the dawn light for the shoot.”

“What’s he shooting?” I’d asked.

My mom had tipped her head, thinking. My reading lamp had been on, and her dark hair—thick and wavy, like mine—had been reddish in its glow. “I’m not sure,” she’d finally said. “I think it’s something to do with the mayor?”

I’d actually known what my dad was working on. He was shooting a day in the life of interns in city government for a piece in the Times. I had only asked because I had a sneaking suspicion my parents were planning a divorce, and I liked to gauge their interest in each other from time to time.

Neither of them was faring well.

I waited, and let the road do its typical magic as I unwound my worry about my parents. It wasn’t anything specific they’d said or done, more what they didn’t say, and didn’t do. They were both busy, busier than I’d ever seen them, and they lived like two ships constantly passing in the night. It could be—I realized after two more miles—partly my own loneliness I was feeling when I watched them. But even if it was, that didn’t make me wrong about them. I hadn’t seen them spend more than an hour in each other’s company in months.

Two nights ago, standing in my doorway, I’d realized how tired my mom seemed. But she had leaned against the doorframe, apparently intent on doing a catch-up before she went to bed.

“Are you going to see anyone before we go?” she’d asked.

I’d shrugged, even though the answer was no.

“Gemma? One of the Elizabeths?”

Another shrug.

“Logan?”

“Why would I see him?”

She’d peered at me for a moment before she’d answered. “I think he likes you, Suz.”

I’d rolled my eyes.

“Do you really not think he likes you, or is it because of Calgary?” she’d asked.

There was an answer to her question somewhere, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to suss it out. “Does it matter?”

My mom had sighed. “Susanna, you’re at loose ends.”

I hadn’t even stopped to process that. “What does that even mean?”

She’d looked tired again.

“I was in meetings all day. I’m exhausted. Let’s just do this later, okay?”

I’d shrugged as she’d walked out.

Loose ends.

I stayed with this thought, turning it over and over in my mind like a smooth stone as I passed Coney Island and kept going, toward Brighton Beach. I hated to admit it, but she was right. I was at loose ends. I could feel myself floating through days, apathetic and directionless. I could say that I was still missing my best friend, but I’d noticed this weird lethargy even before Calgary left. I remember one day she’d asked me what I wanted to do, and when I said I didn’t care, she got really upset. Not just annoyed, but really frustrated. She’d told me that I never seemed to care about anything.

Which wasn’t true. I did care. I cared about running, I cared about my parents and their possible divorce. And I cared about . . . I didn’t know. Something. Something I could almost feel but couldn’t quite name. Something that felt just beyond my reach. I felt closest when I wasn’t thinking about it—when I caught myself rifling through drawers in my room, without any object in mind, or when I searched every cupboard in the kitchen and found nothing to satisfy a hunger I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew I cared about something. And I cared about finding out what it was.

CHAPTER 3

The sun was bright and shining in my eyes when I looked up at an unfamiliar intersection of streets. Squinting, I ran two more blocks until I realized I had run all the way to the end of Manhattan Beach. My watch told me I had gone just over eleven miles. I knew if I backtracked a couple of them, I could catch a train. But I knew how to get home, and—more importantly—I hadn’t answered my questions, so I turned around and kept running.

I was heading back to Park Slope when I pictured the refrigerator as I’d last seen it: nearly empty expect for a forgotten carton of half and half, Diet Coke (my mom’s), half an old sandwich (probably mine), and a couple of sad apples. Grim. Glancing at my watch, I figured my mom would probably be at work by now. It was too far—even for me—so I hopped on the G toward Greenpoint, to her production office.

She was deep in pre-production for the Canada documentary, which was why she was working on a Saturday. After I got off the train, I jogged to the office, walking the last two blocks to let my sweat dry. When I got to the door, it was locked. I stood for a moment, wonder­ing why I’d forgotten to bring my phone, when a van pulled up along the curb in front of the building.

I turned around and Mickey, my mom’s assistant, stepped out.

“Suz! What are you doing here?”

