Page 145 of Pick-Up
At least I’ll try.
Ethan furrows his brow in confusion, but then smiles and cocks his head as he registers what I mean by, “Go get her.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say. “You’re obviously miserable. It makes it harder to hate you.”
“Well, thanks—sort of.” He frowns. “But I think that door may be closed now.”
I shake my head.Men!“Don’t be an idiot,” I say. “The door is not closed. I saw how Sasha looked at you.”
He looks up at that. “You really think so?”
He must be feeling desperate if he’s open to insight from me, on this, after everything. I do know him though. And, for better or worse, I know her.
“Just don’t be passive,” I say. “Don’t just let life happen to you. Fight for it.”
He nods slowly, like he’s considering this.
“My two cents,” I say. An old woman strolls by us with a fluffy white dog. I turn to walk the same way.
“Is that something you think I do?” he asks. “Let life happen to me?”
I turn back to face him. “I don’t think it, Ethan. I know it,” I say. “It’s how you wound up with me.”
He bites his lip, like he had not considered this.
“Make choices,” I say. “Don’t just sit in it. Don’t wait for someone to chooseyou. Take it from me. It doesn’t get you anywhere good.”
“Thanks, Kait,” he says, nodding. “That’s good advice.”
“It is.” I bring a hand to my hip. “Maybe I’ll become a life coach.”
He narrows his eyes. “Mm. Maybe not.”
We both smile. For a second, I remember that there were good times.
“Anyway, go!” I say. “Seize the day!”
He waves goodbye. Turns. I watch him as he heads down Columbus Avenue, first strolling, then speed-walking, then eventually running for the train.Go get her, tiger.
I walk down the street to my train too, wishing I wasn’t underdressed. Maybe I do need some California sun.
I am not better yet. But maybe I can be.
In the shade, the warm day turns brisk. But there is a comfort in being here again. I peer up at the glowing windows of the prewar buildings I know from my childhood, down at the sidewalk etched with names. And, though I know it isn’t here, I search for my own.
49 | The Long RunSASHA
I am on the loop. But, instead of running three miles, I am running as long as it takes to exorcise this agitated warble in my chest. And I am moving in the “wrong” direction.
I still take umbrage with that label.Wrong. Let’s sayunconventional. Let’s sayrenegade. I am running in the direction of free thought.
Prospect Park is crowded today. People jog, walk, chase their dogs. Dogs jog, walk, chase their pigeons. It’s not surprising. The weather is getting colder—you can feel winter warning—and today may very well be our last gasp of relative warmth.
It is fifty-six degrees and sunny. The sky is glass. And I know there’s no way he resisted. I am here later in the day, but it’s like I can feel Ethan’s presence here in the morning, hours before, blowing past me with his hands up. This loop will never be the same.
I am listening to Olivia Rodrigo. If anyone asks, it’s the Clash. The music is carrying me for now. I told myself I’d run as long as it takes, but, after about a mile, I am already tired.
