“No,” Isha says quickly. “Wait. Running wasn’t why we were friends. It’s just how we met. I tore my ACL a couple of months after I joined. You brought me cinnamon rolls for weeks. I gained five pounds from those damn rolls, but they were so worth it.” She laughs, and the sound is so warm, so rich and relieved, I relax a little.
“AJ keeps talking about them too. I don’t suppose I ever shared the recipe?”
“No. You said it was your secret weapon for all potlucks and holidays.”
“Well, that sounds like me. I think.”
“Grace, we can…start over. Heck, we’ll start a new club. Former runners who can’t anymore. We’ll talk about physical therapy and what we’re supposed to do with the industrial-sized box of running fuel that’s still in the back of our pantries and oh my God how nice is it to be able to sleep in on the weekends rather than get up at the ass-crack of dawn to run twenty miles.”
I stifle a snort. “Well, I don’t remember all those early mornings, but I did find the box of running fuel today. I counted. Fifty-three packets of the stuff. It doesn’t really taste like chocolate chip cookie dough, does it?”
“God, no. Not unless that cookie dough was made by a demented mosquito.”
Maybe reconnecting won’t be this terrible, awkward thing I’ve been dreading. At least not with Isha. We could still run out of things to talk about in five minutes, but she isn’t treating me like I’m broken.
I stare at the strange, messy sketch I can’t seem to finish. The question slips out before I can stop it. “Isha? Do you remember if I ever mentioned anyone…watching me? When we got together, was there anyone…creepy hanging around?”
She’s quiet for several seconds. Shit. This was too much, too soon. She probably thinks it’s the only reason I called. She wouldn’t be wrong. If AJ hadn’t asked, I would have put this off for weeks.
But eventually, her voice softens. “Once. We were at the Taco Shack, eating on their outdoor patio, and this old truck kept driving around the parking lot. It would slow down whenever it got close to us. That was…early March, I think. A month before you disappeared. The windows were tinted, so we couldn’t see anyone inside. The fifth or sixth time it passed us, I flipped the driver off, and they left.”
My stomach twists itself into a knot. Proof? No. But it’s something. “Oh. Th-thank you. I…I still don’t know who took me. Or why, and I just…shit. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about…why I wanted to call, but?—”
“Grace…it’s okay,” she says, her gentle tone holding back the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
The words break me, and I have to mute the call to let out a single, rough sob. Belle jumps up, nudges my arm, and waits for me to tangle my fingers in her wiry fur.
After a shaky breath, I tap the unmute button. “I should go. M-my physical therapist should be here soon. But this is my new number. Maybe…we can talk again in a few days?”
“I’d like that,” Isha says softly. “A lot.”
We say our goodbyes, and I set the phone down before wrapping my arms around Belle and sobbing into her neck. For what I’ve lost, but also what I’ve found. A little more of me.
Chapter Sixty-One
Grace
Belle marches proudly through the automatic doors, her steady warmth grounding me against the fluorescent lights and overwhelming size of the artist supply store.
I curl my fingers around the leather handle of her harness, hoping the dull ache behind my eyes is nothing more than a side effect of the tears I cried after talking to Isha. Learning at least a small spark of our friendship survived left me shaken in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Halfway through physical therapy, I had a vague memory of the two of us crossing the finish line of some race together. It shocked me so much, I lost my balance and jammed my shoulder against the wall of our home gym.
Karen made me promise to rest this afternoon. I will. In an hour. Because I need this. I need to know I can do something as normal as go to a store. Even if I do have two of the three most overprotective men in the world with me.
“You’ll be able to see me the whole time,” Jasper says. “But I won’t stick too close.”
Connor stays near the front windows, casually browsing a display of framing supplies. But his gaze sweeps the parking lot every few seconds.
I wander down the watercolor aisle first, my fingers brushing over metal tins of cobalt and crimson and verdant green before curling around a long-handled brush.
“Water will always seek out the dry parts of the paper. It flows. Don’t be scared if what shows up on the canvas isn’t what you had in your head. Sometimes, beauty comes from the unexpected.”
The sudden vision of a classroom full of students, easels arranged in a semi-circle, all watching me teach is so shocking, I almost drop the brush in my hand. I don’t remember painting. Don’t remember how. But maybe tomorrow, I’ll try.
The oils are achingly familiar. But something about them makes my heart beat too quickly, and the ache drumming against my left temple sharpens. There’s a memory here too. An important one.
A woman a few feet away glances over at me, elbows the teenager next to her, and starts whispering in the girl’s ear. Belle stands up a little taller, the fur along her back bristling slightly.
“Shhh, sweetie. It’s okay,” I murmur, even though it’s not. I don’t have to hear to know what they’re saying to one another.
