“No damage?” I asked, as she flipped her head back up.

“None!” she said happily, pulling one end into her eyeline to examine it, then tucking it behind her ear. “I mean, as far as I know. Watch, it’ll all fall out next Tuesday.”

“Delayed reaction,” I said, nodding. “Or what if you’ve discovered some magical chemical compound that only is activated when you’ve left it on too long? And that’s why they tell you not to do it.”

“Love it,” she said. “The hair mask is my radioactive spider.” I laughed, and didn’t even really have time to worry that I was boring her or sounding stupid before she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Emily,” I said, and she smiled, like that was just the name she’d been hoping to hear.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Sloane.”

Run, Emily, Run!

Galveston

Glen Campbell

Any Way You Want It

Journey

Crash My Party

Luke Bryan

Heat of the Moment

Asia

True North

Jillette Johnson

Take On Me

A-Ha!

The Moment I Knew

Taylor Swift

Just Like Heaven

The Cure

It Goes Like This

Thomas Rhett

Mr. Blue Sky

ELO

All Kinds of Kinds

Miranda Lambert

Nightswimming

R.E.M.

What About Love

Heart

The Downeaster “Alexa”

Billy Joel

Short People

Randy Newman

Dancin’ Away with My Heart

Lady Antebellum

Take Me Home Tonight

Eddie Money

You Make My Dreams

Hall & Oates

Even If It Breaks Your Heart

Eli Young Band

Aw Naw

Chris Young

The Power of Love

Huey Lewis & The News

This

Darius Rucker

Fancy

Reba McEntire

Run

Matt Nathanson feat. Sugarland

A Lot to Learn About Livin’

Easton Corbin

Centerfold

J. Geils Band

Quittin’ You

The Band Perry

I was seriously out of running shape. I could feel it in how my calves started to ache right away, how my breath was labored after the first mile. My participation on the cross-country team had gotten very sporadic as school was ending, and I hadn’t run at all since I’d come back to find Sloane gone. But it was still sad that, after doing this for most of my life, I could become so bad at it so quickly.

Running was the one activity I’d done regularly from childhood on. Looking back, it was clear why my parents had nudged me to join kids’ races and running clubs and, if one of them was teaching, encourage me to go down to the college or university track and practice. It was cheap and didn’t require a team or being in the same place all the time—money and consistency being in short supply when I was growing up.

Sloane, on the other hand, had had more lessons than I’d even really known were options. She could ride horses and ballroom dance, in addition to ballet and tap. She could sail, play tennis, speak conversational French, and, for some reason I’d never been clear on, could play doubles bridge. I had learned to swim at camp, but mostly I just ran. For most of my life, it had been the one athletic thing that I could do well, which was why it was so embarrassing to find myself now limping through the first mile.

I turned up the volume on my iPod, as if this would give me a corresponding surge of energy. It didn’t, but I pushed myself to go faster, even as I was gasping for breath. I was listening to a new mix, complete with embarrassingly motivational name. The mix was filled with the kind of music I listened to but never admitted to—country and eighties pop. It had the same playlist repeating again after the end; my iPod’s loop function was broken, and when it got to the end of a playlist, it just froze. It had been acting wonky ever since I’d left it in the car and an unexpected rainstorm had come through the open roof and drenched it.

I was running a loop near my neighborhood that I’d discovered last year. It took me right along the water, which meant that it was cooler and I would sometimes get a breeze, which I was seriously in need of at the moment. Usually, this was an easy five-mile run, but usually, I wasn’t this out of shape.

I rounded a bend in the road and saw that there was someone running ahead of me. It was a guy, and maybe around my age. . . . He turned his head to adjust the iPod strapped to his arm, giving me a glance at his profile, and I felt my feet stumble and then slow when I recognized it was Frank Porter.

It didn’t look like he’d noticed me. He was back to looking straight ahead, white earbuds in his ears. I slowed even more—I was pretty much just walking with bounce now—and tried to figure out what to do. If I pushed myself, I could run past him, but then I’d have to keep going fast until I could make it home. Also, then Frank would be looking at the back of me unless I really kept up my pace and disappeared from his view. And I had grabbed the first pair of shorts I’d seen in my drawer, and they had GO SH! printed across the back. This was supposed to mean Go Stanwich High, but apparently nobody had realized until we’d all prepaid for them that it looked like GOSH! was written across our butts. But running fast seemed to be my best option if I wanted to keep on this path, unless I dropped to a really slow pace, lagging behind him and hoping he wouldn’t see me, which felt weird and stalkerish.

It seemed like the best solution was just to turn around and run back the way I’d come from. I could do a mile or two nearer to my house, and it wasn’t like this run had been going spectacularly anyway. Because while it had been really nice of Frank to help me with my car, it wasn’t like I wanted to keep struggling to make conversation with him, or for him to feel like he had to run with me when he didn’t want to. One interaction with Frank Porter per summer seemed like the right amount to me.

I turned around just as Frank stopped and knelt to tie his sneaker. He looked over and saw me, lifting his hand to cut the glare, then pulled his earphones out of his ears. “Emily?” he called.

I bit my lip. There was really no way to avoid this now without looking incredibly rude. I pulled my own earphones out and pressed Pause on my playlist. “Hey,” I said, giving him a wave. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, hoping that maybe this had been enough and I could just start running again.