Page 52 of Keeping Score

Good. I didn’t want space. I never did.

I wanted him to care. I wanted to see if he missed me.

Then came the realization of how utterly screwed up I was.

I hadn’t been trying to ghost him. I’d only wanted to see if he cared. I had unknowingly tested him. Tested his loyalty. Tested the strength of his love.

And he had passed.

For now.

“I got it.” I nodded at him.

And he stared at me, blinking. As if he didn’t expect it to be so easy. As if he thought I would put up a fight.

But I didn’t want to. I just wanted to love him. And be loved by him back.

He was good at it.

In fact, I didn’t think there was anyone better at loving me than Brody Callahan.

Chapter Twelve

Brody

Maggie may or may not have been trying to kill me.

Not only did she wake me up at five in the morning to jog, but she was also hellbent on leaving me in the dust behind her.

“Babe,” I huffed, forcing my legs to pump even faster. “Are we training for the Boston Marathon or something?”

She hadn’t mentioned it, but given the fact that it was Maggie, I wouldn’t put it past her to sign us up without telling me.

She didn’t even pause—just kept running straight ahead. The scariest part? She wasn’t even wearing headphones. Nope, she was absolutely rawdogging this run without any type of assistance.

And worse—she inflicted it on me, too.

“Margaret Brynn,” I stopped, feeling on the verge of passing out where I stood. “You come back here right now.”

Hands on my hips, I sucked in a breath of frigid winter air, trying to regulate my body back to a normal, human rhythm.

She turned, noticing that I’d fallen several paces behind her, and she began to make her descent back to me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, still jogging in place.

“What’s wrong is I’m jogging around Boston at five thirty in the morning in January.” I held my arms out for emphasis. “You know what type of people do that, Maggie?” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Psychos.”

She scoffed.

“You gotta tell me what’s going on, babe,” I said, giving her an examining look.

Her eyes were puffy as if she hadn’t slept, and traces of eyeliner were still visible on her eyelids from the night before. Considering Maggie was the type of girl to have organic, biodegradable, makeup-removing cloths from Turkey paired with some insane micellar water cleanser, both of those things struck me as a bit of a red flag.

“We’re running,” she said. “You didn’t have to come.”

It was my turn to scoff.

“You think I’d let you run around Boston before the sun rose by yourself?” I gave her an incredulous look. “Let me repeat: only psychos are out at this hour.”