99 Days(26)

But Patrick never asked me to be his girlfriend like this, I realize suddenly. We always just sort of were. No conscious decisions, just the two of us sliding right into it—sliding right into each other—and staying there. Neither one of us knowing how to climb back out.

“What would it look like?” I ask finally, sitting up a little straighter, my spine pressing against the passenger side door of the wagon. “You and me dating, how would it look?”

“What, to other people?” Gabe asks, shaking his head.

I boggle. “To your family, to start with.”

“They’ll get over it.” Gabe’s voice is urgent. “Or they won’t, but they’re not over it now, either, are they? Why are you going to let people who are hell-bent on not forgiving you keep you from something that could actually be great?” He stops short then, looking suddenly embarrassed, like it’s just occurring to him that maybe he’s taken things too far. “Assuming that’s all that’s holding you back, I mean. Like”—oh my God, he’s actually blushing—“assuming you want to, otherwise.”

“I do want to,” I blurt, realizing as I say it that it’s true: I want to take a chance with him; I want to try being happy for the rest of this summer. “Screw other people, you’re right. I mean, no, you’re not right, not totally, I think there’s a lot of stuff you’re not considering, but—”

“Molly.” Gabe laughs and nudges his mouth against mine then, a clumsy bump that’s nothing like the smooth moves I’m used to seeing out of him, how sometimes I get the impression he’s thinking a half beat ahead. This is spontaneous, a little awkward. Our teeth click. Still, it’s maybe my favorite kiss from him all summer; when it’s over Gabe smiles and leans his warm forehead against mine.

“I’m still not coming to your freaking party,” I mutter stubbornly.

Gabe laughs, low and pleased, against my cheek. He wrestles me into the backseat of the wagon, all our limbs and the smell of his neck and clean T-shirt; out the window I can see the white moon rising, heavy and nearly full.





Day 26


I startle awake at four-thirty, heart pounding, and throw my messy covers off. The thrill of what’s happening with Gabe—and it is a thrill, how my body was still humming a full hour after he dropped me off at home, the ghost of his mouth on my stomach and ribs—didn’t exactly translate to a full night’s sleep. The opposite, in fact. Now, after three Patrick-themed nightmares, I give up and slip into my running shoes in the darkness, my mind churning with memories and regrets.

Eventually, my legs give like hair elastics, sweat dripping down my spine—I’m woozy with heat and dehydration, a sprint like something is chasing me, a dash like my life is in danger. When I quit it’s with my hands on my knees and my face red and blotchy, a stitch in my side that feels like someone’s grabbed my lungs and twisted, hard.

I can’t believe there was a time when they actually wanted me to come to Bristol specifically so I could run, but that’s what happened: the tan, athletic woman in the stands at my meet against Convent of the Sacred Heart in March of sophomore year, then again at practice the next morning. They called me into Guidance after lunch, sat me down in a plastic-y chair, and handed me a pamphlet.

“Think about it,” the recruiter urged me. Her hair was pulled into a neat little ponytail at the crown of her head, athletic sneakers on her feet like possibly she was planning to run on back to Arizona right after this meeting. “It’s just something to consider, for next year.”

I found Patrick in the parking lot after last period, waiting for me in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. There was an old county law on the books that said kids could get their licenses six months ahead of everyone else if their parents needed their help with farm work, and because of the way the Donnellys’ house was zoned, all three of them got to drive way before everyone else did. Gabe usually drove us anyway, ’cause he was oldest, but Gabe was getting a ride with his sort-of-girlfriend, Sophie, and Julia had cheer practice until quarter of five. Tuesdays always worked that way, me and Patrick alone for the ride. Tuesdays were my favorite.

He was listening to Mumford with his head tipped back against the worn leather seat when I opened the door, afternoon sun making patterns on his smooth, April-tanned face. He kissed me hello with two hands on my face, familiar and good. “Whatcha got?” he asked when I handed him the pamphlet, curious gray eyes flicking from it to me and back again. His expression clouded over as I explained.

“Wow,” he said when I was finished. He handed the pamphlet back to me, glancing briefly over his shoulder and shifting the Bronco into reverse. “I—wow.”

“It’s weird, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Patrick laughed a little. “It’s really weird.”

“It is?” I asked, stung even though I was the one who’d said it first. “Oh.”

“No, I don’t mean because you’re not a fast runner, I just mean—wait,” Patrick said, looking at me again before turning out of the student lot. The wrapper from Julia’s before-school granola bar crinkled under my feet. “Do you want to go?”


“I don’t know.” I shrugged, wishing all of a sudden, and weirdly, that I hadn’t told him. I’d never felt like that before with Patrick. Every thought I had spilled out more or less constantly whenever he was around, practically since I knew how to talk. It was strange and disorienting, like stepping on a piece of broken curb. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. No.”