Page 1 of Colliding with Ten

1

THE RUN-OUT

JUNE

AYLA

Running away seemed melodramatic until I stood in an airport terminal with no clue what I was doing. At JFK, duffel bag and suitcase in hand, I felt like everyone rushing past knew I’d ruined my life. They didn’t, obviously. New Yorkers didn’t have time for the girl in a USC sweatshirt and sneakers tied poorly because she’d rushed from her dorm. Everyone was too busy carrying luggage, moving as if the floor were on fire. Still, I felt exposed, as if someone could glance at me and know I’d dropped out of school and run from my father. My throat tensed at the thought.

By the time I got to AJ’s building in Manhattan, my curls were distressed. The wind had bullied them, and the humidity had expanded them. I stood outside the glass doors of his high-rise condominium and stared at my reflection.

I brought only two bags. As a lifelong dancer, I owned enough shoes to fill a small closet, but more luggage would have made this feel permanent. This was just a temporary fix for what I hoped was a temporary problem.

The doorman looked at me through the glass, considering whether I should be there or given directions elsewhere. I moved my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and pushed inside.

“Hi,” I said, voice shaky. “I’m here to see AJ Callahan.”

The doorman raised his eyebrows in recognition. That had started happening lately, and I still wasn’t used to it. My brother was always AJ to me—the boy who ate cereal out of mixing bowls because regular bowls were “for appetizers.” He cried when I beat him at Mario Kart, then blamed the controller. He was the sorest loser you’d ever meet.

Now, Alexander Jericho Callahan played quarterback for the New York Hawks, though he wasn’t the starter. That role belonged to veteran Damon King. Still, sports bloggers and men in bars recognized AJ's name, thinking they knew more about his throwing mechanics than his coaches.

The doorman called upstairs. I gripped my suitcase handle tightly and waited. A small part of me hoped AJ wasn’t home, so I could sit in the lobby and think—or cry, whatever came first. But the penthouse elevator dinged less than a minute later. AJ stepped out wearing black sweats, a Hawks hoodie, and socks with sandals because fame hadn’t changed his footwear choices. His hair was a little damp, like he had just gotten out of the shower, and the second he saw me, he knew why I was here.

He looked at my bags, then back at my face.

I tried to smile. “Hi.”

AJ crossed the lobby in four long strides, pulled me into his arms, and held me like I was twelve years old again.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled into his hoodie.

AJ’s arms tensed. “Yeah. I can tell,” he said with sarcasm.

I laughed, but it broke on a sob. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“I figured.”

That made me cry harder because he did know. He was the only person who would understand. He knew what it was like to live under our father’s expectations and what it felt like when love came with pressure attached. Dreams weren’t dreams unless they came with a respectable salary and gave our father bragging rights. Being a backup quarterback wasn’t on that list either, since it was considered physical labor. The only thing that mattered to my father was ownership. He owned some of the most luxurious buildings across the country and insisted we should be honored to take over when we were old enough. Neither AJ nor I had any interest.

While at school, studying business at my father’s behest, I started taking longer routes to class. I tried; I really had. I highlighted textbooks and attended office hours, but every day I felt more lost.

That morning, I woke up in my tiny off-campus room near USC, stared at the ceiling, and realized I couldn’t do it anymore. So I left and flew across the country to be with my brother.

AJ pulled back to look at me. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

He took my suitcase before I could protest. When we reached his penthouse, the door was open. A woman stood in the entryway wearing jeans and a butter-yellow T-shirt. She had spiral curls pulled back from her face and brown skin, a bit darker than mine.

“Ayla,” AJ said, stepping inside. “This is Meadow.”

I knew her name already. AJ had mentioned her a few times, trying not to sound obsessed. Meadow made the best Tres Leches cake in the city. Meadow thought AJ’s playlist needed more “reggaeton”. Meadow this. Meadow that. Meadow, Meadow, Meadow.

“Hi,” Meadow said.

I wiped under my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to look less tragic. “Hi.”

Meadow smiled wider and hugged me. “Nice to meet you, Ayla.”

Her hug was inviting and warm. No wonder AJ loved her. He hadn’t told me that yet, but I knew he did. Since Meadow came into his life, AJ had become settled. Maybe they were lucky, or maybe they'd eventually become Mom and Dad. My parents hadn’t planned for their marriage to fall apart. They’d stood in front of family and friends, believing they were choosing forever, but they had fundamental differences beyond her being black and him being white. They never divorced since my mother died young, but our home in the later years was never peaceful.