“Hey,” I said. “I came for breakfast, actually.”

Mickey laughed. “Well, you’re in luck. I just went shopping.”

She popped open the trunk and laddered three bags on each arm. I did the same and followed her as she unlocked the door.

“Why are you doing the shopping?” I asked, as we climbed the stairs to the office. “Don’t you have PAs for this?”

Mickey half turned so I could see her roll her eyes. “I wish. It’s just been me and your mom for the last couple of weeks. We’ve got the rest of the guys in the office for a few days, but no PAs.”

We walked into the kitchen and Mickey dropped the bags. “Just leave them. I’ll deal with them later.”

I dropped my bags next to hers and pulled out a box of cereal and a carton of grapefruit juice, pouring giant helpings of both. I followed Mickey to her desk where she collapsed into her chair and opened her laptop.

“Susanna?” my mom called from her office, just behind Mickey’s desk.

I leaned across Mickey so I could see her, “Yeah?”

“What time did you leave this morning?”

“Um . . . early.”

“How far did you run?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

“Um . . .”

It was eighteen miles.

“I don’t want to yell, would you come in here?”

I walked in and sat on her couch.

“I don’t want you doing any more than five or six a day. Even that’s too tough on your body.”

“I feel okay,” I said, spooning up Cheerios.

“Of course you do, you’re seventeen,” my mom said. “But someday you won’t be, so just cool it.”

I made an indistinct noise and drained my glass.

“Are you going to hang out for the day?” she asked, reaching for her phone.

“No, I just came for breakfast. I’m going to head home,” I said, getting up. My body had cooled and my legs felt stiff as I stood.

“You’re not going to run. See if Mickey can drive you home. Or get a car.” Both her landline and cell phone started to ring at once, so she nodded goodbye and waved me out.

Mickey turned as I walked out. “So, are you pumped about Canada?”

“You’re producing, right?” I asked.

“Associate producing, girl,” she said, elated. “Because that’s the way it goes, you just have to keep at it and work really hard until someone you know gives you something you probably don’t deserve.”

“Whatever. My mom thinks you’re amazing, she’s been pulling for this for forever.”

“Your mom’s amazing. I mean, this project’s incredible. I’d be pumped to go as a PA.”

“It’s about the science center that opened, right?”

“It’s a research center. They’ve been trying to build it for like, ten years. It’s finally done, and the Candadian government is really pumped about it. They want a film so they can brag about it all over the former British colonies.”

“What do they research?”

Mickey shrugged. “Water, tides, ocean levels. A lot of the work is studying the glaciers—core samples and melting patterns.”

“Exciting stuff. Is that what the documentary’s about?” I asked, unimpressed.

“Yeah, partly. They want footage of the center, of course. We’ll profile the staff, but, yeah, it’ll be mostly about the work they’re doing.” Mickey glanced up as three guys walked into the office. “Suz, have you met the rest of the crew?”

I shook my head.

“Guys, this is Amanda’s daughter, Susanna. This is Ryan McDowell.”

Mickey pointed to a tall, thin man, thirtyish, with long arms, and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap.

He aimed a big smile at me. “How’s it going.”

“Ryan’s directing.” Mickey pointed to the man next to him, shorter, with dark curly hair and an intense gaze. “This is Yusef Cohen, director of photography.” Yusef smiled briefly at me. “And Todd Miller, sound.”

Todd—tall, bald, older than Yusef and Ryan—nodded infinitesimally in my direction.

“Hi,” I said, managing to make a wave look awkward.

“Did you go shopping, finally?” Ryan asked, his eyes alighting on the bags near the kitchen.

Mickey rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know why I bothered. We’re leaving on Thursday.”

“Why did you bother?” Ryan asked, scandalized. “That’s five more days of pre-production. What are we supposed to do? Starve?”

Mikey laughed. “Meetings and equipment checks,” she said to me, as Ryan and Yusef attacked a pink baker’s box of donuts, “that’s all we have left to do. Five days till go time!”

