“Okay but, I might not be able to keep up,” she says nervously. The road ahead is narrowing; a mile back it curved sharply near the town green where she can see scattered figures kicking a soccer ball in the gathering dusk, and began to slope gently up the hill. “Oh, so you’re already intimidated by my athleticism?” he teases, but the thing is that she is, yes, definitely. “Your legs are twice as long as mine!” she protests. This trail run will mark the first time that they’ve run together: a milestone which is particularly monumental to her.
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The first letter he writes is almost impossible to read. “I don’t even have to worry about how I phrased it,” he jokes, “because you won’t be able to figure out what it says.” She smiles and slips the thin envelope into the pocket of her bag. The envelope is white and flimsy: the sort that comes in 100-packs from Office Depot. He must have picked it up at work, stopping by the supply cabinet somewhere to search for the stack of envelopes—the idea of him in a meeting, thinking about writing to her, makes her inexplicably glad.
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Working at a start-up is exhausting—that’s how she puts it to everyone who asks whenever she travels home to the suburb where she grew up. Regardless of how unglamorous the reality, her parents' friends look impressed when they find out she’s living in the city, employed at a company that’s frequently cited in Forbes and Business Insider: a “hot” place to be, as her father’s friend Everett puts it. He tilts his old-fashioned at her, the ice rattling around the almost empty glass. Everett’s words are a little slurred as he says, “You’re in exactly the right place! Good for you for getting that pedigree. You got a head on your shoulders!” He nearly shouts the last bit, and she leans back to avoid any errant splashes of bourbon. Before she can respond, he’s shaking the glass in the direction of his wife, who’s wearing the exact same outfit she wears to every social function—regardless of the season or occasion: maroon tweed skirt, white turtleneck, black cashmere cardigan with a lizard-shaped brooch. Two tiny emeralds wink as the lizard’s eyes; when she was little, the brooch terrified her, keeping her from falling asleep some nights.
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“Why did you leave?” His voice is low and calm. She’s quiet for a few moments, searching for the right words. “If I’m being honest, I was afraid to stay,” she hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Sticking with things I might not be good at isn’t exactly my strong suit.” Saying the words out loud feels like plunging into a pool of dark, freezing cold water.
Her siblings rib her endlessly about her competitive streak—it’s funny and tender-hearted coming from them, but the truth of it pierces her nonetheless every time. She knows that a sharp, merciless streak runs through her core, like a bright silver ribbon.
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“Okay,” she says slowly. “I’ll think about it,” and she hangs up the phone, holding it in her hand and staring at it as if some message will appear on its darkened surface like a Magic 8-Ball. She and her sister used to consult the Magic 8-Ball religiously when they were younger: There was a phase, somewhere around age 13, when they genuinely believed it told you true things. This was the era of sleepovers and Ouija boards and middle school mixers where all of the girls stood in a knot on the polished floor of the gym and the boys threw cheese puffs at each other by the folding tables that held the sodas.
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