Page 21 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

It was dark, and although some of the day’s heat had dissipated, it was still surprisingly warm—at least for the Oregon Coast—and, worse, muggy.

I ran south along the state highway. This was my new favorite route, day or night.

There was only a narrow shoulder, and the ferns grew so thickly along the road that sometimes I had to leave the shoulder entirely.

But even at the height of tourist season, the state highway wasn’t what anyone could consider busy .

It was, on the other hand, beautiful. Even at night.

My run carried me under the branches of spruce and pine, where the shadows were thick.

The pines stood ramrod straight for the most part.

The spruces, on the other hand, were twisted and gnarled, and the fog, which was thick tonight, seemed to wind itself more tightly around their branches.

The air held hints of the ocean and, of course, asphalt and tar that still held some of the day’s heat, but the crisp, clean scent of evergreen dominated.

When the wind lifted right, you could smell the huckleberries.

That was it: me and this beautiful foggy nightscape and the sound of my steps echoing out into the trees.

I usually tried to run two miles. Two miles was a respectable distance.

It wasn’t a Bobby distance, but it was a good distance nonetheless.

It was different, running at night. There wasn’t much light out here—only the occasional sodium lamp buzzing atop a utility pole, and the weak glow of stars and moon that filtered through the canopy.

As I ran, my body warmed up. Muscles loosened. I hit my stride.

God, what in the world had that been back at the house? Had I actually gotten into an argument with Bobby about—of all things—him trying to help me?

I mean, it certainly wasn’t the first time we’d gotten into a fight.

But those fights had been—well, they’d been building for a long time.

They’d been about serious things. It might have been a stretch to call them good fights; I hated fighting with Bobby, and it made me feel like that one time Indira forgot about the cookie dough and I had full access.

But in some ways, those fights had been real.

They’d been about real things. And we’d said stuff to each other we’d needed to say.

And that’s why, at the end, we’d come out of those disagreements stronger—as individuals, and as a couple.

Tonight, I’d been a grumpy cat who’d gotten his tail pulled.

(There was a Crime Cats article about a void kitty who hadn’t been given enough tuna, and I was starting to understand his pain.)

It had been such an awful night. Weird didn’t come close to covering it.

The bizarre and disorienting experience of having to deal with Pippi’s play, and the fact that Dylan was now, somehow, playing me with shoe polish in his hair.

And that stupid question about whether I was more afraid of being loved or of being alone (still both, obviously).

And the strange tension at The Foxworthy, the silent friction between Jonni and Nora, with Betty and Milton lurking in the background.

Finding Terrence. The way-too-convenient arrest of Milton.

But worse than all that, the part I couldn’t shake, was that I’d sat in that play, watching something Pippi had created, and I’d remembered what it was like.

To want to create. To be excited about your creations.

To feel that pure joy of making something, and hoping it would be beautiful, and wanting it to touch someone else.

Remembered .

Because it had been a long time since I’d felt that.

How was I supposed to make sense of that? How was I supposed to process that or internalize that or whatever buzzy word a therapist would say?

How had I forgotten?

And why wouldn’t it come back?

Maybe that made me a bad person. (Insert a few words of your choosing to describe me—you can even use the four-letter ones Hemingway was so fond of.) Maybe I should have been more upset about the attack on Terrence. Maybe I should have been grieving that something evil like that could happen.

And I was.

But that experience in the theater tonight had been like walking into one of those glass sliding doors. I’d been moving along so neatly through my life, and then I’d smacked face-first into something, and in the aftermath of the collision, I’d seen this fun-house reflection of myself.

Okay, it’s melodramatic.

Okay, in the big scheme of the universe, it’s not a big deal.

But if you’ve ever loved something and lost it without even realizing it—a friend, a place, a hobby—you’ll understand.

That’s it. That’s all. I’m done now.

End scene.

Something—a distant crunch—pulled me out of my self-pity. I glanced over my shoulder, my legs continuing to pump rhythmically. There was only the water-silk pattern of the shadows, the trees moving faintly in the breeze, the fog gathering so thick that it turned the air white after a few yards.

And then, out there, something moved.

Uh.

Okay.

I turned my head forward and turned up the throttle.

Was I the only person who ever ran out here?

No, obviously not. Lots of people liked to run in Oregon.

For that matter, lots of people liked to run in Hastings Rock.

And with this heat wave, maybe runners were shifting to a nocturnal schedule.

Maybe there were going to be lots of runners out here tonight, and this was the first person I’d seen.

I glanced back.

Nothing. No sign of whoever it had been.

Was that suspicious? Was that a sign? Because let’s be real here: I wasn’t a fast runner. Shouldn’t this person be gaining on me? Getting closer?

