Page 8 of The Now in Forever

I t’s against my nature to sleep in. Even if I’m up until three a.m., my body still wakes me up promptly at six eleven. Why six eleven? Who knows? Because of the time difference, I am up this morning at five eleven, early even for me. I guess circadian rhythms don’t adjust for time zones.

Ed’s door is closed. I press my ear to the door, holding my breath as I listen to him breathing deeply.

After I wash my face, I grab my neon blue running backpack.

Of all the gear I’ve acquired since I started trail running a few years ago, this is by far my favorite.

It has a bladder of water with one of those little hoses, a small pocket for a snack, and a side pocket where I can easily reach my pepper spray.

Out in Montana, I carried it mostly for bears, but it’d work on a man too.

It’s always best to err on the safe side as a woman running alone.

I lace up my trail shoes, sling the backpack over one shoulder, and get in the car.

Nathan said it wasn’t that far to the trailhead, but I want to save the miles for the trail itself.

The sky looks like a painting, a thin layer of clouds veiling the blue and gold beneath and a light mist hovering over the ocean. The sun is strong, though, and will probably burn through the haze soon enough.

With the GPS, I find the trailhead easily and pull into a gravel lot with a carved wooden sign saying Crescent Trail.

I stretch a little and put my headphones on, the kind that sit over the ears so I can still hear my surroundings, and turn on my new audiobook, Darkslide.

Ed’s second book. I bought it last night after dinner with Grandma and listened to it on the drive back. So far, it’s good but slow.

Pressing Play, I start my run—the dirt soft and springy under my feet, like running on clouds.

The trees are massive, the morning sun peeking through them.

I find a rhythm with my feet and breaths.

Through the gaps in the trees, I catch glimpses of the ocean, waves rolling in.

One thing I love about trail running is how much you can lose yourself in your surroundings.

I never feel as close to nature as when I’m sweating through it.

The trail goes up, and I pump my arms to help my momentum. In the background, footfalls thud down the path. I stop. They’re getting louder. Probably just another person out for a morning run. But the other, less rational voice inside me pipes up. Or a serial killer out hunting.

As the footfalls get louder, the less rational voice wins out, and I duck behind a tree, pepper spray in hand. The sound stops right next to me on the other side. Oh shit. They know I’m here. They know I’m hiding. I’ll take them by surprise. I jump out, pepper spray at the ready.

Ed raises his hands and stumbles back. “It’s me.”

I lower the pepper spray. “What are you doing?”

“I was out for a run, and I saw you duck behind the tree. I was going to make sure you were okay but then thought you might be…um…indisposed.”

My mouth falls open. “You thought I was pooping!”

Ed laughs, holding up both hands in surrender. “I wasn’t sure. Things get moving sometimes when you run.”

“Ew. I’m aware, but also, ew. No, I was just…” Hiding—no, he doesn’t need to know my excessive true-crime-documentary watching has me worried about serial killers. “Nothing.”

He wipes his brow. “Want to run together?”

My heart leaps as my mind flashes to Ed and me traveling around New Haven, me on my bike, him on his board.

“Sure.” I try to turn off the audiobook without Ed seeing my phone. I don’t want him to know I’m reading his second book. Switching off my headphones instead of turning off the audiobook, it comes blaring out of my phone speaker at full blast. I fumble and eventually shut it down.

Ed’s smiling. “Those words sound familiar.”

I sigh. “I’m reading Darkslide. ”

He’s beaming, but he quickly changes his face to a serious expression. “Ah.”

We run together up the trail, finding a pace that works for both of us.

“So,” Ed begins. “How many mysteries have you written?”

Six. Six unfinished novels, each with a piece of me that will never see the light of day.

Maybe someday I’ll go back and write the last chapters.

Only one was ever to a place I would call done.

Still, I wouldn’t let myself type the words “The End.” There’s always room to improve, edit, polish. I shrug. “A few.”

I glance over at him, trying to read his face for a reaction. He nods, opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again.

“What?” I say. “What is it?”

“That’s awesome. I’ve only written the two. Vex and Darkslide . Well, and I’m working on my third.”

Part of me hates him for this. Massive best-seller, literary darling, on his very first book. For him, it was just that simple. It doesn’t hurt that he’s extremely easy on the eyes, but his work is also…exceptional. It’s stupid.

Not that my writing is bad. It’s finishing it.

