1
EVERLY
The sun beatsdown on the back of my neck as I run through the forest, my feet pounding against the dirt track. It’s late May, but today’s heat feels more like July, sending a river of sweat down my back. I keep moving. A breeze skitters through the trees, a welcome shot of crisp mountain air from somewhere high up, and I gulp it down, savoring the smell of pine needles and sun-warmed grass. It feels like heaven.
God, it’s good to be home.
I spent four years in Chicago for college, but I never warmed to city life. The noise, the traffic, the smell of diesel fumes and grease mingling with the fishy whiff of Lake Michigan. Skyscrapers instead of mountains; sidewalks instead of trails.
I never felt like I belonged.
That’s why I didn’t hang around after graduation. I kept my head down, studied hard, and as soon as I tossed my cap in the air, diploma in hand, I hopped on a flight back to Colorado. That was only a week ago. I’m still getting used to being home, but it feels good—like rediscovering an old trail my feet know by heart.
I’ve temporarily moved in with my sister, Amelia, sharing the tiny little cabin she rents on Cherry Mountain. It’s basically a glorified shed, and I’m pretty sure one big storm could blowthe whole thing away. But I love it. There’s nothing better than getting to step outside and have the whole mountain on my doorstep—the lakes and waterfalls, the trees and creeks I know so well.
My dream is to work out here as a wildlife biologist. It’s why I studied my butt off for four years and majored in environmental science. But it’s a competitive field. Jobs are snapped up in an instant by people with way more experience than me, and I’m secretly terrified I’ll never find a placement. It’s a thought that’s been gnawing at me long before I came back home, but it’s worse now, a tight knot of anxiety in my gut, growing by the day.
“Keep running,” I pant. “Just keep running.”
My legs pump, heart pounding as I channel my anxiety into every movement, letting it fuel me. As I pour my energy into breathing, my mind calms, and I start to pick up speed. Running is the only thing that stops my racing thoughts. It turns off my overthinking brain until I’m nothing but thrumming hot blood and adrenaline.
People look at me funny when I say I’m a runner. I see their eyes flit to my curves—my thick thighs and plump belly—and I can tell they think I’m lying. They think big girls can’t be runners. That big girls can’t love hiking in forests or swimming in lakes or climbing rocks.
They’re wrong.
Sofreakin’ wrong.
But I don’t let their ignorance bother me, and I sure as heck won’t let it stop me pulling on my bright pinkRun Like A Girltank top and doing what I love.
I keep up the pace for another mile, but my legs are heavy and my calves burn in protest, so I slow to a walk, panting for breath as I take a deep swig from my water bottle. Beside the trail, Sugar Creek is rushing through the trees, high and foamy, swollen with snowmelt from higher up the mountain. I stop atthe riverbank to splash my face with cold water, then grab a granola bar from my backpack and start crunching into it.
I’m not far from my destination: Lover’s Lake. One of my favorite spots on the mountain. My best friend Willa lives near here with her boyfriend, Flint, and I debate heading over to say hi, but I think better of it. I tried to visit their cabin unannounced a few days ago, and the loud moans coming from the upstairs window still haven’t been erased from my brain.
Maybe another time.
My body is itching to move again—instinct telling me that if I stop for too long, I won’t want to start again. I can breathe easier now, and I break into a jog once more, following the trail toward the lake. The forest starts to open up, the ground turning rocky beneath my feet, and I catch a flash of bright turquoise in the distance, glittering like a jewel through the trees.
Nearly there.
I’m closing in on the lake when I catch the sound of voices. My pace slows. Through the thicket of trees ahead, I can see a group of people, their backs to me as they look out over the water.
“Shoot,” I mutter.
I was hoping I’d be alone out here. People rarely come this far into the forest, except for the occasional guided hike. I consider cutting through the trees to my left and following the lake around until I’m far away from the group, but something stops me.
A man’s voice.
Gruff and growly, cutting easily through all the others.
“Five more minutes,” he says. “Then we move.”
The sound makes me shudder, and I stop running, anchored to the forest floor. The air shifts around me, thickening like tree sap. Then suddenly, my body starts to move of its own accord. Instead of going around the lake like I planned, I creep throughthe undergrowth toward the group, weaving silently through the bushy trees until I’m almost at the lake’s edge.
There are about ten people sitting on the rocks. Hikers, judging by their gear. I peer at them from behind a thick green pine, watching as they survey the lake. Their voices are too loud, discordant, like shouts in a cathedral. Nothing like the man I just heard. His voice sounded like it came from the mountain itself, a deep rumbling rockslide…
What the heck am I doing?
Why am I spying on these people?
