Did I just ruin it all?
I made things weird.
Fuck.
Fuck.
And I run.
I hear my name from more than one person, but I don’t stop. Legs pumping beneath me, my feet and strength carry me through the graveled parking lot. Knots in my chest try to loosen. I pick up speed.
Bolting past the $5 for Parking sign, beyond the carnival entrance, I sprint onto a dark empty road out in Pennsylvania. My hair spills out of its bun. Flying messily, wildly around me as I push and push to go faster.
Farther.
Muscles searing.
Angry, frustrated tears slip out of my eyes and catch the wind. Angry with myself. Frustrated with myself.
And then, footsteps pound the concrete.
Someone is running towards me.
I don’t look back because they’re fast. Easily, they reach my side. I can feel them keeping exact pace, exact step in line with me.
And I turn my head to see my dad.
My dad is running beside me.
He never tells me to slow down. He never tells me to stop. He sprints on the deserted Pennsylvania road in the middle of the night. No words, no fucking questions asked.
We run together.
We push harder.
Air fills my lungs. With all my training, with every morning run with my dad, I don’t think about inhaling and exhaling. I just do.
I feel like I’m flying.
One hundred and fifty miles per hour.
The knots unwind. Bursting. Whatever rattled inside me is being set free. For a moment, anyway.
And when I finally skid to a slow jog, then to a walk, breath comes easy and my muscles ache from not stretching. I glance painfully at my dad.
His darkened, concerned expression says, are you fucking okay? He’s already bringing me into a hug. I hug tighter.
“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter.
“Hey,” he snaps, pulling me back to meet my eyes. “Don’t fucking talk about yourself like that. Your mom would say—”
“Be kind to yourself,” I nod. “I know. I fucking know.” I exhale, and I notice the bright beam of headlights. A car crawls towards us but maintains distance.
Bodyguards.
Maybe it’s just my dad’s bodyguard, but with how tonight is going, it’s probably Akara and Banks.
I focus back on my dad. “I made things so weird.”
His face hardens. “How?”
“I’m bad at friendships, Dad.” I outstretch my arms, then set my hands on my head. “I don’t know how to even maintain one with a bodyguard without screwing it up. And that’s like a built-in friend. I didn’t even really need to try.”
He gives me a hardass look. “You’re not giving yourself enough fucking credit, Sulli.” He messes my already messy hair.
It makes me smile.
“You ready to go back?”
I sigh. “Can’t I run forever?”
“Your feet will bleed.”
“I’ll bandage my toes.”
“You’ll fucking cramp.”
“I’ll limp.”
“You’ll be alone.”
My face sobers. “Won’t you be there?”
He shakes his head. “My knee is bad, Sulli. I can’t keep up with you forever.”
Then Moffy will, I want to say.
Moffy will be with me forever. I wipe my nose that drips snot, but my eyes are dry now. Growing up is fucking hard. Even if there were no cameras, no spotlight, no fame—I think I’d still struggle.
I’d still want to run forever.
When I change directions, we walk towards the bright headlights.
My dad tells me, “You’re going to have fights with your friends. It fucking happens. You know how many times me and your Uncle Connor wanted to rip each other’s fucking head off?”
But I doubt my dad asked Uncle Connor to take his virginity. The thought makes me snort, and my dad smiles like he made me feel better.
He did, just not exactly how he thinks.
Turns out, the car isn’t a security vehicle after all. The three SUVs behind it are, though.
We approach the green Subaru from the passenger side, and the window rolls down. Revealing my mom, a blonde bombshell. Her smile pulls a long, old scar that weaves across her cheek. “All aboard,” she calls and unlocks the car.
“Hey, sweetheart.” My dad kisses my mom through the window.
I climb into the backseat. A young Golden Retriever lets out a happy whine from the trunk. My mom’s service dog for PTSD goes almost everywhere she goes, and I give Goldilocks a scratch behind her ears.
Winona spins around from behind the wheel to get a good look at me. With flyaway dirty-blonde hair, friendship bracelets, and a utility vest and cargo shorts, my fifteen-year-old sister looks like an ad for Patagonia or Wolf Scouts. She’s the whole outdoor package. “What’d Akara do this time?” Her eyes flame.
I can count the number of fights Akara and I have had on one hand. Not fucking many, but they’ve all been recent enough that Winona has grown more protective.
I should be the protective one. I’m older by six years, but she’s so much cooler. Even driving on a learner’s permit, she somehow seems like she can do anything. Scale any mountain, swim any ocean.