I get to the end of the book, and suddenly I’m paralyzed with fear.

What if I wrote it all wrong? What if I’m not starting in the right place?

How can I move forward if I don’t fix those crucial things first?

The one that I nearly finished once it was finally to a place that anyone would consider complete, I sent to beta readers, and the feedback was clear. It was nowhere near done.

My thoughts are swirling, so I run my way out of them, charging up the hill, setting my destination as the guardrail and a break in the trees up ahead. Ed increases his pace, but I still make it to the rail first. Not that it was a race, although if it had been, I would’ve won.

We’re both sweating and panting. I place my hands on the rickety, weathered rail, careful not to put any weight on it.

If I did, I’d probably end up on the rocks below, the waves taking my body swiftly out to sea.

Ed’s doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

Since my runs are usually at high altitude, I have a slight advantage.

Once Ed catches his breath, he leans against the railing, and my stomach lurches. He has a twinkle in his eyes, one I recognize from that day. “I have an idea.”

My stomach tightens. Is it excitement? Anxiety? A mix of both? He said those exact words ten years ago before one of the most memorable nights of my life.

I nod, unable to look away from where his body is making contact with the old wood rail. “You shouldn’t lean on that. I don’t think it’s sturdy.”

He moves away with a small smirk. “We can help each other.”

“How?”

“I’m not suggesting we do a genre switch or anything, but I’m into the idea of adding a mystery to my book. Well, you’re reading Darkslide. What do you think of it?”

“Um…” I falter. “I’m just at the beginning.”

I start to run again, this time back down the trail and at a slower pace. Ed follows.

“It’s slow as shit. Barely anyone read it, and the people who did most likely fell asleep.”

He’s not wrong. “How can I help?”

“Well, you can help me with the tension. You're the mystery expert. What makes a page turner?”

I nod slowly. I can do that. Pacing is actually one of my strong suits. “And how are you suggesting to help me?”

“I can get you published.”

My heart skips a beat, picturing holding one of my books in my hands. But how can he promise that? Maybe I misunderstood .

“What?”

“I mean, not directly, but I can help you polish your manuscript and help with your pitch package.”

Concisely, talking about my novel is definitely not my strong suit. I’d rather write an entirely new novel than a one-sentence pitch. But I’m still not sure about this plan. I’m not sure I’m ready to let myself get close to Ed again.

“I can also introduce you to some people. My friend has a book launch party in Portland in July. You can come with me. There will be a ton of industry people and other writers there. You’ll like Bill.

He’s a good dude. And there’s the Oregon Book Awards at the end of the summer. You can be my date.”

I laugh. “Your date?”

“Not like a date-date, but you can come with me. There will be a ton of agents and editors there. I can even steer a few conversations to the amazing novel you’re working on.”

“How do you know it’s amazing? You haven’t even read it.”

He smirks, and my stomach somersaults. “If it’s not already, with my help, it will be. We’ll make our own writer’s workshop.”

I would love to go to that dinner. And I wouldn’t mind a fresh pair of eyes on my manuscript, especially attractive green eyes. I sweep that thought away. No. I’m not going down that road with him again. What I meant is best-selling, been through the publishing process, professional eyes.

“Okay.”

Ed’s smile lights up the trail. “Okay?”

“Let’s do it.”

He jumps, fist in the air—so reminiscent of the final shot of The Breakfast Club, I laugh.

We shift focus to the task at hand, running the rest of the way in silence. Moss hangs off the trees in great swaths, catching the morning sun and making everything look like we are in an enchanted forest. When we make it to the parking lot, it’s still just my car.

“How did you get here?”

“I ran. There’s a trail down that way to the beach. It’s not too far. Hard, though. You always see people on TV running gracefully on the beach, but it’s a real slog through all that sand.”

“‘If this were only cleared away,’ they said, ‘it would be grand.’”

Ed laughs, a booming belly laugh that fills me with joy and pride that I made him do that.

“ Alice in Wonderland ?”

I make an exaggerated frown. “ Through the Looking Glass .”

“Ah, of course. I stand corrected.”

I dig my key fob out of my bag and point it at my car. “Want a ride?”

“Yeah.”

In the car and back on the road, we work out the details of our workshop.

First, we’ll swap manuscripts and give each other feedback.

Then we’ll go from there. It’s not as detailed a plan as I usually make, but I’m going with the flow.

Living in the moment. It’s better to just leave the past in the past.