“Yeah. It’s going to be great,” I said, trying—and failing—to match Mickey’s enthusiasm. Suddenly I felt very, very tired. “Mickey, is there any way you could drive me home?”

“Oh, sorry, I really can’t. My day is bananas and shopping took forever.” She frowned and glanced at the time. “Maybe if you could hang for an hour? Two?”

“That’s okay,” I told her.

“Get a car.” Mickey opened her desk drawer and pulled out a twenty. “If you can catch a cab get a receipt, okay?”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, taking the money.

I walked back outside into what was fast becoming a hot, humid day. I rolled my ankle around, trying to loosen it up, and felt a familiar ache in my shins. I looked up at the cloudless sky, tucked the twenty into the pocket of my shorts, and ran the four miles home.

My mom refused to go grocery shopping—“We’re leaving on Thursday. Eat some oatmeal”—so I ignored her Sunday rest-day rule and ended the next day’s run at her office again. Luckily, she wasn’t there when I arrived so I avoided a lecture. I ate breakfast and took a long nap on the couch in her office, then ran home. Monday and Tuesday were pretty much the same, but when I woke up on my mom’s tiny office couch on Wednesday, she was looming over me.

“Hey, Mom,” I croaked, peering up at her narrowed eyes. I had just run sixteen miles, so I was really hoping she wasn’t about to ask me about it.

“How many miles have you run this week?”

Worse.

“Mom, can you give me a second.” I covered my eyes with my arm. “I don’t even know, I haven’t been keeping track.”

Counting Saturday, it was over sixty.

“Susanna, I don’t know why we keep having to have this conversation,” my mom said as she walked around her desk to sit down. “We talked about this at Christmastime: thirty a week, max. Which is still too high. What’s going on with you?”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “What? Nothing.”

“Your behavior is verging on destructive. Don’t you think?”

“No.” I glanced out the door, figuring everyone in the office was listening to our conversation. “I’m eating, I’m sleeping. It’s not like I’m drinking or doing coke. I’m running.” I paused, then shrugged my shoulders, which kind of hurt. “I like to run. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But why do you have to run so much?” she asked.

I exhaled like she’d asked something ridiculous, which, I guess she hadn’t. The truth was, I didn’t know why. “I guess . . .” I shrugged again. “Just to see if I can.”

My mom paused, but when she rubbed her eyes, it felt like a concession. “Take the train home. Finish packing. We’re leaving tomorrow, so no running. Let’s just get through these travel days, okay?”

That “okay” felt almost like a plea, and I didn’t have the heart to argue. I nodded and got up, both my knees popping. My mom’s eyes narrowed again, so I hurried out.

Mickey was standing in the kitchen when I walked by. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I grabbed a couple of granola bars from the box sitting on the counter, “see you tomorrow.”

I ate both bars as I walked the four blocks to the subway. I walked slowly, feeling the sun warm my shoulders. Despite what I’d told my mom, I knew I was running a lot—maybe too much. But when I wasn’t running, I missed it, like I was hungry for it. And, like my actual appetite, the hunger felt insatiable.

I’d also been telling my mom that I felt good, which wasn’t exactly true either. In my best moments, I felt okay-ish. I took long strides as I walked, and my shins ached, which was nothing compared to the constant tightness in my hips and a pinging at the back of my right knee. The only time I felt good—painless—was when I was running.

But I was exhausted. I needed to rest, and as I rode the train home, I decided I would order something I would missing eating while we were in Canada, pack, watch TV, and just mentally prepare myself for this trip.

CHAPTER 4

I did two of those things.

When I walked in the house, I saw my dad at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by bags of camera equipment, a backpack at his feet and his camera in his hands. He snapped a picture of me as I shut the door.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Suz.” He checked the image on his camera.

I looked around, surveying the bags. “What’s going on? Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.” He carefully slid his camera into the open bag in front of him. “You knew that.”

“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head. “I guess I lost track of the days. Are you heading out now?”

“Soon as my car gets here.”

