From Scratch by Rachel Goodman

Author:Rachel Goodman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2015-08-12T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

MY FIGHT WITH Annabelle is still replaying itself on an endless loop in my head when I wake early the next morning. Clad in sneakers, workout shorts, and an old SMU Pi Phi T-shirt I dug out of the package of clothes Drew sent from Chicago, I sit on a wrought-iron bench at the entrance to the dirt path in Montgomery Park, gearing up for a run. The sky is laced with pinks and lavenders, and the rain from the past several days has cooled the air, making me shiver. Or perhaps it’s my nerves getting the better of me. Now that I’m actually here, about to take Nick up on his offer, I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a giant mistake, but I refuse to prove Annabelle right. I’m not my mother. I’m not a coward.

Tires crunch on gravel as headlights sweep across the small parking lot. A shiny black Mercedes pulls into the spot next to my Ford truck, which sits there resembling moldy leftovers.

Nick steps out of the car, apprehension on his face. “Lillie?”

“You got rid of Susanna,” I say, grabbing my phone off the bench and walking over.

“Her engine couldn’t survive the summers anymore,” he says, leaning his elbows against the open driver’s side door. “This one’s named Kelly.”

“After ‘Machine Gun Kelly’?” I ask, referring to his favorite James Taylor song.

Nick nods, then gives me a small, rueful smile. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you would.”

I shrug and bite my lip, having nothing to say.

“You still run?” he asks, yanking the sweatshirt over his head and throwing it onto his passenger seat. The outline of his pecs is visible beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. My mouth dries a little.

“Not as much as I’d like to,” I say. “My job keeps me pretty busy, so it’s been awhile.”

I touch my toes, and my hamstrings cry in protest. I right myself as Nick is pulling his foot back, stretching his quads, the muscles bunching and flexing in his legs. I follow the lean, hard lines of his body—his toned arms, his sculpted shoulders, his smooth, tan neck that leads to his stubbled jaw.

Nick takes a swig of water and says, “We’ll start off easy.”

Scrolling through the music library on my phone, I select the nineties pop playlist before taking off down the trail, leaving Nick scrambling to catch up. He gains on me quickly, his strides in rhythm with mine. Nudging my elbow, he motions to my earbuds. I put the Paula Abdul track on pause and look at him.

“You good with turning around after crossing Bower’s Bridge?” he asks.

I nod again, resuming the song, and keep my eyes trained ahead. Bower’s Bridge is where I broke my ankle tripping over a loose plank during a game of capture the flag. Even in the eighth grade, the doctor in Nick crafted a splint using a few scraggly sticks and his shirt until my father arrived and drove me to the hospital for a plaster cast.

Sighing,

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