Call It What You Want(61)

The alternative was sitting in my bedroom, letting guilt jab at me from all angles, so I agreed to pick him up. We’re running on the B&A Trail, a long paved path that runs from Baltimore to Annapolis. I thought maybe we’d go for half an hour or something, but we pass thirty minutes and he keeps on going. I’ve been keeping up with him, but secretly, I’m dying. I’ve been running almost every day since I made the promise to Mom, but I’m nowhere near as fit as I was when I played lacrosse.

By the time we loop around to run back, my lungs start to scream, and I have less time for brooding. My brain becomes solely focused on breathing.

Owen is barely winded. He plows on like he runs a marathon every weekend.

There’s a good chance I’m going to stumble and land in a pile on the trail.

“Want to race the last mile?” he says.

“No.” It takes effort to speak a syllable.

He laughs. “Come on. Loser has to do a hundred sit-ups.”

Without waiting for an answer, he takes off.

I sprint after him. My feet shove off the ground harder with every stride. I was fast once. I can catch him.

I’m wrong—though not by much. He beats me by a hundred meters. He stops and waits at the fence post by the parking lot, offering a slow clap.

I give him the finger.

He laughs. “Toss me your keys. I’ll get the water.”

I do as asked, then flop down in the grass. The ground is cold; the grass tickles my neck. Now that I’ve stopped running, my light sweatshirt feels like a parka. I jerk it over my head, then close my eyes and try to remember how to breathe.

A bottle of water hits me in the chest, then bounces to roll into the grass beside me. “Sit-ups, loser.”

I put my hands behind my head, but as soon as I sit up, I swear. It’s like Connor’s boot is still lodged in my belly.

“I can’t do this.” I roll over and put my hands in the grass. “I’ll do push-ups.”

“Whatever.”

I’m on twenty when Owen says, “You have a bruise on your face. Did someone hit you?”

“No.”

“Walk into a door?”

“You’re going to make me lose count.”

“Why couldn’t you do sit-ups?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He reaches out and pokes me in the jaw. I see it coming and grit my teeth and ignore him, but it still hurts.

When I say nothing, he says nothing.

I keep counting in my head. The push-ups are easier than the running was, but the endorphins from exercise are quickly disappearing, being replaced by irritation. It’s cold enough that we’re alone out here, and late enough in the year that there are no sounds of birds or insects. The only noise is the occasional rush of a passing car.

I can’t read the silence at all, but I can feel Owen thinking.

“What?” I finally say.

“What what?”

“Fine, I was in a fight. I lost. Is that what you want to know?”

“Oh. No. I was just staring at your biceps.”

That makes me laugh. “Okay, I’m done.” I drop onto my elbows and reach for the sweatshirt in the grass.

Owen kicks it out of reach. “You only did like fifty. Finish. Talk.”

I press my hands into the grass and do as ordered, but I’m still not ready to talk about Connor—or what I did. I haven’t quite unpacked it all in my head yet.

“How are you in such good shape?” I ask Owen instead.

“Running is free.”

Huh. I guess that’s true.

Owen draws up his legs to sit cross-legged. “I started when Javon was trying to get in shape before he left for basic training. It was something to do, so I kept it up.”

“You should run cross-country.” I say the words without thinking, but then I realize Owen probably has reasons for not playing sports at school. Then again, like he said, running is free. Of all the sports, running would probably be cheapest. All you need are shoes.

Owen shrugs and says, “I didn’t really start running until last year.”

“Indoor hasn’t started yet. You could still join.”

He says nothing.

“Or track in the spring,” I add.

He bites at the edge of his thumbnail.

I stop at the top of a push-up and look at him. My arms are dying now, so really it’s an excuse to pause for a second. “Or not.”

“Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but I’m not school sports material,” he says.

“You just ran me into the ground, Owen, so I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know if I could run a race. Not with a bunch of other kids.” A long, heavy pause. “I have a blind spot in my right eye.” He chews at the edge of his thumbnail again and looks out at the parking lot. “I see spots in my left. I can’t even get a driver’s license, so …” His voice trails off.

I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry feels weird.

“I didn’t know,” I say.

He shrugs. Continues to stare at the parking lot.

Then he says, “Dude, it’s cold. Finish.”

So I finish, and he sits there staring, and when we’re done, we walk back to my car.