We both heard a car honk outside, and my dad stood up, shouldering his camera bag. “Help me carry a few things out.”

I picked up his messenger bag and followed him out to the curb.

“Mom knew you were leaving this afternoon?” I asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Yeah.” My dad heaved his backpack into the trunk of the cab. “I said goodbye to her this morning,” he added, slamming the trunk closed. “Why?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged.

My dad pulled me into a hug. “I love you, little girl. Be good.”

“I love you too, Dad.” I squeezed back, feeling a rush of tears.

After a moment he let go and climbed into the cab. “And ease up on your marathon training, okay?”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom exaggerates.”

He laughed and shut the door, waving as the cab pulled away from the curb, and I watched the car disappear around the corner before I walked back to the house.

The next day I slept in so, when I stumbled downstairs, I saw a note from my mom on the fridge, asking me to clean it out.

I pulled the trash can closer and yanked open the refrigerator door. I tossed leftover dumplings, some old carrots, and what appeared to be my dad’s entire—extensive—cream cheese collection. I checked the dates on the jam and peanut butter and, after briefly considering eating one for breakfast, tossed the non-fat Greek yogurt. I popped open one of my mom’s Diet Cokes and leaned back against the center island, gazing into the near-empty refrigerator.

Starting at the bottom, I took stock of my body: my shins ached, burning when I flexed my feet. My right knee twinged like a guitar string being strummed whenever I straightened it. My hips felt tight, which was nothing new, but they’d started to ache, which was new. My hamstrings felt tight, and now, weirdly, even my shoulders felt achy. I hated to admit it, but it felt like my body was staging a revolt.

Despite this, I wanted a run. Something long and slow to work all the kinks out. I had no idea what waited for me in Canada or what the research center would be like. The pos­sibility of running seemed bleak, and the idea of passing up a perfectly good run in the park when I’d probably be resting for the next eight weeks made me feel like I was going to crawl out of my skin.

Eight weeks.

Eight.

Weeks.

I finished the Coke and nudged the refrigerator door shut with my foot.

I didn’t want to go to Canada, but when I really thought about it, I didn’t want to stay here, either. I just wanted . . . I didn’t know. Something.

And there it was again, that searching feeling. That sense that there was something that I wanted, maybe even needed, that was completely eluding me.

I turned and put both hands on the butcher block and tried to breathe deeply. I felt jumpy all of a sudden, like my skin had grown too small for me. Beneath the panic I felt a loneliness encircle me, and my stomach started to ache. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, but it wasn’t just that. The pain was dark and deep, like I hadn’t eaten in days. Not hungry—ravenous. I wrenched open the refrigerator. I grabbed the peanut butter, a jar of blueberry jam my dad had picked up at a roadside stand on a trip to Maine, and a heel of bread that had escaped the cleanout. I slapped together a sandwich and ate it quickly, waiting for the ache to subside. It did, slowly, and when I washed it down water straight from the kitchen faucet, it disappeared entirely. I felt full, finally, but also strangely scared.

My phone buzzed. It was Calgary:

Are you ready to go?

No.

Like, emotionally or actually.

Both. Easily both.

I checked the time. It was after noon, and I was still in the tank top and shorts I’d slept in. When I turned to the refriger­ator door, I was eye to eye with my mom’s note—which also included a list of errands. My phone buzzed again. It was from my mom.

Be home by 4. Grab dinner and in cab by 5.

Did you see the list I left? No running.

Another.

Rest day. Text back so I know you understand.

And one from Calgary.

Eight weeks will fly by.

I put the milk back in the fridge and headed upstairs to dress for a run.

CHAPTER 5

The sun had been just past overhead when I’d laced up my running shoes outside the park. I hadn’t checked the temper­ature before I left because it hadn’t felt relevant. I wanted a run. I needed a run. But now, five miles in, halfway through my second loop around the park, the air felt hot and close, like wearing a wet wool sweater.

