Page 73 of From Now On

I groan, punch my pillow, and sit up. Yawn. I’m tired, yet I can’t sleep.

I roll out of bed and pull on a pair of running shorts. It feels weird to sleep in just my boxer briefs, in what is technically the living room, so I’ve been wearing a shirt to bed too.

Well, you’ve still got a six-pack.

I smile automatically, recalling Eve’s blush after she blurted that out. On second thought, maybe I should stop wearing shirts altogether.

I use the bathroom off the kitchen, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and then step outside. It feels warmer today, but the sky is overcast. Clouds above threaten rain, and so does the dampness hovering in the air.

I jog down the driveway, hoping any showers will hold off but not really caring if I stay dry or not.

Rain can be nice. Peaceful. I’ve gotten accustomed to a lot of it, living in Somerville. One item on a long list of things I’ll miss wherever I move next.

The route I run takes me about forty-five minutes. Just long enough to listen to another episode of the murder podcast Eve put on in the car. They still haven’t caught the killer by the end, which I’m disappointed by. Something to look forward to when I run tomorrow, I guess.

Hart is in the kitchen, brewing coffee, when I get back to the house.

He looks me over. It didn’t actually start raining, but my shirt is damp from mugginess and sweat. “Shit, man. You already went running?”

“Yeah.” I grab more water out of the fridge and gulp it down. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Sorry, man. I feel bad you got stuck on the sofa.”

“Don’t. It’s fine. It wasn’t the couch.”

Conor swipes his keys off the counter. “Wanna go for a drive? We’re out of eggs and bread. I told Harlow I’d run to the store.”

“Sure.” I drain the rest of my glass, and then follow Conor out to his car.

He fiddles with the stereo while I snap my seat belt on, then reverses past my SUV.

“So…you wanna talk about it?” he asks once we’re driving down the street.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s been bumming you out lately.”

I blow out a long breath. “I’ve gotta decide what I’m doing next year.”

“What do you mean? I thought you were waiting to hear back from grad schools.”

“Yeah. I heard back. And now I have to decide where to go.”

A complicated decision that’s only gotten more challenging since Sean relapsedagain.

“How many options do you have?”

“Ten,” I answer.

“Ten? Jesus. How many schools did you apply to?”

“Ten.”

Hart whistles. “Damn, man. Congrats.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“When do you have to decide by?”

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