Running up and down New York City streets was stressful yet exciting. The experience of almost being run over by an overzealous driver and getting yelled at for being in the bike lane was more humorous than offensive. Then there was the constant jaywalking, or jay-running, in our case. After one year in the city, I still wasn’t used to doing that. In California, we waited for the walk sign to flash green before crossing the street. But I was amazed at how Max flouted the rules with impunity.
The first half mile of our run felt arduous. Max talked me through breathing and taught me how to keep a natural pace. With my breathing under control and my stride effortless, running soon became easier. After running three miles and walking the last two, we arrived at the Soho warehouse apartment of Kiera, an installation artist. Kiera’s appearance matched her vocation, which totally took me by surprise. She wore oversized jeans that hung from her narrow hips, and the jeans had grease stains on them and a bunch of other unidentifiable stains. Her tank top was pristine white but so thin that her nipples, which I tried not to look at, poked out behind the sheer material. Her long and tangled blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks, and she wore not a stitch of makeup on her extremely pale face. Not in a million years would I ever have guessed she was Max’s type.
We ate brunch at a café known for their pancakes and coffee in Kiera’s neighborhood. On the walk there, Max hung back as I asked her all sorts of questions about her art and she asked me about my apps. Later, over raspberry-and-cream-cheese pancakes, dark-chocolate-and-hazelnut pancakes, vanilla-bean Belgian waffles, eggs over easy, bacon, and uncountable rounds of Columbian coffee, we engaged in intense conversation about how she’d been working on scientifically coagulating light. As she mapped out a physics equation for density on several napkins, I knew exactly why Max liked her and why he wanted me to meet her. My brother watched Kiera write equations, gazing at her with stars in his eyes. Then I looked closely at what she was writing, and my jaw dropped. When I looked up at Max, he winked at me. There was a portion of Kiera’s formula I’d seen before. Grandfather had taught it to me and Max.
“Then you think that equation can be applied to this mysterious kind of light?” I asked.
Grinning, Kiera nodded with assurance.
Then Max said, “If anyone can figure out how to make a computer tap into that elusive light source, it’s Paisley.”
I jerked my head back. “Me?”
“I’ll send you something on the secure server.”
I took a cab home, and Max stayed with Kiera. Before I walked into the house, I got an alert from Max, letting me know that whatever he sent me was waiting. What I found was unfinished code, images of Kiera’s napkin scrawling, and a message that said,Figure it out.
For some reason, I’m thinking about a string of continuing code while running on the track through the park. I was actually making headway before second semester of freshman year. Even for people like Dandi and Eden, college consists of no more than ten percent partying. The rest of the time is filled with papers, projects, exams, and presentations. There are also meltdowns and burnout. More than once, I’ve fallen asleep in the dining hall with the intention of just resting my eyes for a moment. With a boyfriend added to the mix, getting through the semester becomes exponentially tougher.
I pick up my pace, thinking about Boyles. He’s got boy-next-door looks and is always displaying a charming smile, and I mean always. He smiles when he talks and eats and even while he listens. And everything rolls off his back. Sometimes I find myself comparing him to my fantasy of what Hercules might be like today. Even in my imagination, Hercules and Boyles have nothing in common. First of all, Hercules is more serious. He believes in things passionately and cares about people he doesn’t know just as much as those he does.
Shit.I’m not supposed to be thinking about Hercules Valentine yet again. Whenever he’s in my thoughts, I forget to regulate what I’m doing in the moment. I’m running too fast, and now, my legs are cramping and my breaths are strangling my lungs. I’m petering out early, so I slow my pace as I have flashbacks of me and Boyles in the dining hall yesterday.
“Aren’t you bored?” he asked.
“Bored of what?” I replied.
Then he stared into my eyes as if he was trying to send me a message. After several seconds, he said, “Forget it,” and then his eyes shot up over my head as he watched someone pass. I could smell perfume. It was a female.
Out of steam, I stop, bend over, and clutch my knees. The thing is, approximately eight days ago, I let Boyles finally take my virginity. Suddenly, my legs grow weaker, and I can't stand, so I drop my bum on the concrete.
The sex was at first uncomfortable and then simply meh. We banged all day long and through the night. It was like he couldn't get enough of me. He kept asking, “Do you feel that, baby?”
I said yes, but truthfully, I never felt much of anything. Is he too small? Maybe he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.
However, I'm now afraid he overindulged and is no longer interested in me. My smart watch beeps, which means time is up for my run. It’s a chore to rise to my feet. Instead of running back to my dorm, I walk and think about how to make sure I see Boyles today. He’s been avoiding me, and actually, I’ve been avoiding him too. I should just ask him straight-out.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and then release the tepid air in my lungs. “Are you not interested in me anymore?” I whisper, getting that one question out in the open.
And then something strikes me so hard that it hurts. I hit the concrete, and when I look up, I can’t believe who I see.
Chapter Eleven
Surprise!
Paisley Grove
“Are you okay?” Hercules Valentine asks.
I look first at his extended hand and then at his face. He’s still as handsome as ever. He has light dustings of hair on his chin and above his top lip, which makes him look sexier than before. I hesitate, waiting for him to show that he recognizes me.
Holy shit.Of course he doesn’t recognize me. My hair is blunt cut at neck length.
In high school, I had mounds of hair, which I wore in a ponytail on most days and wrapped in a bun. “That shit has got to go,” Dandi said one day during freshman year.
She took me to her regular salon in downtown Boston, the same place where she gets her lips filled. Kate, the stylist, cut and dyed my hair this weird shade of blond. The color clashed with my complexion. So instead of adding permanent color on top of bleach, I’ve been cutting off the yellow parts as my hair grows out and keeping it shorter, which I actually prefer.
Also, because I run twice a day, I’ve lost a lot of weight. As I’m often told, I look more like Heartly Rose than I used to. Treasure says losing weight has given me the kind of makeover women pay thousands of dollars to have.