I looked down at my watch. I was doing a 7:00 pace. My normal training pace was around 7:30, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the eight empty weeks ahead of me, so I ignored the sunbaked straightaway I was on and pushed a little harder. Glancing down, I could see I was at 6:50. I could hear myself breathe. Not the slow, even pattern I’d worked on for years, matching up with every foot strike like a cadence. This was faster, harder. Not ragged, but close, and I could feel myself going into debt. This wasn’t the slow, easy run I’d promised myself in the kitchen, because, as it turned out, that wasn’t what I needed. Sweat was running down my forehead and the salt was stinging my eyes, but I dropped my head and pressed harder. I brushed the sweat away, but the salt on my hands made it worse, and I squinted at the shade of the curve I was about to take.

An exploding burst of pain, a stumble, and I was on the ground before I knew what had happened.

My calf muscle had seized up, and the sudden pain took my breath away. I pulled myself to sitting with a gasp, massaging the hell out of my calf, my whole body tense with the effort.

Somewhere behind me, someone called out, “Are you okay?”

I turned. It was a woman, and she was walking toward me, looking concerned, so I pushed myself up to standing to tell her I was fine. But I stood up faster than I should have, and the world swooped. I took a step back, concentrating hard on not falling. I waited for the dizziness to subside, but it didn’t. Instead, fingers of blackness crept into my periphery, moving toward the center of my vision, closing in, until everything was darkness.

When I opened my eyes, the woman’s face hovered above mine. She was speaking, but I could barely hear her.

I struggled to process the information as it crowded in on me. My head was pounding. I was on the ground for some reason, but didn’t know why. It seemed important to figure out, but it felt like I was seeing the world from underwater—wavy and quiet and out of focus. But the road was scorching under my bare arms, so I fought my way to the surface and struggled to sitting.

The woman eyed me warily, like I was a bomb about to explode. “I don’t know if you should be doing that.” She paused, unsure. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“No, don’t. Please don’t,” I pleaded. A panicky feeling was rising in my throat, making my head throb with every heartbeat.

The woman shook her head, baffled. “You passed out. I thought you were having a seizure.”

I took a deep breath. “I didn’t,” I finally said. “I just got dizzy. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

The woman didn’t say anything, and after a moment, I looked up at her. She was standing next to her stroller, looking uneasy. She was small, about my height. She was wearing a white t-shirt and a blue skirt that was so light I could use it to tell the direction of every breeze. She had dark hair, but the baby she pushed was blonde and blue-eyed, and stared at me, faintly surprised.

“You’re sweating out all your salt, that’s why your muscle cramped. That’s what happened, right? That’s why you fell?”

I nodded and she crouched down next to the stroller, digging in the basket underneath. She found what she was searching for and stood up, holding out a ziplock bag filled with pretzel sticks.

“Eat them,” she said, pushing them toward me.

I opened the bag. Most of the sticks were broken in half.

“Do you have any water with you?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Eat,” she urged again, and unscrewed the top off a sippy cup filled with water and handed it to me. “I’d give you mine, but it’s all gone.”

I drank the water in one gulp and ate a few of the pretzels. My head still pounded, but I didn’t feel dizzy anymore. The pain in my calf was mostly gone, but it had left an echo, which ached like a bruise.

“What are you training for that you have to run midday in ninety-percent humidity?” the woman asked.

She paused long enough that I realized the question wasn’t rhetorical.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

The woman eyed me nervously. “You seem . . . better.” She pointed to my knee. “You’re bleeding.”

I looked down at the scrape, where I’d hit the asphalt. I wiped the blood with the palm of my hand, smearing it, and stood up slowly.

I handed the woman back the sippy cup. “I’m okay. I just need to go home.”

She gave me an appraising look. “Okay.” And she set off, pushing her stroller in the direction of the water park.

I took a shortcut to Prospect Park West, limping slightly and taking longer strides than usual to stretch out my aching muscle. Blood was running in a slow trickle from my knee, staining my sock. I finished the bag of pretzels as I walked out of the park and stopped for a long drink from the water fountain before I crossed to 9th Street.

Without really thinking about it, I walked past my street to 7th Avenue and into Smiling Pizza.

