AN UNEXPECTED BENEFIT OF BEING on the track team was that it gave me an easy excuse to get out of the house. All I had to do was put on my sweatpants and gym shoes and announce that I was going out for a run and I had a free pass. I didn’t have to explain to my parents how hard it was to be at home sometimes, how without Anna it felt like the house had grown smaller and the walls were in danger of closing in.

Usually, the running ruse only lasted for a couple of blocks, until I was safely out of sight of the house. After that, I’d just walk around, carefully navigating Birdton’s poorly maintained sidewalks, or sit in the park for a while, wishing I’d figured out a way to bring a book along with me without ruining the pretense. But on Sunday I found myself still running well past my usual stopping points. It was something about the weather, I thought, something about how it was bright and not too cold, with a slight breeze. It was the first day that really felt like spring was on the horizon, and instead of being simply a chore, an excuse, running felt like a reasonable thing to do. Something I might get good at. There was still a heaviness in my limbs, yet it felt more solid, more like strength than before.

I was on one of the few stretches of decent sidewalk when Nick rounded the corner and came running in my direction, head down, legs churning. I considered lowering my head as well and barreling on past. Then I thought of him in the hallway, talking about Anna.

I cleared my throat nosily.

He jerked his head up and came to a halt a few feet away.

“Hey,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands suddenly, so I wrapped my arms tightly around my rib cage.

“Hey,” he said. “So you’re a runner, huh?”

“Technically, I suppose,” I said. I was proud of how evenly my words came out. “You?”

He shrugged modestly. “I try to do a couple miles every day, more on the weekends. It helps for basketball—you know, conditioning.”

“That makes sense,” I said. Basketball wasn’t exactly my thing—still, running seemed like a good preparation for most sports. Well, other than archery. Or golf.

We stood in silence, both shifting from leg to leg. The ease we’d briefly shared in the hallway was gone, and neither of us seemed to know what to say.

Then he smiled. “So, you want to race?”

Did I? I hadn’t really thought about it.

“I guess,” I said. “As long as you don’t get upset if you lose.”

He laughed. “Wow. Someone had their Wheaties this morning.”

I shook my head. “No, raisin bran.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

I belatedly realized he’d been making a joke. And suddenly, all I wanted to do was get moving again. “Let’s go,” I said, and then I sprinted past him, hoping to get a good lead.

For a while, I wasn’t even sure if he had followed me or if I was speeding through the park on my own. Then I glanced over my shoulder and found that he was close behind me.

Soon we ran out of the park, following an old trail that ran beside the river, snaking along a series of fields and pastures. In time, we stopped racing and instead ended up running side by side, one of us inching forward and then the other, neither of us getting too far ahead.

Running with Nick felt good—graceful, even. There was a rhythm to it, a pattern of movement between us. He had called me a runner, and I liked that. Liked the idea that maybe I was, or at least could be.

But eventually, my lungs, first politely and then insistently, indicated that a break was needed. I slowed to a jog and then stopped altogether, standing with my fists propped on my hips, trying to resist the urge to flop down onto the grass and heave in air like a drowning victim.

Nick stopped as well and stood with his head between his legs to catch his breath.

“You’re good at this,” he said between breaths.

“No, but I’m getting better,” I said. “Slowly.” Short sentences were all I could manage.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Our exhaustion saved us from talking more for a while, but then our breathing normalized and it felt like we should begin again. And I was so tired and loose that talking didn’t feel as daunting as it usually might.

“We liked your mom’s casserole,” I said. “It was the best one we got.” It felt good to have gotten that out. A couple of months late, sure, but better late than never.

He looked puzzled for a second and then smiled. “Oh, that wasn’t my mom’s casserole. That was my dad’s super-secret-recipe casserole. He takes it very seriously.”

“Your dad cooks?” I knew, in theory, that men could cook, yet I’d seen little evidence in practice. Birdton was pretty far from progressive in that and many, many other ways.

“Only when he feels we’ve earned it,” he said.

“Do you guys bring stuff to people a lot?”

“Not really. Mom does the occasional bake sale stuff for church, but that’s it. And Dad’s cooking is usually just for family.”

“So how did we end up with the honor?”

He looked away from me, up toward the horizon. “Because I asked him to.”

It was a simple, straightforward answer with infinite layers. Looking at his profile, I wondered what would’ve happened if he’d told Anna how he felt. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything—maybe she’d already fallen for Mr. Matthews or whoever it was, and Nick never had a chance. Or maybe it would have changed everything.

I stood up carefully and started doing some stretching. After a moment, Nick followed suit.

We jogged back to the park. It hadn’t felt that far on the way out, but now that we were tired and going slower, it seemed the route had stretched itself during our break. When we reached the park, we paused.

“Well, I’m that way,” he said, pointing north.

“Yeah. And I’m that way.” I pointed south.

“Okay. So…same time next week?”

“All right,” I said, unsure whether it was a genuine suggestion or just an attempt to make our parting less awkward.

We stood there for a moment and then he jogged off.

Watching him grow smaller and smaller, I briefly found myself wanting to call out and ask him to come back, despite having no idea what I would say if he did.