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***
On Sunday morning, I wake up right before my alarm beeps to a gray dawn. Raf the kitten is sitting on my arm, which I’ve flung to the side, and jerks away when I try to pull it free, giving me a shocked and wounded look.
“Sorry, kitty,” I mumble and rub my eyes. “Going for a run. I don’t supposed you want to join me?”
Raf is staring at me from the edge of the bed, tail held high like a periscope. When he realizes no food will magically appear as I speak, he loses interest and jumps off in a huff.
I snort to myself as I get up. “I bet you’ll spend the day catnapping while I run, do laundry, make lunch, work and then come home to crash. Why run when I have so much to do already? I’m a masochist, I know.”
In so many ways.
Plus, I’m talking to a cat—a cat who’s already left the room, I might add—like a crazy woman.
Sighing, I pad to the bathroom to get ready. Crazy, yeah…
Must be why I’m thinking of Rafe again. Trying to explain his strange behavior. Trying to convince myself I haven’t inherited my mom’s taste in men: selfish, arrogant and sadistic.
No, Rafe’s not like that… Crap. When will I finally stop thinking about him?
Pulling on my hoodie, jamming my headphones into my ears, I head out to start my run. I focus on my rhythm. Running is about me, about soothing my mind and keeping strong. About being able to run from bad things. About being able to fend for myself, and about being free.
Illusions, I guess. I know there’s not much you can do when cornered and scared out of your frigging mind, or faced with a gun, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sit back and take it.
Not like Mom did.
Thoughts of Mom always bring with them memories of violence and blood, and the face of her ex-boyfriend.
A cold shiver wracks me. He’s in prison, I remind myself. Where I put him. And he has no clue where I am.
That only makes me feel marginally better.
My hood falls back, my ponytail bouncing on my back with every thudding step. Thud thud thud, like my heart. The music fills my ears. I run faster to rip the memories out of my head—the blood, the bruises, the screams.
I’m not like Mom. I have surrounded myself with good people. I’ll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just fine.
The word reverberates inside my skull, echoing, filling my senses as I run alongside tall fences and colonnaded facades. I’ll call Greg, go out with him. I’ll save up to go to college. I’ll be just—
A jolt, a growled curse, and hands grab me by the shoulders as I stumble to a stop. Someone is blocking the frail sunlight, face shadowed by a hood.
“Let go,” I gasp, twisting to get away. “Let me go!”
“Hey.” Scent of smoke and mint wrapping around me like a rope; a glint of golden lashes as the man tilts his head to the side. “You almost plowed into me. Are you okay?”
I know him. I know the shape of his body, recognize the strength in his hands.
“Rafe.” I rip the headphones from my ears. Heat seeps through my arms where his hands rest, steadying me. I want to see his face, but I don’t dare push his hood back for him. “Isn’t this where we met last time?”
“I live just around the corner. You run this way often?”
“Sundays.”
“Sundays.” One side of his mouth curves into a crooked smile. It takes my breath away.
“Early.”
“I noticed.” He finally pulls his hood back, and his eyes shine like gems. The other side of his mouth tips up, the dimples make their appearance, and his full smile almost knocks me off my feet, it’s so beautiful.
“Fancy neighborhood,” I mumble, scrambling for something to say. “Didn’t know you lived here. And hey, you run early too.”
