He leaned in for a side-hug and . . . goodness. I could feel his hipbone slip perfectly against my own, the length of his rib cage running all the way up my torso, my face in line with his. When I inched away, I smelled boy—warm, salty, unfamiliar.

“I’m gonna dream about that fruit tart.” He stepped away, eyes sparkling like he’d said something scandalous.

I replayed it in my head all night long.

8.

all Jules said when she saw me on the sidewalk in the sickly pre-dawn light wearing the ridiculously short shorts and synthetic top I’d bought yesterday was, “Let’s go.”

No “Hi.” No “Here are the basics of jogging technique.” No “I’m glad we have this chance to catch up.” She got going and I trailed her, frantic, like she’d stolen my phone.

“How long have you been with your boyfriend?” My voice was shrill from trying to keep it level as I ran, but I still felt a shiver of glee saying the word boyfriend. Like maybe, possibly, it could belong on my lips.

Jules blinked hard at me. “What?”

“Your . . . boyfriend?” I smiled, polite.

It had become hard to smile, though, let alone talk. We’d crossed the road, onto the park paths where runners go and I was now one of them, and it had felt weird and loose and awkward at first, but now it was starting to hurt. My ankles were wobbling, my throat raw, and I could feel everything—knee joints, rib bones, the skin on my face. I’d run before, of course, in gym, but only the bare minimum, and I didn’t do sports, I did orchestra, used to, anyway, and this was a million times more excruciating because I was in public and trying to keep pace with Jules and she wasn’t even sweating yet.

“If you want to catch up on all the time we’ve missed, that’s completely cool,” she huffed, in rhythm with her stride. “Just not . . . right . . . now . . .”

“Right,” I said. “Good idea.” But my breath felt like lava, so it came out, “Gun . . . duh . . . I can’t.”

I stopped. I had to. Spots were gathering.

She glanced over her shoulder with a thumbs-up. “Good start!”

I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic.

Falling onto a park bench, I retied one squeaky new sneaker, tugged up the sock, and looked at my watch. It was 6:09. I’d been jogging for four minutes.

The park felt weird this early in the morning, like if you weren’t exercising, you didn’t have permission to be here—until dawn, it belonged to animals and homeless New Yorkers. Right on cue, I looked at the treetops and saw a hawk swoop by on his way to his aerie in one of the high-rises bordering the park, the luxury apartment buildings where Sarahs and Lydias and Noras lived.