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“We’ve barely done four miles, don’t be such a little bitch.”

“We’ve done four miles like fucking, super fast.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can feel last night’s tequila coming up.”

“Same.” And I can.

“Then why are we going faster?”

I turn forward and push harder.

“Cal!”

His footsteps slap against the path as he catches up, swearing the entire way. The trail curls around the edge of campus, empty except for a woman walking a tiny white dog that lunges at us with the confidence of a German Shepard.

I’ve been running most mornings. And some afternoons. And, twice this week, after midnight.

There are only so many hours a person can spend refreshing their emails for news.

Apex’s lawyers are still going back and forth with ours. Every few hours, Harrison sends an update containing phrases like rights reversion, approval provisions, and material breach, all of which sound designed to make a musician feel stupid enough to sign whatever is put in front of him.

The A&P results come out Friday. Apex could walk before then. Bea could continue not speaking to me indefinitely. So, yeah. We’re running.

“Can we slow down?” Oliver asks.

“No.”

“Can we stop?”

“No.”

“Can we discuss why you’ve developed the training schedule of a recently divorced triathlete?”

“Also no.”

He groans but stays beside me.

I’ve been spending more time at the frat house since everything happened. Not full-on partying or disappearing upstairs with anybody. Mostly sitting around with Oliver and the guys, playing video games badly and listening to arguments about whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich.

I’m firmly on the team that it does not.

The house is loud enough that I don’t think too much. Somebody is always shouting, cooking, breaking something, or accusing somebody else of stealing protein powder or a phone charger.

Last night, somebody produced tequila at eleven. I stayed until two. Then I lay awake until four wondering whether Bea was sleeping. Excellent use of my time.

“You know,” Oliver says between breaths, “normal people process emotions by talking.”

“I prefer to run.”

“Some people would call that being repressed. Do you feel like you’re bottling it all up, buddy?”

I look at him.

He grins, despite looking close to death. We hit the incline leading toward the north trail, and I accelerate.

He makes a noise like I’ve stabbed him.

“Push it,” I say.

“I am pushing it.”