Page 11 of Fight

“You’re in over your head.”

After that text, guilt has me opening Facebook. People have been leaving their condolences and offers of support for Jonathan. Some of the bolder members of the community call me names. I refuse to be a part of that life; I’m disgusted I stayed as long as I did. I warned him plenty of times that the day wouldcome when he would wake up and I would be gone. It was the only way to escape.

Still, I worry about him. Why the hell didn’t he come with me? We could have left together. Started our lives over and actuallylivedfor once.

New state, new job, new people, new beginning. The slate gets no cleaner than this.

It’s bizarre to go from having people constantly around to… no one. I’ve got three numbers in my cell phone. My landlord, my work, and some stranger I met at the bar. At first, I found peace in the silence, but lately, it feels so loud. Now is one of those times.

I need fresh air. Time to go for a run and check on my dream house. Clear my head of these anxious thoughts.

My worries are doused by the crisp September air when I step foot outside and suck in a restorative breath. It’s chilly, but I don’t give my body a chance to feel the cold before I start jogging. My feet pound the sidewalk at a steady pace while I force myself to focus on the landmarks and layout of Sky Ridge, taking the attention off my thoughts of The Fold, Jonathan, and whether I’m a complete fool.

“Hemlock Street,” I mutter, passing the street sign under the orange-tinted streetlight. At each intersection, I repeat the name, hoping it will help me learn the area. I’m sure I’ll know this town backward and forward after a month or so.

“Marshall…”

I jog another block. “Payne…”

Another block. “Spencer.” I turn right and head down the side street. This is my favorite street in Sky Ridge. The tidy homes line each side of the street. It’s Small Town, USA, right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I admire the historic Victorian architecture, which has always fascinated me with their verandas and turrets. Most are modest folk-style versions likely built around the turn of the century. Warm light shinesfrom the inside, and I imagine what the families are like that live here.

Almost every house has a white-painted porch with ornamental posts. Decorative planters with autumn mums and orange pumpkins dress the wooden steps. It’s all so different from the rows of shotgun houses where I grew up.

There’s something to like about every house on this street, but one is my favorite. I’m not sure what it is about the Victorian I love so much, but every time I see it, hope spreads in my heart. I feel a connection to it. Seeing that house makes me feel positive about my future here; it’s reassuring. I like to believe that someday I could own a house like that one and make it a home. After I pass the lovely 218 Spencer, I explore the rest of the neighborhood, finding new architectural details to appreciate.

The people who live in these adorable homes probably made good decisions all their life. They were smart. They thought for themselves. They wanted something and worked hard until they got it. A strange sense of homesickness washes over me, but how can you feel homesick for something that never existed in the first place?

“Scottie!” a voice booms behind me, and I freeze. Slowly turning around, I exhale and drop my shoulders when a familiar face jogs toward me. Callahan.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and smile. With my hair pulled into a ponytail, a breeze blows, sending goose bumps across the damp nape of my neck.

I pant out a “Hi,” and lift my hand in a weak wave. He’s donning sweats and a light jacket, and he wears the hell outta both. I’d say he’s roughly six feet tall, which puts him about nine inches taller than me. It seems I’m not the only one who took advantage of tonight’s cool air for a workout.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath. “Out for a run?”

My smile widens. “How could you tell?”

“Ya know, I wasn’t sure at first, but the outfit and joggingkinda gave it away. Plus, I didn’t see anybody chasing you.” He nods to my leggings and sneakers. I swear his gaze lingers a second longer than normal.

“Those are some deduction skills you’ve got.” I continue my run, and he paces himself beside me.

“Thanks.” We jog in silence for a few beats. “So… do you live around here?”

I bark out a laugh and slow my strides after his question. Despite my dream to someday own one of these homes, I find his timing quite amusing.

His head swivels back to me since I’m a few steps behind, then he pauses for me to catch up. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s kinda creepy to ask a woman if she lives nearby when she’s running alone.”

He shrugs. “Seems like you’re already taking your chances by running at night.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, it would be awful if some stranger came up and started asking me where I live…”

“Good thing I’m not a stranger then, huh?”

I glance up at him, and he winks. Damn that smile of his. Straight, perfect white teeth. It’s confident. “I suppose that’s true… still, I try to avoid making friends with liars.”

“Even liars who jog at night? Maybe we could run together sometime, assuming I’m not on the road for work.”

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