My pizza guy saw me walk in and slid two cheese slices into the oven to warm them. We’d never actually exchanged names—and he’d never actually spoken to me—but we had an understanding. There were no other customers, so he turned back to the prep work he’d been doing when I walked in. I stood at the counter watching him grate cheese. He was really more of a pizza kid than a pizza guy. My age, maybe even younger. Dark curly hair, olive skin, dark eyes. Under his apron he wore a red t-shirt from St. Savior, the Catholic high school around the corner.

He moved to get my pizza and caught me staring, so I made a big show of pulling the money from the pocket of my shorts. He slid the box to me, but when I handed him the bill, he waved it away, barely glancing in my direction.

Looking down, I saw a thumb-sized smear of my blood obscuring Lincoln’s face. Humiliated, I closed my hand, hard, pressing the money against the rawness of my scraped palm.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and hurried out into the oven-like heat of the July afternoon.

Once home, I pulled off my shoes and bloodstained socks as soon as I shut the door, then stripped off my tank top as I climbed the stairs. In my room, I checked my phone. It was later than I’d thought—almost four—and I had three texts from my mom.

Meeting. Be home closer to 5.

Grab dinner at airport.

Be ready.

I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the shower, but didn’t get in. I knew I needed to hurry, but instead I stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain, trying to figure out how I was feeling. That I didn’t know the answer was terrifying. I glanced at the mirror over the sink. My ponytail was the one I’d slept in, now loose and messy. Where it wasn’t red in patches from the heat, my face was pale. And my eyes—dark, like my dad’s—seemed to be taking up more real estate on my face than usual.

Downstairs I heard the front door slam.

“Susanna!” my mom called up the stairs. “You ready?”

I stepped into the shower. I scrubbed the sweat off my face and out of my hair, being careful with my knee and my shoulder, where I must have landed when I fainted, because it was raw and angrily red.

“Do I hear the shower running?” my mom called.

I hopped out and, wrapped in a towel, ran to my bedroom, pulled the biggest duffel bag I could find from beneath my bed, and started to throw clothes in. I’d been telling my mom that I’d been packed for two weeks, and I figured it was too late to ask her what I should bring, so I winged it.

I was dressed and trying to decide if I would need a swimsuit when I heard my mom shout from downstairs, “The car’s here.”

I ran back into the bathroom and crooked my arm around everything on the shelf above my sink, sweeping it all into my bag.

“SUSANNA! This is an international flight! I am walking out the door!”

Bag and backpack in hand, I clattered down a flight of stairs and into the small room next to my parents’ bedroom, which they used as an office. I opened the tall steel filing cabinet and found the file marked “Important Papers,” and pulled out my passport. Then I ran down the last flight of stairs, through the door that my mom was holding open, and into the cab, pulling the door shut tight behind me.

CHAPTER 6

Safe in the cab, I leaned back in my seat, out of breath from running. My mom glanced up from her phone. “You okay?”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

She furrowed her brow, searching my face. “You look kind of pale. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Fine,” I said, twisting my still-wet hair into a bun.

I checked my phone. It was 5:20, and there was a text from Calgary I hadn’t heard delivered:

Oh, Canada

At check-in, the gate agent told us that our flight had been delayed an hour, and I could see my mom visibly relax. We met up with Mickey at Shake Shack, and when she saw me, she laughed in a way that made me laugh too.

“You made it! Let’s celebrate with fries.”

After we ordered, I slid into the booth next to my mom, feeling the sense of calm I always felt when I knew food was on the way.

“Did G.K. get off okay?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, he left yesterday.” My mom’s eyes were on her phone, so I couldn’t check them for layered meaning.

I looked back at the menu board next to the registers, wondering if I should have ordered a shake, while Mickey and my mom talked a mile a minute about production details.

After a moment, my mom put down her phone and turned to me, as if suddenly remembering something. “What coat did you bring?”

“What coat?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Mom, I don’t—I didn’t bring a coat. It’s July.”