Running Scared (Letters From Morgantown Book 1)

by Tracie Puckett

  “We’re done here,” I said. “You should go.”

  “Answer one question,” he said, sliding his chair around the table, scooting closer to me. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  Amy scoffed behind me.

  “Your whole existence offends me,” she said. “Now get the hell out of my chair.”

  He stayed seated for another second, turning to look between me and her.

  “Amy,” he said, wide-eyed. “You’re home.”

  “Nothing gets by you.”

  “When did you get in?” he asked. “I didn’t know—”

  “Get up.”

  He stood at once, not giving her the chance to tell him again. When he was back on his feet, I expected her to slide into the chair and ignore him until he left, but she defied my expectations. Grabbing him by a fistful of his coat, she pulled him toward the door, dragging him behind her as she walked out. The coffee shop door snapped shut. My eyes locked on the window, and I watched them from the other side of the glass as they stood out on the sidewalk. She pointed her bony finger in his face, and her cheeks were flushed red as she talked, clearly angry. He only stuck around to listen for a minute before he took off, and she came back in, her nose in her phone.

  “Okay, I’ve texted Eli,” she said, eerily calm. “He’s going to swing by and—”

  “What just happened?”

  “Oh, that?” she said, shrugging. “I thought you could use some back-up.”

  “You yelled at him,” I said. “You scared him.”

  “Who? Little ole me?” she asked, batting her lashes. She winked. “Surely not.”

  “He scurried away,” I said. “I’ve never seen a person cower like that before. I mean, no offense, but you’re tiny, and he’s—”

  “No match to my temper,” she promised, her voice softer now. “Are you okay?”

  “He asked me for an interview,” I said. “Actually, I think he told me he was going to interview me at one point. He wants to do a human interest article for the paper. I told him no, multiple times, but he didn’t seem to hear me.”

  “He heard you,” she said. “Jackass.”

  There was no other mention of Andrew Medina after that.

  Amy and I went to the counter and ordered our drinks, and we found ourselves back at the small table. Over coffee, I thought to ask her about all the things she and Danielle argued about at the boutique, but the last thing I wanted to do was incur the wrath she’d unleashed on Andrew. I would run that risk if I sparked her temper. Choosing to keep the subject off Chris and Danielle, I asked about Eli instead.

  She told me all about how they’d met on campus their first day of freshman year, and how they’d known from their first date that they were going to be together forever. She talked about their plans, how they’d talked about getting married and having a family, settling down back in Morgantown, where their lives would be quiet and simple. She had it all figured out. She knew where she was going and what she wanted, and I envied her for that.

  She didn’t ask a lot of questions about me or about my past. I dreaded the eventual interrogation, especially considering how much she cared for Chris. I wouldn’t have blamed her for wanting to know everything she could learn; I’d grill anyone who was after my best friend’s heart.

  I prepared myself for an endless line of questions, the ones that would lead to lies, but Amy respected that unspoken topics were unspoken for a reason. If I didn’t bring it up, she didn’t ask to talk about it.

  Regardless of whatever it was that had happened between her and Chris in the past, I couldn’t let that cloud my judgment of her. I liked her. She reminded me so much of Carrie . . .

  “What’s wrong?” Amy asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You keep looking up at the clock,” she said. “Are you late for something? Do you need to get back?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “I was just . . . I was realizing that if I were at home right now, I’d be getting ready for our winter formal. The dance is tonight.”

  I looked to the clock again, watching as the hands ticked forward. In two hours, Carrie would enter the high school gymnasium, no doubt decked out in a beautiful gown she’d spent hours shopping for. She’d take to the floor with her date, whoever that was, and she’d dance the night away. Every student, from ninth to twelfth grade, would experience the magic of the Winter Wonderland we’d planned for hours as part of the after school dance committee. Jesse would probably be there, too, holding onto whomever he’d taken in my place.

  “Why don’t we get back?” Amy suggested. “Eli’s on standby. I’ll let him know we’re ready.”

  “Sure,” I nodded, turning my eyes back to the clock.

  It took six minutes and forty-three seconds before their rental car pulled up to the curb. I’d counted every second. And in one hour, fifty-four minutes, and seventeen seconds, back in Ohio, the dance would commence. And I’d still be right there in Morgantown.

  But if I couldn’t be home tonight, at least I was in a place I felt safe, surrounded by people who treated me kindly. Morgantown wasn’t such a bad alternative, I decided, because if I was at home, I couldn’t turn a corner to see Chris.

  And I needed to see Chris. I hadn’t seen him since last night, and it seemed crazy that I could miss him as much as I did. I’d gone from trying to avoid him to wanting to jump in his arms, all in a matter of hours, because I realized that Amy was right; I didn’t want to be the idiot who walked away from him.

  I wanted to run straight at him, hold onto him, and never let him go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I paced in front of his bedroom door for the better part of twenty minutes.

