4
Lia
Igo to Haymarket almost every Saturday that it’s open. It’s this outdoor weekend food market where prices are low and produce is questionable, and it’s not convenient to get to at all, but with my grocery budget set at a firm two hundred dollars a month I really can’t afford to pass it up.
As usual, it’s chaos amidst the stark white vendor tents.
Heads of blonde and brown and black and gray bob around each other through the streets of downtown Boston.
Berries and radishes smile pinkly from their piles.
There’s slimy fish on ice and split-open tomatoes and summer squash by the pound.
And I’m in the middle of it, lost in thought, picturing the notebook of goals I finally started to flesh out this morning:
Each item with its bullets and sub-bullets.
Associated events and posts and collaborations and exhibitions.
Months of pre-set schedules that I’ve clung to with bloody fingernails—because when I let go everything falls apart—suddenly needing to be rewritten.
But all of this planning and effort will be worth it when my career finally takes off.
It has to be.
I pick up a pear from the stall next to me, turning it over and noting a hidden bruise.
“Can I help you?” the vendor asks, round belly peeking out from his white cotton shirt.
“No, just looking, thanks.”
And I don’t know if it’s the stress of reworking all my goals, or the idle thought of bruises, or simply the summer heat, but my eye catches on something in the crowd.
A flash of red hair.
My heart pinches, a sudden squeeze that’s completely disproportionate to the situation.
Fucking embarrassing, that my body still does this so many years later.
I move in the opposite direction—not because I’m scared. I’m not scared. I was going to go that way anyway.
The stall to my right has apricots that look wonderful, so I focus on that. Beautiful color and not too big, the skin like velvet against my fingers. They’re four for a dollar because it’s Haymarket, and I’m picking the perfect ones when a flash of red catches my eye again.
It’s him.
I swear to God it’s him. Suddenly every cell in my body is absolutely sure.
He’s walking on the opposite side of the stall, eyes fixed on his path. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t know I’m near. Still, my adrenaline is a metal spike through my chest.
The apricots tumble back into their pile as I spin on my heel, darting in the opposite direction until I find a fishmonger tent with walls I can duck behind. My breathing is fast and shallow. What the fuck is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?
This is stupid. It probably wasn’t really him. I’m just paranoid.
Get over yourself.
I know what I have to do. I have to find that stranger in the crowd again and look at him straight on. Then I’ll see it’s definitely not Connor and can keep shopping in peace.
With newfound determination, I step out from behind the fishmonger’s tent, looking to where I last saw him.
It’s a hoard. Parents and children and couples and groups.
Tourist families planted right in the middle of the street, phone cameras raised to document people just fucking grocery shopping because tourists are assholes.
Everyone’s stopped or rushed or idly ambling and I don’t see him anywhere, so I walk farther down the block.
One stand. Then another. Then another. Until—there.
He’s somewhat tall, and the red hair is hard to miss, but he’s facing away from me. I have to get closer.
I glance down at the produce as I take an anchoring breath. Zucchini. Eggplants. Tomatoes. I pick one up just to put it back down. The tips of my fingers feel cold despite the summer heat. I’m two stands away from him now and this is where my courage goes to die.
Then he turns, and it’s unmistakable.
Connor Berrens.
My chest is an ocean of water and my heart is crushed by the pressure. The world tilts. I’m lightheaded. I lean against the table in front of me but it’s not enough so I duck down, leaning forward on my knees to drain the pressure swelling in my head—and to hide. I need to hide. I need to go.
The world stops spinning long enough for me to move, and I do. I dash down the path in the direction I came, not running but shoving rudely through the crowd, no excuse me’s, just instinct.
I don’t think he saw me. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. He would’ve come up and said something, especially after all the texts.
But he could still see me leave.
Normally I would head right back to the T stop and rush home, but what if he sees me and comes to talk to me and I’m cornered down there, in the station, on the train, nowhere to go.
It’s irrational—I know it’s irrational—but I won’t risk it.
I can’t make myself vulnerable like that. I need control over my surroundings.
I’m still moving, pounding through the financial district, looking over my shoulder, coming up with a plan, when I see a completely unexpected salvation walking out of the T stop on the other side of the street.
“Andy!”
He looks up at me with a deep crease between his brows. “Lia?”
I jaywalk—jayrun—across to him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m going to Owen’s. We’re going on a run.”
He’s in black athletic shorts and an old Ashmore University t-shirt, high-performance running shoes laced in bright orange.
“Great. I’m coming.”
“You’re coming… on the run,” Andy asks without a question mark.
“Yup. Let’s go.”
One thing I can always count on Andy for is not asking questions. Often infuriating, occasionally ideal. He lets me fall into step beside him and that’s that.
When we get to Owen’s building, he’s waiting out front with an expression both confused and bemused.
“Amelia. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Charmed I’m sure.” I still feel sweaty. Hopefully he thinks it’s from the summer sun. Or that I’m a degenerate who doesn’t shower. Either option would be better than the truth.
Owen looks to his brother. “I thought we were going on a run?”
“Yup,” Andy replies. “Lia’s coming.” The raise of his brows and shrug of his shoulders say he doesn’t understand what’s happening either but isn’t willing to fight me on it.
For a moment, I consider changing my mind and backing down.
We’re far enough from the market now that I’m sure no one followed me.
I could just go home. I mean, I don’t run.
I’ve got my keys and phone and T pass with me.
What am I gonna do—shove them into my leggings pockets and go on a long-ass run with Andy and Owen?
But then Owen asks, “You’re gonna come on this run?” with a disbelieving quirk in his brow. He’s in a brand name workout set. Vuori, stark black, probably cost a third of my monthly rent. And honestly? Fuck him. Fuck him for not believing me. Fuck any man who thinks he can control what I do.
I lock onto his gaze as I say, “I guess so.”
I am, coincidentally, in leggings and a cropped workout tank, but my shoes are really more fashion sneakers than anything else. Neither man seems able to tell the difference.
“We’re doing a 10K,” Andy says.
“Fine.”
“Do you have music?” Owen asks.
“No.”
The brothers look at each other with widened eyes, but ultimately relent.
“Okay,” Owen says, pushing his earbuds into his ears and rolling his ankles. “Good luck.”
The next hour is unadulterated hell.
The first mile is just hard enough to be distracting.
I really never run—I actually tend to avoid cardio at all costs in favor of pilates or yoga—but a single mile isn’t so bad.
And it’s kind of fascinating to witness Andy and Owen’s bonding session, which consists of running side-by-side without exchanging a single word.
But by the time mile two ends, the bend of the Charles River is in sight and my chest is full of razorblades.
The novelty of observing Walsh Weirdness has long worn off and the keys in my leggings pocket are stabbing my thigh.
My throat tastes like blood, and the pain occupies ninety percent of my attention.
With a few more miles I’m sure we can get that to a perfect hundred.
Owen takes out his headphones as we approach the water, then signals for Andy to do the same. “West or east?”
“West,” Andy says, not breaking his stride. I know Mr. Marathon Runner is having no trouble, but I hope at least Owen is suffering with me.
“Is there a race today or something?” Owen nods towards the swarm of boats in the water, sets of eight rowers with coxswains at the front. “Is Head of the Charles this weekend?”
“I think that’s in the fall,” Andy says with completely even breath, the little freak.
Then Owen dares to look over his shoulder to me. “Do you know, Amelia?”
Despite feeling like I haven’t breathed properly in ten full minutes, I manage to choke out, “Don’t fucking talk to me.”
I must look a mess. I hate looking a mess. I shove at the thick mist of sweat on my forehead, tuck an errant lock behind my ear. I’m sticky and gasping and pissed off as all hell, but there’s no way I’m stopping before they do.
“This pace okay?” Andy dares to ask.
“What part—” gasp “—of don’t—” gasp “—fucking talk to me—” gasp “—don’t you understand?”
The brothers put their headphones back in, and after that seem to forget me completely, just like I wanted. I let the pain weave through my legs, my abdomen, my lungs, until I’m a tapestry of it.
I don’t know how much longer we run. All I know is eventually Owen looks down at his smart watch, then nods towards a patch of grass on our right. Andy follows his lead, veering off the paved riverside path as his long strides slow to a stop.
I’m fifteen feet behind them when I come to a halt and immediately curl forward, puking my guts onto the grass.
Even when it’s all out of me, I can’t seem to move—heaving, retching bile.
All the pain I’d been pushing through hits me at once and I’m sick.
Physically, mentally, my lungs, my bones.
Jeweled spots dazzle across the blackness of my vision.
I’m gasping and demoralized and suddenly on my hands and knees on the ground, still heaving as I hear Andy’s voice from a few feet to my left.
“You… okay?”
“Obviously not,” I growl, eyes refusing to open.
“What do you need?”
“Water,” I scratch out. “And to lie down. And to die.”
“Okay. Okay. Just lie down in the grass here. I’ll… I’ll grab a water.”
I open my eyes, dragging my gaze up to find him looking towards the 7-11 across the street. He asks his brother, “You’ll wait with her?”
Owen nods.
Great. I love that Owen’s here for this.
I’m eagerly anticipating his commentary as I crawl away from the vomit heap and roll onto my back, chest still heaving.
Andy crosses the street. Owen’s eyes dance from his brother to me, considering. I close my eyes again, but eventually he must make a decision because I hear footsteps approaching my vomit-free side, then a body lying down next to me in the grass.
“So, did it work?” he asks.
“What?” The word has almost no bite, the fight burned out of me.
“Whatever you were running from. Did this help?”
I turn my head to face him. “Why would you ask that?”
“You looked pretty freaked out before. Kind of pale and sweaty even before we started running. Not to mention the obvious fact that you’re here without being invited.”
“You just said I’m not wanted and I look bad, and you expect me to open up to you?”
“I never said you look bad. You always look incredible. Now will you tell me the truth?”
Frankly, I’m shocked. Shocked he’s attentive enough to realize I was running from something, and even more shocked he cared enough to ask. But even if I wanted to get into it, I’m too exhausted. All I can say is, “It’s not important.”
There’s a brief pause. But ultimately, since we’re not friends and he doesn’t truly care, Owen replies, “Okay.”
We lie side-by-side in silence until Andy gets back.