Chapter 33 | Zoey
Chapter 33
Zoey
M ax clicks the stop button on the timer. Surprise colors his face as he holds the stopwatch out to me. It’s an impressive mile time and a huge improvement for Millie since the start of summer. Between me and Max, we might be able to mold Millie into Ardena’s next star.
I lean back against the fence. We’ve been watching the freshmen and sophomores run all day, event after event. This is the part of the summer where we identify those who can use extra training, who can move onto the varsity squad before their time. It’s time to find the next Zoey Reid—at least that’s how Max put it, a goofy grin wrinkling his brow.
I motion to the stopwatch. “Your diamond in the rough.”
Max laughs, and he’s so close that I feel his arm shake against mine. He looks down at me. And I swear there’s a spark of excitement in his gaze that isn’t related to the timer. There’s a softness as he takes me in—loose ponytail and red cheeks from the number of races I’ve run today to challenge the varsity hopefuls.
He tucks the strand of hair that blows across my face behind my ear, but his touch doesn’t linger. “Think you can get her to break your time?”
My time has already been broken. That’s the way it is with state records. There’s always someone, somewhere faster. It’s hard to hold on to records for long. But I still have one of the fastest times in state history and hold all the section, county, and school titles. Seeing someone break them will be bittersweet, but if I get to pick who it would be, Millie is my choice.
I glance at the timer again. It’s still far off. “Not by the end of summer, but I bet you can get her there before States.” I look up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t rush her. Even getting close in the next few years will get her the scholarship she needs to get out of Ardena.”
“Always thinking ahead, Zee.”
My lips quirk in a half smile. That nickname. “I am an Ardena Heat success story.”
“Yes, you are, Superstar.”
“Former superstar,” I correct. I haven’t matched my record-setting time in quite a while.
His brow furrows. “Why aren’t you running at Bellewood?”
The question is one I’ve been asked before—by my old coach, by the Bellewood coach, by my honors program advisor, by Andrew, and Claire, and Becca. Some people would do anything for a spot on a college squad, and I walked away from all my offers. Bellewood is a Division III school so it’s not as if I passed up a scholarship, but the spot was mine—no questions, no tryouts—and I didn’t want it. Half my teammates broke their backs for a D3 shot and never achieved it. Even Claire, the second-best runner at Ardena, didn’t make the team at her school.
But endless practices and travel, I didn’t want that life. It’s why I turned down spots on Division I and II teams. College sports aren’t like high school sports, where you take a bus at three and are home by eight. Even if they were, what would I have given up? Being a member of the honors program? Pledging? Mock trial? I can’t imagine my life without Haley and the rest of my sorority sisters, and the thought of sitting in English 101 and rereading Heart of Darkness puts me to sleep.
“I love running,” I say with a shrug, “but it was never meant to be more...” My eyes catch someone in the distance. It can’t be, but yes, the girl is waving and wearing Greek letters and is most certainly not Becca.
“Yes, Little, it’s meeeee!” Haley’s voice carries across the field, and my chest swells at the sound. She falls into a mock curtsy when only the track itself stands between us.
I cross the short distance and throw myself into my roommate’s arms. Everyone is watching us, but I don’t care. I’ve been home for months, and this is the first time I’ve felt at home. I hold on to her, not ready to let her go. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“You needed me,” Haley says into my hair. “And once I was able to reasonably arrange it with my job, because I’m a responsible employee and a dedicated Big, I hopped in Dexter and drove straight here.”
Dexter is her ten-year-old Corolla. It’s an old-lady car if there ever was one, and yet it has more life than any other car I’ve been in. Everything about it reflects my Big Sister’s personality, from the disco ball hanging off the rearview mirror to the fuzzy covers on the front seats to the stuffed animal collection—mainly unicorns, so many unicorns—sitting in the back window.
The vise that’s been around my chest since Andrew and Claire loosens a notch. My breathing feels almost normal.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Little.” Haley pulls back but keeps her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes rake over me and then past me before narrowing in what I know to be mischief. “Please tell me that’s Max.”
I laugh and glance over my shoulder to where Max is studiously staring at his phone. He never uses his phone on the track. But he understands, like he did when Andrew showed up here, that this moment, though public, deserves privacy.
“Max,” I say, turning to face him. He looks up with an amused expression. “This is Haley.”
“Ah, the illustrious roommate.”
“Roommate, Big, bestie, all-around amazing person.” Haley mimes the tipping of her hat.
He grins, and it’s honestly breathtaking. “Zee talks about you all the time.”
Haley’s eyes shift to mine at the nickname, but her smile remains steady as we cross to the sideline. “Of course she does.” She plops down on the ground, her back against the fence, and waves as if she’s the queen. “As you were.”
Max leans into me, his shoulder bumping mine. His breath stirs the loose hairs by my ear as he whispers, “Bossy, much?”
Goose bumps sprout on my arms. His eyes are penetrating and playful, and I fight the urge to lean into him and do more than touch shoulders. Does he feel it, too, or am I suffering from heat stroke?
I lean away from him and force a smile. “You have no idea.”
A n hour later, we sit on the hood of my car, watching the last of the high schoolers still on the track. Hanging out at your school over summer break seems weird, but I understand the pull. At this time of day on a Friday, everywhere else has been taken over by summer camps or tourists. The school, even as the heart of the town, is an escape from Ardena.
“What’s there to do in this town?” Haley asks, lying back and shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Not much,” I say. “We can try to hit up the beach around dinnertime, or I’m sure everyone will be at Lola’s tonight.”
“There are some good running trails at the state park,” Max adds from his perch by the driver’s side door.
Haley scoffs. “Don’t you two spend all day running?”
“Mostly watching people run,” I say.
“Even worse.”
“You guys can come to my place,” Max says hesitantly. “I’m having a game night with some friends. Bring a snack to share and whatever you like to drink.”
I stare at Max, who is looking at a spot on the roof of my car with keen interest. He’s never asked me to do anything outside of running and work. Yes, we’ve had breakfasts and lunches, but all of those were within the constraints of our jobs. This is purely a social invitation. To his house. With his friends.
Haley nudges me after a moment, and I turn away, blinking against the glare of the sun. She has her “I want all the details” face on. Which means that whatever is happening between me and Max—not that anything is happening—I’m not imagining it. Those subtle touches are apparently not so subtle. Except most mornings, I still wake in a panic or in tears. My tears vary from awful remembrances to dreamland happiness that doesn’t exist in my waking life. I know I don’t want those things when I’m conscious. There’s no going back. If I accepted that sooner, maybe Wildwood wouldn’t have happened. But healing takes time, and in sleep, my mind and heart are still battling heartache. So no matter what effect Max is having on me or what Haley thinks she’s seeing, it can’t really be happening. Right?
“That sounds fun,” I say, far too late after the initial request. “Any holes in the snack department?”
Growing up with only a dad, I’ve become pretty resourceful in the kitchen. I can usually scavenge enough from the apartment to make something edible without having to go to the store unless it involves cheese. We’re always lacking cheese.
“Brownies,” he says immediately. “No one ever makes them. I’ve been surviving on those prepackaged cosmic things, but they aren’t really brownies. There are no edges or center pieces that are all gooey.”
I giggle at his simple request. “Do you have a preferred brand?”