  When we’d gotten back home, Amy and Eli went straight upstairs to get ready for their night out on the town. Chris was at the dining room table, amidst a competitive board game with Theo, Mr. Kingsley, and an older couple, who I assumed were the Carlsons. I mumbled a quick hello and dashed to my room before they could wrangle me back, and there I stayed for the rest of the evening.

  I didn’t venture back out for dinner.

  I didn’t want to risk getting caught up in small talk, and after the way things had ended with Chris last night, I wasn’t entirely sure small talk would even suffice.

  Only an idiot would walk away from him. Don’t be that idiot.

  I had to embrace what I felt. I owed Chris more than what I’d given him—some kind of honesty, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. The fact was simple: I didn’t want to push him away. He was the one person I wanted to confide in—the one person who’d offered me unconditional attention and support since the moment I arrived in Morgantown.

  I trusted in Amy’s advice, but more than that, I trusted my heart. The next time I talked to Chris, I wanted it to be a real talk, a discussion of substance.

  I paced, waiting for my moment, and finally, I found the courage to knock.

  “Come in,” he said, and I turned the knob, taking a deep breath before I cracked the door open.

  His bedroom was dark, lit only by a small table lamp on the nightstand. He was upright in bed, his legs beneath the covers, and a book in his lap. His hair was messy and standing on end, as if he’d combed his fingers back through it a dozen times. Perched on the bridge of his nose, he wore a pair of reading glasses.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” he said, sitting straighter.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “You spent the evening hiding in your room again.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I said, hoping that would be explanation enough. I felt it was only safe to keep the details of my time in Morgantown to myself. Between the boutique argument and running into Andrew Medina, I felt anything I would say would only upset him. “Everything okay?”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” I said, looking at his book. “If you’re not too busy?”

  “Never too busy,” he said, tossing it to the foot of the bed. Patti
ng the empty spot next to him, he smiled. “What’s on your mind?”

  My steps were more hesitant than ever, considering the invitation into his room—onto his bed. Close to him. My stomach whirled at the thought of climbing up there—onto the mattress, inches away from where he sat. Close enough to touch. To hold. To kiss. I could hardly breathe at the thought of being that close to him when he’d already admitted that he’d planned to kiss me once before. What if he actually tried this time?

  I’d let him.

  “Oh, God,” I muttered.

  “Syd?” he asked. “What’s up?”

  I swallowed hard and commanded myself forward, climbing up next to him. I didn’t need to make this into more than what it was. I’d come to talk to him. Not to hold him. Not to snuggle into him. Not to fall asleep next to him.

  I kept a reasonable distance, and crossing my legs into a pretzel, I sat and stared at him for a minute.

  He grinned. “What?”

  “I’ve never seen you in glasses,” I said, realizing that it was going to be a lot harder to keep my hormones in check with him sitting there like that, looking adorable as ever.

  “Oh.” He reached up and pulled them off, setting them aside on the nightstand.

  “I like them,” I said. “They’re cute.”

  He bit his lip. “I wanna believe you came in here to tell me how cute I am, but—”

  “I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “Things were good, and I feel like I messed up. I added unnecessary confusion to this whole mess.”

  “And what mess would that be?”

  “I tried to push you away, but . . . I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to talk to you. There are things you need to know.”

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you for anything last night. Take all the time you need, and don’t rush it. You can push me away all you’d like. I’ll fight back. That way when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be right here waiting.”

  To some point, I was ready. Giving him the full truth was out of the question, but I could give him a tiny piece. All I could do was try to help him see my side.

  “I’ve mentioned Rosa,” I said.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I remember.”

  “She was my nanny,” I said, picturing her plump and tan face. I could draw it by memory—every line and wrinkle, her dimples and her smile. I grew up staring at that face, memorizing everything about it as she tucked me in and read my bedtime stories. “When she immigrated to the States, she had nothing but the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet. My father gave her her first job—her first and only job, because once she found us, she never left.

  “You loved her.”

  “With every beat of my heart. I still do.” I said.

  And that wouldn’t change, even if the police were looking at Rosa as a person of interest in the case.

  All because of the stupid letters. She was the only person who’d known, because she was there with me when I’d found each of them. She urged me not to say anything, not to go to the police. She was scared for my safety, and she thought she could protect me better than they could. She believed love was the only protection a person needed. She advised me against reporting it, and because she withheld the information, they took her in. All on suspicion, not evidence. They already knew who they were looking for, so how could they think she was in any way tied to the Political Shooter?

  “I feel like I’m living some parallel version of her life,” I said, looking to him. “I’m lost, wandering, looking for my place. I’m in a town that’s completely foreign to me, I don’t really know anyone, and I don’t know how anything works. All I have from my home is an outfit, a pair of shoes, and a picture.”

  “A picture?”

  I nodded. “Rosa told me once that the only thing that helped her get through the stress of her immigration was the reminder of what she was doing it for,” I said. “She had a purpose—a promise to fulfill to her family that she’d make a better life for herself. Though she had little else to carry with her, the one worldly possession she had was the picture she kept in her shoe, a picture of her family. It went with her everywhere she went, and she kept it there to protect it at all costs. It was something no one could see, something no one could take.”