Or maybe I was fast. Maybe all this exercise and working out and eating right had turned my body into the ultimate running machine.

That seemed like a stretch.

I slowed my pace until I was moving at a steady jog—most of the Silver Sneakers were faster than this.

(The Silver Sneakers, in case it needs saying, were the senior walking club who took over the Hastings Rock gym at literally the most inconvenient moments.

One time, it was during a fire alarm, and they kept power-walking back and forth under the truck’s ladder until one of the firemen threatened to turn the hose on them.)

Eddies of fog. High branches stirring in the breeze. The road behind me nothing more than a dark tunnel through the trees.

Where was the mystery runner?

Maybe they’d gone back. Maybe they’d turned around, had enough. I’d gone barely a mile, but maybe they’d started back in Hastings Rock. Maybe they were tired. And the night was still unusually warm by the coast’s standards.

But still nothing.

Maybe it had all been in my head.

I ran another mile, figured that was more than enough in the way of penance for how I’d acted toward Bobby, and turned around.

I slowed to a walk to catch my breath. I was going to apologize again, even though Bobby would insist it wasn’t a big deal.

I was going to say I was sorry. I knew Bobby hadn’t meant anything.

He hadn’t been trying to pressure me. Bobby loved me.

And a big way Bobby showed that love was by taking care of me.

He reminded me when it was time to leave for school (I still wasn’t keen on this whole “having a job” thing).

He knew the exact number of sadness cookies I needed after a bad day.

For heaven’s sake, he made me eat my vegetables (not in a weird way, but he did look disappointed when I “forgot” about my green beans).

He always remembered a jacket—which, now that my sweat was drying, I wished I’d brought.

When we went running, he made sure my laces were tied.

And, of course, right then one of my laces was flopping with every step.

I knelt to tie it.

The most frustrating part of the whole evening was that it was the exact opposite of what I’d been trying to do.

For months now, I’d been trying to show Bobby that I could be a better person.

I could be more like him. I worked out. I ate right.

I went to sleep at a normal hour. (Okay, most of the time I went to sleep when Keme did, but I still think that was an improvement.) Dashiell Dawson Dane: The Bionic Man Project (or whatever I was calling it) was supposed to prove to Bobby that I was the kind of person he could spend the rest of his life with.

It was supposed to show him that I was ready for the next step.

That I wasn’t—I don’t know—going to muddle along in this weird, outgrown adolescence forever.

That I could be a real partner. That we could build a life together.

Instead, he’d tried to help me tonight, and I’d thrown a hissy fit.

Well, I’d go back home. I’d apologize. And because Bobby was always so gracious, he’d forgive me.

Again.

When I straightened from tying my laces, someone was standing there—maybe a hundred yards away. They were nothing more than a shadowy outline, barely visible against the darkness of the forest. But they were there.

They hadn’t caught up to me.

They’d slowed their pace to match mine.

And now they were standing there, watching me. Waiting.

What was I supposed to do? Turn around and keep running?

How far was the next town? Ten miles? Twenty?

Even if my body had transformed into the ultimate running machine, I had the sneaking suspicion that this person, whoever they were, wasn’t going to have any problem keeping up with me. And when I inevitably slowed down—

The person started to walk toward me. Slow, even steps. Chunks of asphalt gritted and grated, breaking the night’s stillness.

I glanced at the opposite shoulder. Would it be weird if I crossed?

Who cared?

I cut across the state highway, remembering too late Bobby’s warning to run against traffic.

The shadowy figure did too, moving at an angle that brought them across the road and toward me at the same time.

I crossed back to the side I’d originally been on. That should have sent a message.

But the shadowy figure changed their path and kept coming toward me.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

For about half a second, my body chose freeze.

And then headlights appeared. The car solidified out of the darkness as it came toward us.

A car.

Help.

I stepped into the road, waving my arms.

The shadowy figure started to run toward me.

“Help!” I shouted. I jumped. More arm-waving. “Please stop! Help me!”

The shadowy figure became a shape picked out against the headlights as the car raced forward.

They weren’t going to stop.

They hadn’t seen me.

They were going to hit me.

I stumbled back out of the road.

The car veered toward me.

A dark shape hit me and sent me flying. Headlights arced overhead.

For a moment, I was floating. Then I crashed through a wall of ferns, hit the ground, and rolled.

Rocks and dirt scraped bare skin as I slid and tumbled.

I hit something, and it was surprisingly not hard.

It was kind of soft, actually. And then I wasn’t moving anymore.

I groaned.

And a familiar voice, tight with pain, said, “Get off me, you donkey.”