Page 19 of The Blood we Crave

Especially when the things I loved were things like candy, fairy tales, and storms. What harm could come from that kind of thing? A few cavities and wet hair in exchange for happiness seemed like a fine deal in my mind.

But now, it’s five in the morning, and I’m thinking about how much of a chore having a heart like mine is. My sleepy limbs and tired eyes are not on board with what we are about to do. Even my brain is desperately trying to pull back on the leash wrapped around the instrument in my chest.

Three more hours of sleep, Lyra. Three more hours of sleep, then we can get up and eat those black cherry waffles you love so much at Tilly’s, it’s trying to bargain, convincing me to give up one addiction for another. But my brain is naïve and should know better. My ribs are not a strong enough cage to keep me from the one thing I want more than anything else.

I would never touch another cherry again, if only to stand close to him for an hour. There would be no more fairy tales before bed as long as I could breathe in his familiar scent instead.

There is nothing I love more than him. Nothing I am more addicted to. A lifetime’s worth of all my favorite things would not equal one passing moment with him.

So yes, this fickle, obsessive heart forces me to get up before the sun, but it is all worth it.

To see him.

To feel his energy

To be near him.

I hop down the deserted road on one leg, trying to pull my shoe back on properly, thankful there is no one driving past to watch me bumblefuck my way back into a steady jog. I’d stopped for just a second to catch my breath and check the damage to my right heel.

Everyone always talks about this marvelous runner’s high, but no one ever mentions the blisters. So many fucking blisters. After applying another Band-Aid to the sore wound on the back of my foot and adjusting my shoe, I’m back on track.

Over this summer, I started going on morning jogs. I’ve never been a fan of running. I’ve always been terrible at it, and the day we were required to run the mile in high school gym class, I’d always feign ill or forged a note from my foster care family telling the school I had asthma.

So, although I loathe this feeling, everyone always says the only way to get better at something is through repetition, so that’s what I’m attempting.

After what happened in the spring, I had grown tired of always being out of breath, always being behind, having to hide, being weak. Running from predators had never been a skill I needed to have until recently. As of late, I’ve worked muscles in my legs I didn’t even know existed just to stay alive.

I also found that although it hurts every morning to get out of bed and my lungs always burn, my heavy footfalls against the ground drown the constant ebb of thoughts, aiding my restless mind that doesn’t know how to quit.

I wish I could say these healthy, progressive reasons are why I started doing this. That I needed something to clear my mind or wanted my body to be better equipped to run from those with malicious intent.

But unfortunately, I would be lying.

I glance down at my watch, the one I’d bought specifically for this, and see I’m a few minutes early, which is new for me. The touch screen around my wrist also tells me I’m approaching mile three, which is three miles I’ve added to my morning in order to park a safe distance away so that no one will see my car.

Cutting down off the side of the road so I can avoid the sometimes-crowded entrance, I dodge a few trees, slipping past neatly trimmed bushes before emerging beside the track that winds through Ponderosa Springs Park Arboretum.

The botanical gardens are in full bloom, bursting with color along the edges of the man-made ponds that are strategically arranged around the 2.3-mile loop trail. Residents and visitors frequent this space during the summer mornings, meaning usually it’s littered with people jogging, speed walking while gossiping, or children peering into the water, trying to spot as much wildlife as possible.

I can hear frogs croaking and the sweet sound of song sparrows singing loudly through the wet fog. There are worse places to be, even if it’s spent pumping my arms until they feel like Jell-O.

I casually make my way onto the paved trail, intermingling with early risers already there who thankfully didn’t notice me appearing from the trees, which isn’t out of the norm. I think I’d be more shocked to find someone noticed me rather than the latter.

Glancing down at my watch one last time, I count down from sixty in my head. Excitement buzzes in my stomach, so strong I’m afraid I might glow. I tug my beanie further down onto my head, the material straining to keep all my hair tucked inside.

It’s easy to wear bland running attire but keeping the mane of curls on my head hidden is a completely different obstacle. I need to blend in, merge into my surroundings, which has become sort of second nature for me at this point.

I’ve gotten so good at hiding that it’s impossible for anyone to see me. A ghost hovering through spaces, moving through rooms with barely a second glance in my direction.

But that is going to change. I’ll make sure of it. Today hadn’t been a part of the plan, but I couldn’t help myself. Even if he agrees to my terms, I will still crave to see him when he thinks he is alone. I’ll still want to be the little voyeur on the wall of his life.

Tonight at the cove will change everything for us. I can feel it. But right now, I’m still just his ghost and he the boy I love to haunt.

My feet bounce against the arched wooden bridge, the water below covered with a thin veil of mist. Just as I hit the Peak and my counting reaches sixteen, I feel him. If I walked into a pitch-black room with my ears plugged, I could still pick him out of a crowd of people.

The veil of darkness wraps around me like a second skin. It snuffs out all the light, shrouding me in an inky net. But it isn’t intimidating. It’s comforting, a blanket from death to keep out the freezing cold.

Goosebumps tickle my arms, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. The top of his icy-blond hair appears from the south entrance, a few feet away from me. I’m jealous of how effortlessly he makes running look. How fluidly he moves through the air, like slicing through still water, not creating a single ripple of disturbance.

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