  I opened my palm, revealing a crumpled, faded picture that I’d kept inside the toe of my shoe for the last seven years. I stared at it for a moment before handing it to him.

  “That’s my Dad, Rosa, and me at Christmas when I was ten,” I said. “I left home without any of my stuff, and that picture is . . . it’s the only piece of them I have left.”

  Chris ran his finger across the front of the picture, staring at it as intensely as I stared at it every day in the privacy of the bathroom—where I wouldn’t be caught.

  “Your dad,” he said. “You look like him.”

  “Boy, do I know,” I said, shaking my head. “Other than the vague glimpses I see of him when I look in the mirror, I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. That picture’s all I have. But at least I have it, because I listened to Rosa. She said to carry a picture in my shoe, and from the moment I turned ten, I did. You’ll never know when you’ll find yourself far from home, and with a picture in your shoe, home will always be closer than you know.”

  He passed the picture back to me. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “You asked me to help you understand. I told you that Morgantown was temporary,” I said. “That’s why. There are people back home who need me, Chris—Rosa, my best friend Carrie. I need them as much as they need me. And I can’t be with them right now, but . . . someday. I have to go back.”

  Chris nodded, seeming to understand a little better than he had before. It wasn’t much, but it was another piece of the puzzle. He didn’t ask for any more explanation than that, picking up on the cue that I had said all I could say for the moment.

  “So,” he said, biting his lip.

  “So?” I asked.

  “Amy says you ran into Andrew today,” he said, by way of changing the subject. I had to give him credit for knowing how to steer the conversation away at the right moment. Unfortunately, this time, it went from one sore subject to another. “I’m sorry if he gave you a hard time.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “Amy handled it.”

  “I imagine she did.” He smirked. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He asked for an interview. He wants to write an article about me, to help address some of the unanswered questions circulating around Morgantown.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I told him no,” I said. “More than once.” I let the words hang there for a few minutes, and then I met his stare. “But I may have slipped up and said something I shouldn’t have.”

  “Okay?”

  “He mentioned my boyfriend, and . . . I may have called you by name.”

  “You told him I’m your boyfriend?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “He reached that assumption on his own. I didn’t correct him, so he thinks—”

  “I’m your boyfriend,” he said, failing to fight a smile. “There are worse things he could assume.”

  “I’m sorry. I was flustered, and I should’ve—”

  “We all make mistakes,” he said. “But you know what this means now?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re going against your honesty code,” he said. “You’re living a lie.”

  “Shut up,” I said, shoving him.

  “It wouldn’t be a lie if you were my girlfriend.”

  “Stop it.” I pointed a finger at him. “I can’t be your girlfriend. We haven’t even gone on a date.”

  “Who’s fault is that?” he asked, grinning “I’ve tried. Haven’t I tried?”

  “Yes, Chris, you’ve tried.” I matched his grin.

  “The only way you would agree to go to the light show last night was if I promised to understand that it wasn’t a date. You’re the one who’s a
nti-Chris-and-Sydney.”

  “Not true!” I said. “I’m very much pro-Chris-and-Sydney.”

  A smile broke on his lips, and I was afraid to ruin the moment by touching a sore subject, but there was a nagging feeling about Amy that I couldn’t shake. I hated myself for wanting to know. It was none of my business . . .

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Always,” Chris said.

  “Is Amy—”

  “No,” he said, before I could finish my question. “I knew this was coming. I should’ve clarified sooner.”

  “I’m sorry, am I paranoid?”

  “You’re not,” he said. “Amy’s my best friend, nothing more.”

  “Not an ex-girlfriend?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he promised, thinking of something, getting that same distant look in his eye that I’d seen both Amy and Theo get in the past two days. “She’s like a sister.” He left it at that, more concerned with focusing on the happier topics. “So you’re pro-Chris-and-Sydney, huh?”

  “I’ve tried not to be,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “But it feels unnatural to fight it. At any other time in my life, I would’ve jumped in; I would’ve trusted this feeling. But it scares me now.”

  “Because you’re leaving?”

  “Because I don’t want either of us to end up hurt. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but if I don’t overthink it, I’ll ignore the consequences. If I let this happen, and I have to leave . . . we both end up hurt. That’s not what I want.”

  “So you’re going to deny yourself what you want, because . . . you can’t determine the outcome?”

  “I have to.”

  “Okay,” he nodded. “Well, this might be the selfish part of me talking here, but you can’t possibly think that’s a good idea. You’ll never be happy like that, and that’s certainly no way to live.”

  “It’s the only way to live,” I said.

  “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re living,” he said. “Without happiness… you’re merely surviving. Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Consider for a moment that there are no consequences—nothing’s at stake. No one gets hurt, no one feels pain. What’s going to make you happy? What do you want?”