Saving Forever (The Ever Trilogy: Book 3) Read Free Page B

the workshop and finished the rough shapes of the bar pieces. She was on my mind all that day as I worked, the careful neutrality of her expression, as if that vulnerability I’d seen the first time we’d met had been an accident, something she hadn’t meant to let me see. I kept pushing her out of my mind, and she kept working her way back in. As I ran the hand-held planer across the oak, I wondered if she was waiting for me to speak, or did she think I was a mute, or just rude. I wondered what her story was, why she was here, appearing so suddenly. Maybe it was just vacation, a couple weeks in June spent alone on a remote beach.  
    Most of all, I wondered why I couldn’t get her out of my head.  
    The next day was rainy, so I took the boat to the mainland instead of swimming. Work on the bar had progressed to hammer and chisel, working lines into the facade of the rough rectangle I’d made. I was seeing stylized grape vines for the front, carved in high relief so that the whole front—seen when visitors first walked into the tasting room—was a row of vines seen from close up, so each cluster and each grape was visible. It was slow, painstaking work, and I was antsy and restless by the time I’d made enough progress to call it a day. The skies had cleared to a flat lead-gray cloud cover, so I laced up a pair of running shoes and set off across the peninsula wearing nothing but the shorts and shoes, intending to follow the road north to the lighthouse park at the tip of the peninsula, and then cut down southward back to the winery, a path that would amount to a five-mile circuit. I was lost in a running trance and not seeing the road when I came up behind her. She was keeping a punishing pace just south of the lighthouse, her feet slapping lightly on the pavement, the West Arm waters rippling dull blue in the distance, her ponytail bobbing. She had a tiny iPod strapped to her left bicep, earbuds in her ears, wearing black skintight shorts and a green sports bra. I always ran in silence, using the rhythmic pound of my feet to hypnotize myself.  
    I moved abreast of her and she started, glancing sideways at me, and then turned her attention back to the road. She matched my pace, and we ran together without speaking. After maybe half a mile, she sniffed, wiped her wrist across her brow, ran a finger underneath her eyes. Was she crying? I sneaked a look, but all I saw was sweat. I blinked a trickle of salt out of my eye, and glanced at her again. She had her head down, and she was blinking hard, I could see the sharp angles of her clenched jaw. Hear the ragged rasp of her breath. She jerked herself upright, and her eyes were pained, wet, but no tears were falling.  
    She shot a look at me, dashed the heel of her palm against her eyes, and pushed herself even harder. I matched her, running beside her. I didn’t have the words to ask her what was wrong. I didn’t even know her name, but I could run beside her. I kept my eyes forward, breathing even, a good two or three feet between us. She glanced at me once, but I kept running.
    Inhale…step, step; exhale…step, step; inhale…step, step. Don’t think about the distance yet to run or the ache in my calves. I even found myself hoping she’d slow down a bit, because this pace was a killer. My lungs were burning already, and we still had almost two miles left in my circuit. I had no idea how far she was planning on running, of course, but with this kind of pace, it couldn’t be too far. Either that, or she was in such good shape that I’d have to let myself fall behind.  
    I watched her foot hit a stone and slide out from underneath her. She stumbled, and my hand shot out, grabbing her arm just above the elbow. Her skin was soft and damp and sweat-slick. I righted her, made sure she had her balance and wasn’t hurt before I let go.
    “Thanks,” she huffed. I just nodded. She ran a few more paces and then looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “You